The
SPECTATOR.
Religious, moral, humorous
satirical, and critical
essays.
A new edition.
Vol. I.
New York:
Geo.A. Leavitt, publisher,
No.8 Howard Street.








CONTENTS TO VOLUME L
WMT THE NAMES (WHEN KNOWN) OF THU AUTHORS
OF VARIOUS ESSAYSL
PREFACE. Editor.. 
Introduction. The Same..               11
Life of Joseph Addison. TAe Sam.                      23
Altthors. Addison and Anon...    41
A tIunting Party. BudgeU..... 47
(n Laughter. Addison...                  -..5
The Paradise of the American Indians. The Same.       6
Natural Love of Brutes for their Young. T'e Sam       61
True and False Humour. The Sare.               69
Laetitia and Daphne. Steele..                  73
Luxury and Avarice. Addison..             7
Immortality of the Soul. Anon. -.81
-True Wit and Mixed Wit. Addisof         -.          85'Female Politicians. The Same.                       99
Church Music. Anon.   -..               9
Cleafflinbss. Anon..                   94'Immoderate Love of Praise. Steele or TickelL         97
Puns. Addison.  -...                  101
l)ulness the Parent of Indecency. Steele.   -        104
The Picts and the British Ladies. The Sam..         109
Dignity of Man Proof of his Immortality. Anon.       113
True and False Wit. A Dream. Addison.                117
Christianity Parent of Sublime Eloquence. Eusden.    126
London described by Four Indian Kings. Addison.      130
Stage Tricks.  The Same....134
On the reading of the Common Prayer. Ticke,..     143
Disgrace of Spies and of their Patrons. Addison.     147
Display of various Characters in a Vision. The Same.    150
Gloomy Presages ridiculed. The Same.          -      153
An'Absent Man. Budgell.   157
History of Inkle and Yarico. Steele..               160
Dream, T(iken of Grandeur Qf the Soul. AddIsonb     I
Definition of Fine Gentlemdh. Steele.                167
Remarks on the English Tongue. Addison.     -   -   169
Supports of Public Credit. The Same.     -           173
Infidelity condemned. The Same.. -   77
Private Life of Pharamond of France. Steele. ~       I 1
Fashionable and Courtly Mournings. The Same..    -    187'Errors of Female Education. TAh Same.  -.        191
The Envious Man. The Same.        -                  192
True Art of being Agreeable. Tickell or Steel.       I5
A Great Genius. Addison..              1




iv                    CONTON
Dissolution of Nature. Tickcd or Steele.   
Poverty of Dress. Budgell.    -     *   -          ~ 
Zealots in Religion and Atheism. Addis  20e
The Vision of iir a. TheSas.    -.           2e
Ghosts ridicnted. The Same.   -   -   -                215
English Commerce. The Same.
The Cave of Trophonius. Anon.    -          -
Mother should be the Nurse. Tickell or Steele.   2
William II1. Anon. -                                   230
A humane Master and affectionate Servant. Stelk..   35
The Tombs of Westminster Abbey. Addison. -             23S
The Transformatio'i of Fidello. Tickell or Steele.     244
Marriage either insipid or happy. Steele.   -          247
Clergymen, Lawyers, Physicians, too numerous. Add/lso  24S
Female Gayety. The Same.                -.        251
Eulogy on the British Constitutio.   The Sam.          255
Pin Money. The Same.               -...        260
Surprising Story Tellers. Anon.                        262
Thoughtsin Sickness. Addison.                          267
Socrates to his Judges. Anon...        270
Eulogy on Modesty, Tlc;el or Steele..          272
A Beau's Head anatomized. Addison...        275
Idleness. Anon...279
Comforts of Belief in Providence. Addison -            28-2
Vernal Delights. The Same.. -.              285
Improvement of Church Mtuic. T  Sa. a               287
Omnipresence of God. Anon..       -      29
Age. Steele......   304
Amusements of Life. Addiso.....  305
anxieties. Anon....               s09
Arguments. E. BW dg. a                                 a 1
rakrupt,. ui.....U




ADVERTISEMENT
TO
THE SECOND LONDON EDITION.
THE flattering reception with which the
former Edition of these select Essays has
been honoured, demands the sincere acknowledgmrents of the Editor and Publisher.  In forming the collection, and
adapting it, both by price and size, to general circulation, they were convinced
that its unique appearance would insure
t a certain degree of approbation: but
the success which it has met with has
been beyond their expectations; and they
can only attribute it to the intrinsic merit
of the articles which have been compressed into these volumes.
In the present Edition, some few frivolous essays, originally written by anonymous authors, for the SPECTATOR, have
been omitted, and their places filled with
the more elegant and pious pieces of Addison. The greatest attention has becn
paid to correctness in the typography.








PREFACE.
C.OMPOSED of Essays both elegant tad instructive,
and commodiously distributed,.because daily and
cheaply,* the Spectator, at its first appearance, met
with general and unparalleled approbation. Its sale
was numerous and extensive,t and we cannot be surprised at its success: for justness and ingenuity of reflection, clearness and force of reasoning, appositeness
and beauty of illustration; knowledge without ostentation, but adapted to use; familiarity without meanness; gravity without solemnity; perspicuity, and
propriety; such are the prominent excellencies of this
matchless work.
The Spectator, as a moralist, puts impertinence to
silence, and vanity out of countenance; he makes deep
impressions, affects the secret springs of the mind,
charms the fancy, and sooths the passions. He leads
the reader to sweetness of temper; rouses him to generosity; and inculcates humanity in a manner, that he
must be miserably stupid who is not affected by his
lessons.
When the Spectator appeared, looseness of manners and sprightly licentiousness, were considered as
- The first paper appeared March 11, 1711; and the
work was continued daily to December, 1712. The number sold waisixteen hundred and eighty.-It began again
on June 13, 1714, and ended December 21, of the same
year. A tax was put upon it as on other papers, in the
month of July, 1712. After the tax of one penny on each
half sheet was put, though it reduced its circulation to
half the number that was usually printed before, it
brought into the Stamp Office, one week with another,
above 201. a week.
t The Spectator found its way into Scotland, and was
read there like the newspapers, regularly on Sunday.
The partiality for the Spectator was so great, that the
first complete edition of it, of above nine thousand, war. mmediately sold.




fnil                PREFACE.
good breeding and refinement. Wit, humour, ari
elegance, prevailed m the plays of Wicherly; and
Congreve had been employed in varnishing error,
and bedecking wickedness.-The Spectator exercised
these talents in adorning justness of thought and rectitude of conduct. To turn men from impropriety.
folly, and vice, to decency, wisdom, and virtue, was
his principal object. He attempted, and succeeded, in
undermining the interests of ignorance and irreligion,
and substituting in its stead learning and piety. Such
is the praise he deserves, and which is well exprese d
in the following elegant verses, written by Teck,
and addressed
To the Author of the Spectator.
"In courts licentious, and a shameless stage,
How long the war shall wit with virtue rage?
Thy spotless thoughts, unshock'd, the priest may IU4S
And the pure vestal in her bosom wear.
To conscious blushes and diminish'd pride,
Thy glass betrays what treach'rous love wrould hide;
Nor harsh thy precepts, but infus'd by stealth,
Please while they cure, and cheat us into health.
Thy works in Chloe's toilet gain a part,
And with his tailor, share the fopling's heart:
Lash'd in thy satire, the penurious cit
Laughs at himself, and finds no harm in wit:
From felon gamesters the raw'squire is free,
And Britain owes her rescu'd oaks to thee;
And the rash fool who scorn'd the beaten rod,
Dares quake at thunder, and confess his God.
" The brainless stripling, who, expell'd the town,
Damn'd the stiff college and pedantic gown,
Aw'd by thy name, is dumb, and thrice a week
Spells uncouth Latin, and pretends to Greek.
A saunt'ring tribe! Such born to wide estates,
With yea and no, in senate hold debates:
At length despis'd, each to his field retires,
First with the dogs, and king amidst the'squires;
From pert to stupid sinks supinely down,
In youth a coxcomb, and in age a clown.
"'Such readers scorn'd, thou wing'st thy daring fgip
Above the stars, and tread'st the fields of light;
Fame, heav'n and hell, are thy exalted theme,
And visions such as Jove himself might dream;




PREFACE.                  It
Men sunk to slav'ry, though to glory born;
HIeav'n's pride when upright, when depraved its scorn.'
Thus, as the poet has energetically expressed it,
amiable and unassuming manners, manly liberal
sentiments, benevolent affections, and rational piety,
are recommended in every page of the Spectator.
We therefore ha we good reason to hope, that an indulgent public will welcome its Miniature.  Ourt
object has been, by a judicious selection, and by
omitting the papers which had only a temporary
adaptation, to render more universal the circulation of
such an invaluable work of morality
With this view, we have endeavoured to let the serious and the gay relieve each other by their distribution. Passing over most of those essays which attacked the reigning fashions of the time, we have
sedulously selectedthose where the natural history
of the human mind is skilfu'lly described, and which
exhibit faithful pictures even of the present manners.
In our time, as all strictness of behaviour in the fair
sex seems to be ridiculed, and their character destroyed in the vortex of fashionable dissination; and as it
is evident that they place their ambition and pleasures
on objects which will last no longer than youth and
good fortune, we have carefully preserved those Essays, in which our mild moralist gently marks and
attacks the little foibles and errors of women, where
he earnestly exhorts them, for their own happiness
and comfort, to become, by their virtues, shining ornaments to their parents, husbands, and children.
We have also assiduously retained those essays
which so powerfully enforce the duties of social life,
and unfold the causes of misconduct and distress; but
particularly those which insist on the necessity of
piety towards the Supreme Being, which awfully
display his attributes, and prove the comforting and
glorious hope of immortality.
As Biography greatly engages our attention and
affections, we have affixed to the Spectator in Miniature a rapid sketch of the characters of its various
authors, men of extraordinary talents, who, having




PREFPACE.
shown themselves the supporters of rational freedomn
were, during their lives, exposed to the shafts oi varty
malevolence and envy:
" Urit emlam fulgore suo Qui prtegraaat artea
Intra se posztas;: exinctus amabitur idemn.'
Such has been the fate of the various writers in the
Spectator; attacked, when living, by the clamours
of partisans, and the rage of envious literary mediocrity, they have survived their enemies; and impar
tial posterity has attached to their names the fame that
they so justly deserve.
Mottos, illustrative of their speculations, and generally chosen from poets, who by laconism of expression
and harmony of numbers, give a finer turn to a
thought than prose writers, were affixed to the papers
of the Spectator; we have preserved them in its
Miniature. The illiterate and the fair will also find
m our edition their English translation.
After having laid before the reader an account of
our labours, or their object, and of their extent, we
shall conclude this Preface by expressing the wish,
that some eloquent essayist, some modern Spectator,
may rise, to ridicule the contemptible follies of the day,
to check the growing profligacy of manners, and stop
the alaming progress of zealous fanaticism: and that,
instead of contradictory, absurd, and idle reports of
news-writers, the daily press, by presenting short and
moral essays, may again be turned into a vehicle of
wisdom and virtue; and applied to make men wise and
good, rather than prejudiced and talkative politicians.
In short, as it has been our aim to diffuse among our
readers, by the Spectator in lMiniature, solid good
sense, sound morality, and pure devotion, we have
orn.y to hope that our efforts may prove successful




INTRODUCTION;
CONTAINING
3BTOGRAIZOAL SETCH:ES,
OF
THE PRINCIPAL AUTHORS
OF
THE SPECTATOR.'IN the full persuasion that Biography combines in
itself the greatest degree of interest and instruction;
that we are naturally inclined to enter warmly into the
situation of those who have been eminently distinguished by their wit; and that we are deeply affected by
the history of men who have instructed, or even only
amused us:-Considering, also, that the history of
men of genius, compared with their writings, is a
great addition to our knowledge of the human heart; as
It discloses to us what great inconsistency there is
often in professed principles and actual conduct, in the
Drecepts of philosophers replete with the purest morality, and in their practice too often diametrically opposite. In short, induced by these various motives,
we have thought fit to form the present Introduction,
principally by sketching the prominent features of
the lives of the various writers in the Spectator; all,
one only excepted, eminent for their attachment to
well-regulated freedom, to rational religion, and to
pure morality.
Our readers however, are not here to expect a dis




Xii             INTRODUCTION.
play of splendid actions, conspicuous situations, or
strikin, vicissitudes. The life of a scholar seldom
abounds in surprising adventures. He rises to eminence by slow exertions; and when his fame is established, it is generally too late to investigate the peculiar
features of his character. Hence, as the incidents of
Biography are of a very volatile and evanescent nature,
our readers winl, we hope, excuse us, if we do not
fully gratify their curiosity relative to the writers of a
performance which is universally acknowledged one
of the best of the age in which it was produced, and
the most striking parts of which we here offer to the
public. We will first introduce to their notice
DR. THOMAS PARNELL.*
"A little spark becomes a raging flame,
And each weak blast a storm too fierce to tame;
So peevish is the quarrelsome disease,
No prosperous fortune can procure it ease.
These verses of Sir RICHARD BLACKMORE give t
true picture of our poet, who, blessed with wit, opulence, and amiable friends, but devoured by melantholy, never could find happiness. He was descended from an ancient and opulent family, which had for
some centuries been settled at Congleton, in Cheshire.
At the restoration, his father went over to Ireland:
thither he carried a large personal fortune, which he
laid out in lands in that kingdom; and which descended to our poet, who was his eldest son: thus want,
which has compelled many of our greatest men into
the service of the Muses, had no influence upon PsRNELL; he was a poet by inclination.
Surprising things are told of the greatness of our
poet's memory, at an early period of his life; as of
his being able to repeat by heart forty lines of any
book at the first reading; and of his getting the third
book of the Iliad in one night's time, when at shool.
He was born in Dublin in the year 167'9.




XXLTRODUCTION.. 
For the truth of these assertions, we cannot vouch
He must, however, have made great progress in learnmg at a very early age, for he was addmitted a member of the college of Dublin. when only thirteen yearl
old. His compositions show, that, as a classical scho.
lar, few could equal him.
PARNELL was admitted into priests' orders by
WILLIAM, Archbishop of Dublin;* and collated by
Sir GEORGE ASHE, Bishop of Clogher. About that
time, he also married a young ladyt of great merit
and beauty, by whom he had two sons, who died
young; and one daughter. His wife died some time
before him, and her death is said to have had so great
an impression on his spirits, that it served to hasten
his own.:
PARNELL wam a man of great benevolence, and of
very agreeable manners. His connexions were extensive; and his friends numerous and respectable. He
reckoned among his most intimate connexions Lord
Oxford; Pope, whom he assisted in his translation of
IHomer; Gay, on whom he bestowed the money
arising from the copyright of his works; and Jervas
and Arbuthnot, with all of whom he was on terms of
the most affectionate friendship. The letters which
he received from them show the veryhigh opinion they
entertained of his amiable and estimable qualities, and
the very great delight they took in his comf any. But
with all his amiable qualities, PARNELL WaS not able
to secure his own happiness. His spirits were always
either much elated, or considerably depressed. His
life was spent in rapture or in arony. When he found
his fits of spleen coming upon tim, he retired with all
expedition from his friends, usually to the remote parts
of Ireland, where he procured a dismal kind of satisfaction to himself, by transmitting to them hideous
descriptions of the surrounding solitude.
In the year 1700.
t Miss Ann Minchen.
H He died in Chester, in 1718 on his way to Irelandl,
and was buried in Trinity church in that town, withlout
any monument.




XIV              INTRODUCTION.
Conscious of his talents, PARNELL was by no means
devoid of ambition. He expected to rise to high preferment in the church. He displayed his eloquence
with great applause, in the pulpits of London; but
the Queen's death put an end to his hopes of elevation.
This disappointment, and some domestic calamities,
almost totally overcame his spirits. From his distresses
he began to seek relief in the bottle, and became ha.
bitually intemperate. But whatever misery might
accrue to him from the defects in his temperament, he
very rarely suffered himself to be so transported with
passion, as to disturb the happiness of his friends; a
striking instance of self-command in a person of extreme Irritability.
With respect to the merit of PARNELL, as a literary
man,* it must be acknowledged that he is not distinguished for strength of intellect, or fertility of invention, neither in his poetry, nor his prose writings. His
papers in the Spectator and in the Guardian discover
no very great degree of force or comprehensiveness of
mind; but show good sense and knowledge of mankind. His taste was delicate and refined by an assiduous perusal of the ancient classics. His admiration
of those great models led him to an imitation so close,
as often to preclude originality. There is little novelty
in his thoughts or sentiments: but the first are just,
and the second natural and agreeable. His versification is sweet and harmonious; his diction pure and
of Parnell's literary productions, one of the earliest was Hesiod, or the Rise of Womzen-His anacreon.
tic, Gay Bacchus, &c. a translation from the Latin, which
praises wine as exhilarating wit, and inflaming love.Iis Fairy Tale, a fine allegory, exhibits the little value
of corporeal endowments, compared with mental.-In
his Per I'irgilium Veneris, he has transfused into his
version the spirit of the original. IHis translation of Belinda at her Toilet, shows how well he was acquainted
with the Latin!anguage.-Ilis Eclogue to Health, is
simple and beautiful.-I-is Elegy on an Old Beauty has
little point or novelty.-His Allegory on Man, shows vigour of genius; but his most celebrated poem is DTi
Hermit: it is philosophical and pious




INTRODUCTION.               XT
correct. In short, he is an agreeable writer, but ncA
an exalted poetical genius.
Bred a Wig, PARNELL, by the persuasions of Swift,
(for private afections and friendship have often a pow
erful inflience on political principles) was induced to
join the Tories. The Queen's death'disappointed his
ambition, while it augmented his melancholy, in putting anend to the hopes of the greatest Tory writers.
It raised, on the contrary, the expectations, and made
the temporary fortune of one of his literary associates in
the Spectator, who had uniformly adhered to the Whig
party, during all their vicissitudes in the Queen's
reign; this writer was
MR. EUSTACE BUDGELL.*
"Our Poet runs headlong in the fatal snare;
In height of rapture, clasps unheeded pains,
And sucks pollution through their tingling veins."t
These verses contain a sketch of BUDGELL'S life;
about his earlier years we know nothing. He remained at Christ-church College for some time; and was
esteemed a very good classical scholar. From Oxford
he went to London, and was entered at the Inner Tem
pie. to pursue the study of the law, according to the
views of his father. Elegant literature, however, had
more charms for him than statutes and precedents.
Addison, his cousin, to whom he had been introduced,
on his coming to London, perceiving in him a love for
polite learning, assisted him with his advice, and honoured him with his friendship. When he went to Ireland, Addison offered BUDGELL the appointment of
clerk in his office, which our author accepted. BuDGELL is said to have then contributed to the Tattler,
but his papers are not ascertained. In the Spectator,
he had the most considerable share, after Addison and' He was born at St. Thomas, near Exeter, in 1685;
and the son of a doctor in divinity.
t These lines are to be found in the poem consecrated
to the. praise of the Spectator; it was written by Tickell.




XVI             INTRODUCTION.
Steele.* He was an admirer of his relation to entha
siasm; and his style and manner of writing are evi
dently formed upon Addison's excellent model. His
essays possess less vigour, both of sense and humour,
than Steele's, but they are more accurately composed;
and by his literary performances, in general, he ac
quired considerable fame. On the arrival of GEOR.GN
THE FIRST from Hanover, he was appointed Secretary to the Lords Justices of Ireland; and soon afte,
chosen a member of the Irish parliament, where he dis
tinguished himself by his knowledge and eloquence
Hitherto his moral character was unimpeached. But
when he was removed from his place by the Duke of
Bolton, Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, for having had the
temerity to lampoon that nobleman, because he had
supported his client and secretary, Mr. Webster, then
his passions became so violent, and produced in him
such outrageous behaviour, that many supposed him
to be insane. Disappointed in his ambitious views,
by the death of his patrons, at court, BUDGELL betook
himself to gambling in the stocks, and thus lost -near
20,0001. Those who have been dupes, very frequently become knaves; and from this time he was reproached for the dishonesty of his pecuniary transactions. His own friends and relations were those on
whom ne preyed beyond all others. He now wrote
many libellous pamphlets; and scattered abuse with
an unsparing hand. Acquainted with the deistical
writers of the age, he was himself reckoned a disbeliever of revelatlon.t By the will of Tindal the bulk
of his property was left to him; hut as his integrity
was not unimpeached, the will was generally considered as a fabrication of his own: for Tindal had a
nephew, a great favcunte with him, and by no means
*Ilis papers in the Spectator are marked with the let.
ter X; and those in the Guardian with an asterisk.
t lie was thoulght to have had a hand in publishing
Tindal's "Christianity as old as the Creation." lie oftan talked of publishirg another volume on the same
subject, but never brought it to light.




INTRODUCTION.                XVil
rich. BUDGELL, however, afterward became so mnvolved in law-suits, that he was reduced to a very
distressed situation. He got himself called to the bar;
but he found he could procure no employment as a
counsellor., At length he was overwhelmed with
poverty, and his miserable condition preyed so much
on his mind that he became visibly distracted. He
took a boat at Somerset-stairs, ordered the waterman
to shoot the bridge; and while the boat was passing
under the arch, he threw himself into th-e river, and
perished immediately.* Upon his bureau was found
a slip of paper, on which were written these words:
" Vhat CATO did, and ADDISON approved, cannot be
wrong."t
BL'DGELL was a man of lively talents, a good taste,
and a well-informed mind. His best writings were in
the early part of his life; for from the commencement
of his distresses his literary merit declined.:
His talents cannot ensure him that respectability,
which integrity of conduct only deserves. The insolence of his pride, and the violence of his rage, deprived him of his lucrative employments. He became a
gambler, and lost his property. Fraud often put off
he evil day begun by ganmbling, but even fraud could
not always avail: —Despair therefore ensued, and ended
in suicide. There is often but one step between gaming
and self-murder.
What an awful warning to profligacy is afforded in
In 1736. IHis natural daughter (for Budgell was
never married) refused to accompany him, though he
endeavoured to persuade her. She did not suspect his
intentions, but was sensible of his disordered state. She
took his name, and was for some time an actress in
Drury-lane Theatre.
t The bard makes his stoic philosopher die, as he really died, but does not justify his suicide. Even Cato
himself, after't is too late, seems to doubt its propriety.
The tragedy, tnen, is no evidence that Addison approved
of self-murder.
* le was in the end of his life engaged irn a palper
called The Bee, which is replete wfil cavils and futile
objections against Christianity.
VOL. 1.-2  1+




XVIIi           INTRODUCTION.
BUDGELL'S lamentable fate! We shall notice a powerful incentive to moderation and virtue in the tranquil
tenor of the life of one of his literary absociates, who,
after having conducted himself with rectitude and piety,
and thus obtained high worldly advantages, died m
peace, with a firm and Christian resignation. We
speak of
JOHN HUGHES,*
"Who taught us how to live, and how to die.'
Educated in London, at the academy of Mr.'lomas
Rowe, a dissenting minister, he made great pioficiency in his studies: his constitution being very delicate,
he did not devote himself to science, but directed his
attention to painting, music, and poetry. In his odes,
we do not meet with that vigour of thought, and sublimity of imagery and sentiment, which we expect in
lyric poetry:t but his translations of Anacreon and
Ovid are accurate, elegant, and harmonious.T Our author was more happy in these, than in some of his
original compositions. He had a sufficient degree of
understanding to comprehend the productions of others,
while his knowledge of the English language and of
numbers, enabled him to express them with clearness,
elegance, and humour: yet he had not genius to execute any thing very masterly of his own. He composed six cantatas, whose intention seems to have been
to exclude the Italian opera;~ and they are allowed
to be well adapted to their objects. Our poet was ac
counted admirably skilled in the powers of music. 1 and
- He was the son of a citizen of London; and born in
blarlbourugh, in 1677.
t He published a poem On the Peace of Rysiwick —
The Court of Neptune —The House of Ndssau, &c. &c.
t He translated Ovid's Pyrantis and Thisbe-rThe
Tenth Book cf tie Pharsalia-Mikolier'e's'Misanthrope,
and Fbntenel e's'9saogueC of the Dead.
A.mcng tlsnrm  pe asm'Webrated is his Ode to Mv.




INTRODUCT ON.              xiX
the sounds best fitted for expressing certain ideas. He
began then to be considered as one of the wits of the
age, and of those very much attached to liberty. He
became acquainted with Addison, Steele, and other men
of genius. He occasionally contributed to the Tattler,
but much more liberally to the Spectator. In his essays, he has ably explained the presumption of the
immortality of the soul, from the horror we experience
at the idea of annihilation; and thus adduced the best
arguments for the existence of a Divine Providence.
These various papers, together with his Ode on the
Creator of the World, exhibit him as a man endued
with rational piety. They discover good sense, observation, and taste; and are very well written.
HUGHES had, during the greater part of his life,
been in narrow circumstances; his literary fame, however, at length procured him independence. Lord
Cowper appointed him Secretary to the Commissions
of the Peace. He was now in a state of affluence;
but the badness of his health did not suffer him to enjoy his good fortune. He did not long survive thq first
appearance of his tragedy, entitled the Siege of Damascus, nor enjoyed the applause it produced.*  His
death, as he was sensible, was fast approaching; and
when the intelligence arrived of its success, he was
deaf and insensible to worldly advantages, being -wholly employed on the great change he was about to undergo.
wGurHES was a man of good sense, and vell versed
in some branches of learning. He had studied, with
diligence and success, the Greek and Roman classics;
and felt the beauties with which they abound. It
must be acknowledged, however, with Swift, "that
he was too grave a poet, and among the mediocrists in
prose as well as in verse:" but, what he wan:ed in
genius., he made up as an honest man. He was upright, benevolent, and religious. which principles de* It was acted with great applause in 1 720. It vlace%
In a clear and striking light, the mildl tendency of Chris
tianity.




XX                INTRODUCTION.
serve higher praise than literary fame, however emi
nent.
A high degree of literary celebrity likewise did not
fall to tle share of the following writer of the Spectator; but to all the versifiers who then thought themselves poets, to all the inferior candidates for poetica.
laurels,
LAWRENCE EUSDEN
was certainly equal. if not superior.
" Eusden, a laurel'd bard, by fortune rais'd;
Bly few been read, by fewer still been prais'd."
Thus CooKE, in his Battle of the i'acts, speaks of
our author. These lines, our readers w',i} observe, are
merely abusive assertions, neither embellished by wit,
nor supported by argumnent. PE. j:E-x, having beer;
censured by a man of uncommon genius, little atten
tion has been bestowed in preserving his life and wri.
tings.*  The facts which are recorded, and the speci
mens which remain, though they cermtinly exhibit no
proofs that he was a great genius, yet afford no just
grounds for the accusation of dulncs,. At the University of Cambridge, he was esteemed a go)l classical
scholar, and very expert at Latin versificati3n.  He
wrote several sensible letters in the Spectator. He was
one of the panegyrists of Cato.  His exa tation alone
to the ofilce of Poet Laureat might have excited Pope's
indignation.t
Pope, in his Dunciad, has the name of Eusden in
serted as one of the goddess' strain.
As to his writings, a letter about Idols, and most of the
letters fron Cambridge, inserted in the Spectator, are
his. He translated also Lord Halifax's poenim on the
Battle of the Boyne, into Latin verse. This version procured him that ingenious nobleman's patronage.
t This promotion he procured through the Duke oJ
Ne2wcastle, he being Lora Chamberlain a the death of
Rowe. Eusden had written in epithalamium on the
marriage of his Grace with Lady Henrietta Godolph.zn.
The Duke was much delighted with the performance.Some of his best pieces are to be found in Nichols's &'e
lect Collections.




IN. ROD: CTION.            Ki
EUSDEN, towards the latter part of his life, took tX
hard drinking, which habit greatly impaired his faculties and injured his health.*
Though also a very jovial and agreeable companion, the last writer in the Spectator, whom we shalD
mention, was more temperate, and had a mind attuned
to affectionate tenderness. We mean
THOMAS TICKELL.t
" If business call, or crowded courts invite,
Th' unblemish'dstatesman seems to strike our sight."
To him we may apply that praise he gave to Addison. Lie was educated in his native county, took the
degree of master of arts, and was chosen fellow of
Queen's College in Oxford, where.he displayed great
talents, and was distinguished fol his ability in versification. He entered early into the world, and became
known to STEELE and ADDISON, whose notice he
gained by his smooth and beautiful verses in praise of
Rosamond.
TICKELL was concerned in the Guardian, and is
believed to have contributed frequently to the Spectator; but it has never been ascertained which were
his papers. It has been said that T. was sometimes
used by TICIELL as well as by STEELE. He was
often with the latter, and as RICHARD was often in a
hurry, either from his politics or his dissipation, it
might be natural for him to apply to TIXCKELL, to ele
out the scanty materials which he himself had not
time to provide. Our author's letters in the Spectator,
are natural, and strikingly exhibit real life. His verses upon the Spectator,* and his poem entitled Royal
~ He died at his rectory at Conaningsby, in Lincoln.
shire, the 27th September, 1730.
t He was the son ot the Rev. Richard Tickell, who
possessed a living in the county of Cumberland, and was
born at BIridekirk, near Carlisle, 1685.
X They are to be found in No. 632. They are in general intended to serve for a description of the excellencies
of the performance, which they praise. Thev contain
some characteristic sketches.
2




%xii            INTRODUCTION.
Pro,'ress, deserve much praise.* On the accession
of Kineg  EORGE he was patronised at court, and em.
ployed in public business by Addison, who loved hisr
as a son. His friendship for our author continued with
out abatement, till this great man's death; and he left
him the charge of publishing his works, with a strong
recommendation of him to the patronage of Craiggs.
TICKELL wrote on ADDISON an elegy replete with
genuine tenderness. HIis interest with tne great did not
expire with his friend. He was appointed Secretary
to the Lords Justices of Ireland, acplace of great honour, trust, and emolument; and in that appointment
be continued during his life.'rCKELL was a man of most pleasing manners, and
unquestionable integrity; fond of social conversation,
lively and gay, he was generally loved and esteemed.
His writings discover a good understanding, a refined
taste, and a feeling lheart.
Besides the authors, whose biography we have
sketched in this introduction, there are a few others to
whom  the Spectator was indebted: such as Mr.
HENRY MARTIN, who was deeply skilled in commercial politics; Mr. CAREY, Mr. INCE, and the harmonious bard, Mr. POPE, whose papers, though few
m number, are more distinguished by perspicuity and
force than by elegance: but of the three first-mentioned writers, no facts are known sufficiently interesting
to make them the subjects of biography; and the life
of the poet adorns almost every edition of his works,
which are well known to every class of readers. We
shall therefore conclude our Introduction, already perhaps too much extended, considering that it is prefixed to an edition, whose principal object may be described by the forcible Latin quotation, " Mulkitum in
Parvo."
* It was published at the arrival of King George. He
has judiciously selected the circumstances of the poem;
and exhibited striking descriptions of the rural opulence,
and commercial wealth, which are presented by the
banks of the Thames. Tickell also wrote a poem On
the Btessings of Peace, and a party poem Ta Avignos
q'ainst the Chevalier and his Abettors.




rTHl
LIFE
Osp
JOSEPH ADDISON.
This Addison,'tis true, debauch'd in schools,
Will sornmetinres oddly talk of Inusty rules;
Yet here and tlle.re i see a master line,
I feel and I confess the power divine."
Speech of Dulness, in one of Mrs. M. W. Monta.
gue's Poevms.
THE lives of eminent writers have ever been subjects
of public curiosity. When we read the works of a
HOMER, a VIRGIL, a THUCYDIDES, a TACITUS, a
MILTON, or a HUME, we anxiously desire to know
the history of personages from whom we have derived
united instruction and delight. In all ages in which
literature has flourished, literary persons, to gratify
this desire, have taken pains to collect facts respecting
the most admired authors, which might exhibit a view
of their lives and characters. It has been a general
custom to prefix the lives of the writers to their most
celebrated performances, in order that the reader, hav.
ng the composer and the composition before him at
once, may be able to trace tne genius of the author
who fills us with delight and admiration, to the cause
to which it owes its existence. No literary production has been, nor is more generally agreeable and
useful, than the SPECTATOR; we have therefore
thought proper to prefix to its Miniature a short lif
of the principal author if so excellent and popular a
rork.




XxiV         THE LIFE OF ADDISON.
JOSEPH ADDISON, the son of the Rev. LAUNCELO0
ADDISON, Rector of Milton, near Ambersbury, in
Wiltshire, was born at that place, May 1, 1662; and,
appearing weak and unlikely to live, he was christened the same day. His father, a man of talents,
virtue, and religion, sowed early in his youthful mind
the seeds of that probity and benevolence, that ratidnal Christianity, which afterward came to such ma.
turity. When Addison had completed his eleventh
year, his father being made Dean of Litchfield, naturally carried his family to his new residence, and
placed him for some time under Mr. SHAw, master
of the school in the city to which he removed. Of
this part of ADDISON'S life, we know nothing but the
story of a barring out,* which our author at the early
age of twelve planned and conducted with such superior wisdom and courage, that he was successful in
that difficult enterprise. The fortress was seized; and
Mr. SHAW, the governor, excluded.
From  Litchfield, ADDISON was removed to the
Charter-house, where he pursued his juvenile studies
under the care of Dr. Ellis; and where he contracted
that intimacy with Sir RICHARD STEELE, which lasted as long as they lived; and which their joint literary labours have so effectually recorded, and transmitted to posterity.
At the early age of fifteen, our author was entered
into Queen's College, in Oxford, where, having so
many models to imitate, and competitors to excel, he
diligently pursued the knowledge there most highly
valued, I mean classical learning. A still more pow~ Such is a practice which, about fifty years ago, prevailed in many schools. The boys, after having long
obeyed, resolved, at the approach of the holydays, to
command. They then took possession of the school,
barricadoed the doors to prevent the entrance of their
rulers, and, not contented with the victory without the
triumph, from the windows breathed defiance against
the preceptor. The master on his side was, or pretended
to be, very vigilant against this exclusion. The great.
ness of the difficLIty enhanced the pleasure of success




THE LIFE OF ADDISONI.         XXI
erful cause certainly concurred in attaching him to the
Greek and Roman writers. There was evidently in
his mind a natural congeniality with the most elegant
and pleasing of ancient authors. We see in his writings much of that elegance, unaffected good sense,
simplified philosophy, and sound morality, which distinguish the writers of antiquity.  When he was
seventeen years of age, some Latin verses he had composed fell by accident into the hands of Dr. LAXCASTEa, and gained him his patronage. By his recom.
mendsation he was elected as a demy, or scholar, into
Maldalen College.*  Here he continued to cultivate
poetry and criticism, and grew first eminent by his
Latin compositions, which are harmonious, pure, and
elegant; end seem to have had much of his fondness.t
Like MILTON, ADDISON devoted only a part of his
time to Latin verses, whilst he was a young man.
Both probably considered them as exercises for youth,
but not as employment for manhood. He was in his
twenty-second year, when he showed his power of
English poetry, by some verses addressed to DRYDEN,
which procured him the applause of that celebrated
writer. Soon after he published a translation of the
greater part: of the fourth Georgic upon Bees, on
which DRYDEN bestowed very great praise; and said,
alluding to the subject of the poem, After ADDISON'S
bees, my latter swarm is hardly worth the hiving.
About the same time, he composed the arguments prefixed to the several books of DRYDEN'S Virgil; and
produced an Essay on the Georgics,~ which is a spe-' He took the degree of Master of Arts, Feb. 14, 1693.
t The Latin poems of Addison, handed down to us, are
eight in number:-Peace restored to Europe through
William III.-Description of a Barometer.-A battle,be.
tween the Pigmies and the Cranes.-On the Resurrection,
from a painting in one of the Chapels.-A Bowling Green
-An Ode to Dr. Haines, a physician and poet.-The Dan.
clng Puppets, and an Ode to Dr. Burnet, author of the
Theory of the Earth.
t The only Episode of Aristaeus is omitted.
~ That Essay is prefixed to them as a Preface t l\ry.
den's translation.




XXV          THE LIFE OF ADDISON.
eimen of extensive learning, and of acuteness in criticism. The ensuing year, he published a set of verses, containing a character of the principal English
poets; and inscribed it to the noted Dr. Sacheverell,
with whom Addison lived in a strict intimacy, though
few characters could be more different, than those of
these two writers: Sacheverell being a man of talents
hardly reaching mediocrity, though confident and assunling: Addison a writer of eminent genius, but diffident and modest. A portion of the poem is devoted
to the exaggerated praise of MONTAGU, then Chancellor of the Exchequer, to whom CONGREVE had introduced him: ADDISON was then learning the trade
of a courtier, and subjoined Montagu, as a poetical
name, to those of COWLEY and DRYDEN. In the close
of the poem, he insinuates a design he had formed of
going into orders, to which he had been strongly solicited by his father: but the influence of Mr. MVtONTAGU concurring with his natural modesty, he was diverted from his original design.
The following year* he wrote a poem to King WILLIAM, with a preface to Lord SOMERs, whose patronage he gained by the poem, which is entitled to considerable praise, being highly poetical in its descriptions, and animated in its sentiments, which issue from
a breast warm with a love of liberty, and zealous for
the happiness of mankind.
Through his noble patron, Lord SoMERs, ADDISON,
having yet no public employment, obtainedt from the
king a pension of 3001. a year, that he might 1e enabled to travel. He staid a year at Bloix, probably to
learn the French larguage; and then proceeded on
his journey to Italy, which he surveyed with the eye
of a poet. While he was travelling at leisure, he was
far from being idle; for he not only collected his just
remarks on the country, but found also time to write
his dialogue on Medals, and four acts of Cato. From
Italy he wrote a letter to Lord HALIFAX, which is
justly considered as the most elegant, if not the most'  1695.            $ In 1695.




ThE LIFE OF ADDISON.          XXv'i
sublime, of his poetical productions. The description
of a country, beautiful in its climate, rich in its soil;
where the finest arts concur with bounteous nature in
administering delight, yet doomed to distress and misery from the prevalence of despotism, affords to the
poet a favourable opportunity of celebrating freedom,
with praises forcible without exaggeration, and animated without extravagance. The liberty he recommends and celebrates, is that moderate, well-regulated
kind, the certain source of solid and permanent happiness; not that unrestrained license, which fanciful
visionaries only conceive, or hot-headed enthusiasts
alone can desire, and which is infallibly productive of
anarchy and misery.
After two years of travel, ADDISON found it necessary to hasten home, being distressed by indigence,
and compelled to become the tutorto a travelling'squire:
for his friends being out of the ministry, his pension
had been liscontinued; and his hopes of rising were
for a time blasted. He soon after his return to England
published his travels, which abound in useful information and judicious reflections; and whose two great objects were the recommendation of the classic writers,
and the promotion of sentiments of rational liberty.
For upwards of two years our author remained at
home, without any opportunity of exerting his genius,
or of obtaining any reward for what he had done, his
old patrons being out of power. The meanness of his
appearance gave testimony of the difficulties to which
he was then reduced. But he remained not long neglected or useless. The victory at Blenheim afforded
him an occasion for the display of his poetical talents
in the poem entitled The Campaign, which celebrates
the wisdom, foresight, vigour, activity, and courage
of Marlborough; and records the two great actions of
Shellenberg and Blenheim, both with historical accuracy and poetic animation. He was immediately rewarded by the Treasurer GODOLPHIN, who appointed
nim to succeed the celebrated Mr. LocxE as Commis
sioner of Appeals.
In the following year, he attended Lord HALIFAX




XXVIll       THE LIFE OF ADDISON.
to Hanover; and the year after was chosen Under
Secretary of State, first to Sir Charles HEDGES, and
in a few months more to the Earl of SUNDERLAh2D,
At this time there prevailed a general taste for Italian operas; but the musical pieces in that language
were then, as at present, equally distinguished for the
deficiency of sense and the fineness of sound; ADDISON, importuned by persons of taste and distinction,
andertook to compose in our own language a musical
drama which might combine intellect with harmony;
and he wrote the opera of Rosamond, one of the most
pleasing of ourtuthor's poetical compositions. Its fable is agreeable and interesting; its thoughts are just
and energetic; its sentiments natural and often tender;
its versification easy and harmonious. Rosamond
however did not succeed on the stage; because the
music was not Italian: it was either hissed or neglected. Conscious that it merited a better fate, and trusting that the readers would do him more justice, he
published it with an inscription to the Dutchess of
MARLBOROUGH, a noble lady, but without skill, or
pretensions to skill, in poetry or literature. The dedication, however, is not to be wondered at: for dedications, in general, must be considered as solicitations
of patronage, rather than of advice; as expressions of
respect or gratitude, rather than as acknowledgmento
of critical abilities.
When the Marquis of WHARTON was appointee
Lord Lieutenant of Ireland,* ADDISON attended him
as his Secretary, and was made Keeper of the Records in Birmingham's Tower, with a salary of 3001.
a year.t When he was in office, he made a law to
himself, SWIFT informs us, never to remit his regular
fees, out of civility to his friends. "For," said he,
" I may have a hundred friends: and if my fee be
* In 1709.
t Queen Anne, to whom Addison had been recom
mended by the Dutchess of Marlborough, entertained a
very high opinion of our author, and, as a mark of her
favour and esteem, augmented the salary annexed to the
place of Keeper of the Records




THE LIFE CYP  DDISON.         XXlX
two guineas, I shall. by relin(liushing my right, lose
two hundred guineas, and no friend gain more than
two. There is therefore no proportion between the
good imparted and the evil suffered."
STEELE began to publish his Tattler,* whilst AD.
DISON was in Ireland. He discovered the author
from an observation on VIRGIL, which he himself had
communicated to his friend; and this discovery led
him to afford STEELE assistance, which contributed
considerably to support the reputation of that periodical worklt Such was the superiority of ADDISON'S
writing, that Sir RICHARD said, 6"that he himself
fared like a distressed prince, who called a powerful
neighbour to his aid, and was undone by his auxiliary."
Two months after the end of the Tattler, succeeded the Spectator;t a series of essays of the same
kind, but written with less levity, upon a more regular plan, and published daily. Stuch an undertaking
showed that the writers did not distrust their own
copiousness of materials, or facility of composition,
and their performance justified their confidence. They
found, however, in their progress, many auxiliaries.
The Spectator, in one of the first papers, exhibited
the political tenets of its authors; but they soon took
a resolution of courting general approbation by general topics: such as literature, morality, and familiar life. To this practice they adhered with very few
deviations. Before the Tattler and Spectator (if the
writers for the theatre be excepted) England had no
masters of common life. No writers had yet under-' The Tattler appeared for the first time, April 12,
1709; and concluded January 2, 1711.
t Among the Tattlers of Addison, the most celebrated
are:-The distinguishing Characters of Men and Women; —The Distress of the new Writers; —The Inve atory of the Play-House;-The Description of the Thermomneter;-The Discourses on the Immortality of the
Soul, and the glorious Prospect of another Life.
T The first paper appeared March 1, 1711; and was
continued laily to Dieceuher 8, 1712.




EX=           THE LIFE OF ADDISON.
taken to reform eitLer the savageness of neglec; or
tne impertinence of civility; to teach when to speak,
or to be silent; how to refuse, or how to comply. We
wanted not books to teach us our more important
duties, and to settle opinions in philosophy or politics;
but an Arbiter Elegantiarum, a judge of propriety,
was yet wantmg, who should survey the track of
daily conversation, and free it from thorns and prickles,
which tease the passer though they do not wound
him. For this purpose nothing is so proper as the
frequent publication of short papers, which we read
not as study but amusement. Thus the busy may
find time, and the idle may find patience. The Tat
tlers and Spectators, published at a time when two
parties, loud, restless, and violent, were agitating the
nation, supplied to minds heated with political contest,
cooler and more inoffensive reflections; they had a
perceptible influence upon the conversation of that
time, and taught the lively and the gay to unite merriment with decency; they reduced the unsettled
practice of daily intercourse to propriety and politeness; and taught, with great justness of argument
and dignity of language, the most important duties
and sublime truths.
The year which followed the conclusion of the
Spectator, was the grand climacteric of ADDISON'S
reputation; the tragedy of Cato, which, of all his
works, has brought him the greatest praise, came
upon the stage. The whole nation was at that time
on fire with faction. The Whigs applauded every line
of the play in which liberty was mentioned, as a satire
on the Tories; and the Tories echoed every clap, to
show that the satire was unfelt.* The play, unquestionably the noblest production of ADDISON'S genius,
supported thus by the emulation of factious praise,
was acted thirty-five nights without intermission
Neighbouring nations have bestowed no less applause
- The story of Bolingbroke is well known; he called
nooth to his box, and gave him fifty guineas for defend
ing the cause of liberty against a perpetual d'ctator.




THE LIFE OF ADDISON.          xxit
on this work than our own. It was xranslated fre.
quently into the French language, and underwent
both Italian and German versions. It has been, not
unjustly, determined by the public opinion, that Cato
is rather a poem in dialogue than a drama; rather a
succession of just sentiments in elegant language,
than a representation of natural affections, or of any
state probable or possible in human life. A composition which faction, rank, and literature, concurred in
praising, could not escape censure; from a regard to
truth, if the applause were unjust; or if just, from
envy and malignity. Influenced by this last motive,
the most strenuous impugner of Cato's merit was
DENNIS, that professed critic, that searcher after
faults, and heedless observer of excellencies. He
arraigned it for neglect of poetical justice; his critique, however, abounds in quaint witticism and vulgar merriment, which convey no high idea of the
satirist's taste and refinement. POPE, who at this
time professed great friendship for ADDISON, and who
resembled the critic in irritability and resentment,
seized this opportunity of paying his court to our
author, and at the same time of vilifying his sworn
adversary; and he wrote a very severe but humorous
piece, entitled A Narrative of th.e Madness of JOHN
DENNIS. Our author himself never answered the
critique of DENNIS; and conscious of the real motive
of POPE'S attack, sent notice to that modern Zoilus,
that he was sorry for all the personalities with which
POPE had treated him.
Soon after the appearance of Cato on the stage,
another daily paper was published, nearly on the plan
of the Spectator, ewnitled The Guardian.  STEELE
was the editor. ADDISON gave considerable assistance,
though not so regularly as in the Spectator.*  Those
essays are written in the same strain of humour and
serious observation. ADDISON all this time was not
* All the papers by Addison were distinguished in the
spectator by the letters C. L. I. O.; in the Grardian they
were known by a hand.




zxxl        THE LIFE OF ADDISON.
an indifferent spectator of public affairs, le wrote,
as different exigencies required. He.utlished, in
1707, The present State of the War; the Trial of
Count Tanf, and a few papers, entitled The WThig
Exarminer, written with poignant humour. They
show that though ADDISON'S wit was generally gentle
and delicate, ne could be severe. During the last
years of Queen Anne, our author was in no public employment; but when, on the death of the Queen, the
House of Hanover took possession of the throne, it
was reasonable to expect that his zeal would be suitably rewarded. Before the arrival of King GEORGaE
he was made Secretary to the Regency; and was required by his office to send notice to Hanover, that the
Queen was dead, and that the throne was vacant. To
do that would not have been difficult to any man but
ADDISON, who was so overwhelmed with the greatness of the event, and so distracted by the choice of
expression, that the Lords of the Regency, who could
not wait for the niceties of criticism, were obliged to
employ a Mr. SOUTHWELL, a clerk in the house, who
had just taste and knowledge enough to qualify him
for a writing-desk. He stated the fact, as he was or.
dered, in the ordinary perspicuity of business, ani
valued himself for having done what was too hard for
ADDISON. Copious and elegant as the style of our author was, yet from the idea he had formed of excellence, joined with the most modest opinion of his own
compositions, he, on some occasions, could not write
in such a manner as to give himself satisfaction.
It was proposed on the accession and arrival of
GEORGE 1. to make ADDISON Secretary of State; this
he himself strenuously declined: but he accepted a
second time the post of Secretary to the Lord Lieu.
tenant of Ireland, then Lord SUNDERLAND   The
Earl was soon removed, and ADDISON appointed one
of the Lords of Trade. His political employment di.
verted him from executing a design which he had formed, of composing an English Dictionary; a circumstance which the literary world would have had cause
to regret, had not the composition of such a work call.




THE LIFE OF ADDISON.         Xxxiil
ed forth the deep learning and acute judgment of a
JOHNSON.
During the rebellion,* our author commenced a
periodical work in support of the established govern.
ment, entitled The Freeholder,t whose intention is to
show the folly and wickedness of rebellion. He with
strong arguments and exquisite humour, addresses
himself to the various classes of the disaffected; and
exhibits to them the absurdity of imagining, that the
pupil of priests, and a tyrant, was the person most fitted to govern a free country.
Soon after the conclusion of the Freeholder, ADDI..
so0N married the Countegs Dowager of WARWICK,
whom it is said he had first known by being tutor of
her son, and whom he had solicited by a very long
and anxious courtship. She is said to have discovered his passion, and to have amused herself with it.
His advances, at first very timorous, grew bolder as
his reputation and influence increased. At last he ventured to solicit her with more confidence, and he prevailed. He derived little happiness from this marriage; for it never found them nor made them equal.
She always remembered her own rank, and treated
himn as her inferior. The native lustre of genius was
not, in the eyes of the pride of birth, adequate' to the
adventitious glare of ancestry.
Mr. ADDISON is an instance that brilliant genius,
elegant learning, and a complete knowledge of politics,
accompanied even with unsullied virtue, do not qualify
a man for being a statesman. Elevated to a high station, and made Secretary of State, he was universally
found unequal to the duties of his place. From his
excessive modesty, he could not speak in the House
of Commons; and therefore was useless to the defence
of his-friends and of the government. In his office he
wanted despatch, an essential ingredient in the transaction of numerous affairs. He could not, JOHNSON,
* In 1715.
t It consisted of fifty-five papers; and continued twice
a week, fiom December, 1715, to June in the following
year.
VoL. I.-3




XXaV         THE lZFE OF ADDISON.
tells us, issue an order without losing his time in quest
of fine expressions. What he gained in rank, he lost
in credit. His health, already impar;ed by an asthma,
suffered greatly from the fatigue of affairs. He was
forced at last to solicit leave to relinquish his employment; was permitted to resign, and gratified with a
pension of 15001. a year.
From politics, ADDISON returned to his literary avocations. He devoted his leisure to writing a Treatise
on the Evidences of the Christian Religion; and had
only performed one half of his design, when an untimely death put a period to his labours, of which part
was published after his decease.
ADDISON, however, did not conclude his life in
peaceful studies, but relapsed, when near his end, to
a political question. A controversy was agitated with
great vehemence between those friends of long continuance, relating to the Peerage Bill, which was to fix
ithe number of peers. STEELE, in his Plebeian, alarmed the nation, on this subversion of the ancient establishment.. ADDISON answered, under the title of the
Old WhMig.-STEELiE replied by a second Plebeian,
without any personality. The Old Whig answered
again the Plebeian; and could not forbear some contempt of little Dicky. Dicky nevertheless did not lose
his deep veneration for his friend; but quoted only
some lines of Cato, which were at once detection and
reproof. "What reader," says Dr. JOHNSON, with
~energetic feeling, "will not regret, that these two illustrious friends, after so many years past in confidence
and endearment, in unity of interest, conformity of
opinion, and fellowship of study, should finally part in
acrimonious opposition?  Such a controversy was
bellu:m plusquam civile, as Lucan expresses it. Why
could not faction find other advocates? But, among
the uncertainties of the human state, we are doomed
to number the instability of friendship."
The end of this great man's life was now approachma. His asthmatical complaint was aggravated by
a tropsy. He abandoned all hopes of life; and, finding his danger was pressing, he prepared to die can



-THE LIFE OF ADDISON.        XXXB
formably to his own precepts and professions. He
gave directions to his friend TICKELL, concerning the
publication of his works, and dedicated them on his
death-bed to his friend and successor, Mr. CRAIGGS,
Secretary of State. During his lingering decay, he
sent a message to Mr. GAY, desiring to see him. GAY,
who had not visited him for some time before, obeyed
the summons, and was received with great kindness.
ADDISON then told him, that he had injured him, but
that, if he recovered, he would recompense him.
What the injury was he did not explain, nor did GAl
ever know. As it had been our author's business
during his life-to promote piety and morality, he was,Jesirous that his death might contribute to the same
noble end; therefore, when dying, he sent for the
young Lord WAaRWIK, his step-son, a nobleman of
very irregular life, and perhaps of loose opinions,
whom he had in vain endeavoured to reclaim. Approaching the dying man, the youth said,-" Dear
sir, you have sent for me-I hope you have some
commands — shall hold them most sacred." Eagerly
grasping the young man's hand, ADDISON softly said,
" See in what peace a Christan can die." He spoke
and soon expired.*
* This anecdote, recorded of Addison, has been poeti
cally related by a modern bard, in the following verses:
" When the convulsil e throb, and swimming eye,
Proclaim the hour of dissolution nigh,
Ere yet the glimmering lamp of life expires,
For Warwick he with falt'ring tongue inquires.
See where the youth, with awe sincere itnpress'd,
Attends obedient to his friend's request:
Soon as the well-known face the sufferer spies,
What mixt emotions in his bosom rise!
View where, portray'd in yon expressive mien,
Meek resignation, faith, and hope are seen,
With all that warm solicitude comnbin'd
For humble wea!, which marks the gen'rous nind;
That tender love, those cares which e'er attend
The pious Christian, and the feeling friend!
Hear him to the lov'd youth, with dying breatt,
This last inestimable gift bequeath,




ZXXVi        THE LIFE OF ADDISON.
In the manners and habits of ADDISON, nothing
was more remarkable than his taciturnity in company. His friend STEELE often mentioned his ob
stinacy of silence. He himself acknowledges that
he was very deficient in fluent conversation. The
time in which he lived had reason to lament this
defect in him, for he was above all men in that talent called humour. " ADDISON'S conversation,"
says POPE, "had something in it more charming
then I have found in any other man; but this was
only when familiar; before strangers, or perhaps a
single stranger, he preserved his dignity by a stiff
silence."
Concerning his timidity and bashfulness all writers
are agreed. It was a cloak that hid and muffled his
merit.  CHESTERFIELD affirms, "that he was the
most timorous and awkward man that he ever saw "*
CHESTERFIELD'S representation must doubtless be
hyperbolical; for this Lord was ever ready to bestow
-contemptuous epihhets on men of the first talents.t
That man cannot be supposed very unex ert in the
arts of conversation and practice of life, who without
fortune or alliance, by his usefulness and dexterity,
became Secretary of State; and who died at forty-seven,
after having not only stood long in the highest rank
of wit and literature, but filled one of the most important offices of state.
However silent and bashful ADDISON might be before strangers, among his friends he was a communi(Benign affection beaming from his eye)' See with what calmness can the Christian die. "
* Dr. Mandeville, the author of the "Fable of the
Bees," once expressed to Lord Macclesfield, whom Addison visited, a desire to be introduced to him. IIis Lord.
ship brought them together. After they had passed the
evening in company with his Lordship, and Addison was
departed, Macclesfield asked the doctor what was his
opinion of Mr. Addison; "I think," answered Mande.
ville, " he is a person in a tie wig."
t He called Dr. Johnson, one of the greatest geniuses
and literary characters of an inger ious and learned age,
a Hottentot.




THE LIFE OF ADDISON.        XXXVIt
cative, entertaining, and delightful companion. Of the
course of ADDISON's familiar day, before his marriageo
Pope has given a detail. He had in his house with
him BUDGELL, or PHILIPS, or both. His chief companions were CAREY, DAVENANT, and Colonel BRETT,
witL. one or ather of these he generally breakfasted.
He studied all the morning, then dined at a tavern, and
went afterwards to Button's,* where the wits of the
time used to assemble. From the coffee house he went
again to a tavern, were he often sat late, and drank
too much wine. "In the bottle," says JOHNSON, "discontent seeks for comfort, cowardice for courage, and
bashfulness for confidence. It is not unlikely that
ADDISON was first seduced to excess by the manumission which he obtained from the servility of his
sober hours. He that feels oppression from the presence of those to whom he knows himself superior,
will desire to set loose his powers of conversation;
and who that ever asked succour from Bacchus was
able to preserve himself by his auxiliary P"
In the intellectual character of ADDISON: the most
prominent feature were judgment, taste, and humour.
Of very extensive learning, he has given us no proofs.
He seems to have had small acquaintance with the
sciences, and to have read little, except Greek, Latin,
and French. The abundance of his own mind left
him little need of adventitious sentiments; his wit
always could suggest what the occasion demanded.
He perceived witW quickness and clearness the nature
and tendency of objects; and he had read with critical
eyes the important volume of human life. He discovered truth, however disguised or hidden; he detected fallacy, however varnished or enveloped; and knew the
heart of man, from the depth of stratagem to the
surface of affectation.
* Button, who had been a servant in the Countess of
Warwick's family, kept a coffee-house on the south side
of Russel-street, between Covent-Garden and Charles.
street. It is reported that when Addison had suffered
any vexation from the Countess, he withdrew ths conpanly from Button's aouse. 




Xxxviii      THE LIFE OF ADDISON.
Naturally delicate, refined by the examination do
the best models, and united with sound and acute
judgment, the taste of ADDISON was so exact, that no
beauty nor deformity, however intermixed, could escane its discernment.
hNo nation has produced so many authors, who have
excelled in wit and humour, as these kingdoms.
Among the ingenious men distinguished for those
qualities, there are none before ADDISON, who have
uniformly preserved decency. He has rigidly abstained from every impure and disgusting image, which
are the resource of dulness and frivolity. The humour of our author is not only exquisite and refined;
but ingenious, variegated, and peculiar to himself. It
is so happily diffused, as to give the grace of novelty
to domestic scenes and daily occurrences. To use the
words of that elegant and acute critic, Dr. JOHNSON,
"he ne'er o'ersteps the modesty of nature, nor raises
merriment or wonder by the violation of truth. His
figures neither divert by distortion, nor amaze by aggravation. He copies life with so much fidelity that
he can be hardly said to invent; yet his exhibitions
have an air so much original, that it is difficult not to
suppose them the product of imagination."  He had
a fertile invention, and a brilliant fancy. His poetry,
however, which is polished and pure, and of which he
was more fond than of all his other writings, is!ot
sufficiently vigorous to attain excellence. It is rather
sound philosonhy and just morality versified, than
animated description or interesting exhibition. He
does not often either warm our fancy, or move our
heart. But the fame of our author rests now less on
his poetry than on his prose. He is great as a teacher
of wisdom. He has employed wit on the side of virtue and religion, and has dissipated the prejudice that
had long connected gayety with vice, and easiness of
manners with laxity of principles. Arraying Virtue
in the most pleasing dress, he has restored her to her
native dignity and beauty. This is an elevation of
literary claracter, above all Greek, above all human
Came. His religion has.nothing in it enthusiastic or




THE LIFE OF ADDISON.         XXXIX
superstitious. All the enchantment of fancy, and all
the cogency of argument, are employed to recommend
to the reader his real interests, the care of pleasing the
Author of his being. Success followed so wise and
benevolent an attempt; he left society, by his writings,
wiser and better than he found it.
Knowledge of mankind shows, indeed, that to write
and to live are very different. Many who praise virtue do no more than praise it. ADDISON'S profession
and practice were at no variance. The same purity
and excellence which he displayed in his books, were
shining in his moral character. Amidst the storm of
faction in which most of his life wras passed, though
his station made him conspicuous, and his activity
made him formidable, the virtuous character given
him by his friends was never contradicted by his enemies, whose reverence he retained, though from the
violence of opposition, he might lose their affection.
His moral character is to be learnt from the reneral
testimony of the age in which hie lived. So generally
was his merit acknowledged, that SWIFT, who was
not over friendly to him, after having observed that
the election of ADDISON had passed without a dissenting voice, adds, ",that if he had proposed himself
for king, he would have been hardly refused." Thus
envy, with her usual malignant sagacity, could not
detect in the moral character of our author an imperfection, nor party zeal fancy in it a stain.
Listening then to the general voice in his favour,
we wil. express our conviction that ADDISON was a
man of moral excellence, no less exalted than his intellectual endowments. Though belonging to a party,
he loved goodness, and venerated talents in those of
the opposite side.* His temper was calm, equal, and
agreeable. Candour and liberality were eminently
conspicuous both in his criticism, and in his inter* WhVten he was in Ireland with Lord Sunderland, he
could not be prevailed upon to discontinue his intimacy
with Swift, though extremely obnoxious to the admninis
tration under which our author was acting. HIe preser
Ied his regard for him to the last.




is.       THE LIVE OF ADDIsIO
ourse with mankind. To the lesser virtues of mode.
ration, economy, and prudence, he joined, in a very
high degree, the eminent virtues of justice, benecenlce, and patriotism. As men of genius are, we
hink, to be estimated by the good they have produced
in society, we may affirm with truth that few will
stand higher in the scale of human excellence thee
VTE PRINCIPAL AUTHOR OF THE SPECTATO




SPECTATOR
IN MINIATURE.
AUTHORS.
M.yan BiTXtov, Irya aLKOV.
A great book is a great evil.
A MAN who publishes his works in a volume, has
an infinite advantage over one who commumcates his
writings to the world in lose tracts and single pieces.
We do not expect to meet with any thing in a bulky
volume, until after some heavy preamble, and several
words of course, to prepare the reader for what follows; nay, authors have established it as a kind of
rule, that a man ought to be dull sometimes; as the
most severe reader makes allowances for many rests
and nodding-places in a voluminous writer. This
gave occasion to the famous Greek proverb which I
have chosen for my motto, that "a great book is a
great evil."
On the contrary, those who publish their thoughts
in distinct sheets, and as it were by piecemeal, have
none of these advantages. We must immediately
fall into our subject, and treat every part of it in a
lively manner, or our papers are thrown by as dull
and insipid; our matter must 1le close together, and
either be wholly new in itself, or in the turn it receives
from our expressions. Were the books of our best
authors thus to be retaPied to the public, and every
3




42                 AUTHORS.
page submitted to the taste of forty or fifty thousand
readers, I am afraid we should complain of many flat
expressions, trivial observations, beaten topics, and
common thoughts, whici go off very well in the
lump. At the same time, notwithstanding some pa.
pers mnay be made up of broken hints and irregular
sketches, it is often expected that every sheet should
be a kind of treatise, and make out in thought what
it wants in bulk: that a point of humour should be
worked up in all its parts; and a subject touched upon
in its most essential articles, without the repetitions,
tautologies, and enlargements that are indulged to
longer labours. The ordinary writers of morality
prescribe to their readers after the Galenic way; their
medicines are made up in large quantities. An essaywriter must practise in the chynlical method, and
give the virtue of a full draught in a few drops.
Were all books reduced thus to their quintessence,
many a bulky author would make his appearance in
a penny-paper: there would be scarce such a thing
in nature as a folio: the works of an age would be
contained on a few shelves: not to mention millions
of volumes, that would be utterly annihilated.
1 cannot think that the difficulty of furnishing out
separate papers of this nature, has hindered authors
from communicating their thoughts to the world after
such a manner: though I must confess I am amazed
that the press should be only made use of in this way
by news-writers, and the zealots of parties; as if it
were not more advantageous to mankind, to be instructed in wisdom and virtue, than politics; and to be
made good fathers, husbands, and sons, than counsellors and great men of antiquity, who took so much
pains in order to instruct mankind, and leave the
vworld wiser and better than they found it; had they,
I say, been possessed of the art of printing, there is
no qusetion, but they would have made such an advantage of it, in dealing out their lectures to the public. Our common prints would be of great use were
they thus calculated to diffuse good sense through the
bulk of a people, to clear up their understandings,




AUTHORS.                 43
annaate their minds with virtue, dissipate the: sorrows
of a heavy heart, or unbend the mind from its more
severe employments  with  innocent amusements.
When knowledge, instead of being bound up in books,
and kept in libraries and retirements, is thus obtruded
upon the public; when it is canvassed in every assembly, and exposed upon every table; I cannot forbear reflecting upon that pas3age in the Proverbs:
" Wisdom crieth without, she uttereth her voice In the
streets; she crieth in the chief place of concourse, in
the openings of the gates. In the city she uttereth
her words, saying, How long, ye simple ones, will ye
love simplicity? and the scorners delight in their
scorning? and fools hate knowledge?"
I am not at all mortified, when sometimes I see my
works thrown aside by men of no taste nor learning.
There is a kind of heaviness and ignorance that hangs
kipon the minds of ordinary men, which is too thick
for knowledge to break through. Their souls are not
to be enlightened,
-.ox atra cava circumvolat umbra.
VIRG. AEn. ii. ver. 360.
Dark night surrounds them with her hollow shade.
To these I must apply the fable of the mole, that
after having consulted many oculists for the bettering
of his sight, was at last provided with a good pair
of spectacles; but upon his endeavouring to make
use of them, his mother told him very prudently,
"that spectacles, though they might help the eye of
a man, could be of no use to a mole." It is not therefore for the benefit of moles that I publish these my
daily essays.
But besides such as are moles through ignorance,
there are others who are moles through envy. As it
is said in the Latin proverb, "that one man is a wolf
to another;" so, generally speaking, one author is a
mole to another author. It is impossible for them to'
discover beauties in one another's works; they have
eyes only for spots and blemishes: they can indeed
see the ligh:, as it is said of the animals which are




44                 AUTHORS.
their namesakes, but the idea of it is painful to them:
they immediately shut their eyes upon it, and withdraw themselves into a wilful obscurity.
Aristotle tells us that the world is a copy or tran.
script of those ideas which are in the mind of the
first Being; and that those ideas which are in the
mind of man, are a transcript of the world: to this
we may add, that words are the transcript of those
ideas which are in the mind of man, and that writing
or printing are the transcript of words.
As the Supreme Being has expressed, and as it
were printed, his idea in the creation, men express
their ideas in books, which by this great invention of
these latter ages may last as long as the sun and
moon, and perish only in the general wreck of nature.
Thus Cowley, in his Poem on the Resurrection, mentioning the destruction of the universe, has those adnlirabIe lines:
" Now all the wide extended sky,
And all th' harmonious worlds on high,
And Virgil's sacred work shall die."
Thlere is no other method of fixing those thoughts
which arise and disappear in the mind of man, and
transmitting them to the last periods of time; no other
method of giving a permanency to our ideas, and preserving the knowledge of any particular person, when
his body is mixed with the common mass of matter,
and his soul retired into the world of spirits. Books
are the legacies that a great genius leaves to mankind,
which are delivered down from generation to generation, as presents to the posterity of those who are vet
unborn.
All other arts of perpetuating our ideas continue
but a short time: statues can last but a few thousands
of years, edifices fewer, and colours still fewer than
edifices. Michael Angelo, Fontana, and Raphael, will
hereafter be what Thidias, Vitruvius, and Apelles are
at present; the names of great statuaries, architects,
and painters, whose works are lost. The several arts




AUTHORS.                   45
are expressed in mouldering materials: nature sinks
under them, and is not able to support the ideas which
are impressed upon it.
The circumstance which gives authors an advantage above all these great masters is this, that they
can multiply their originals; or rather can make copies of their works, to what number they please,
which shall be as valuable as the originals themselves.
This gives a great author something like a prospect
of eternity, but at the same time deprives him of those
other advantages which artists meet with. The artist finds greater returns in profit, as the author m fame.
What an inestimable price would a Virgil or a Homer, a Cicero or an Aristotle bear, were their works
like a statue, a building, or a picture, or to be confined only in one place, and made the property of a
single person?
If writings are thus durable, and may pass from
age to age throughout the whole course of time, how
careful slhould an author be of committing any thing to
print that may corrupt posterity, and poison the minds
of men with vice and error?* Writers of great talents,
who employ their parts in propagating immorality, and
seasoning vicious sentiments with wit and humour,
are to be looked upon as pests of society, and the
enemies of mankind: they leave books behind them,
as it is said of those who die in distempers which
breed an ill-will towards their own species, to scatter
infection and destroy their posterity. They act the
counterparts of a Confucius or a Socrates; and seem
to have been sent into the world to deprave human
nature, and sink it into the condition of brutality.
I have seen some Roman Catholic authors, who
tell us that vicious writers continue in purgatory so
long as the influence of their writings continues upon
* That the Spectator has faithfully adhered to the advice he gives to writers-and that he has published no
cssays but those which refine the taste, ridicule folly,
make vice blush, and purify piety, any reader will be
beady to acknowledge, after the perusal of the following
selection.




46                 AUTHORS.
posterity: for purgatory, say they, is nothing else tut
a cleansing us of our sms, which connot be said to be
done away, so long as they continue to operate and
corrupt mankind. The vicious author, say they, sins
after death, and so long as he continues to sin, so long
must he expect to be punished. Though the Roman
Catholic notion of purgatory be indeed very ridiculous,
one cannot but think that if- the soul after death has
any knowledge of what passes in this world, that of
an immoral writer would receive much more regret
from the sense of corrupting, than satisfaction from
the thought of pleasing his surviving admirers.
To take off from the severity of this speculation, 1
shall conclude this paper with a story of an atheistical
author, who at a time when he lay dangerously sick,
and had desired the assistance of a neighbouring cu
rate, confessed to him with great contrition, that no
thing sat more heavy at his heart than the sense of his
having seduced the age by his writings, and that their
evil influence was likely to continue even after his
death. The curate upon further examination, finding
the penitent in the utmost agonies of despair, and beir z himself a man of learning, told him, that he ho~ead his case was not so desperate as he apprehended,
since he found that he was so very sensible of his fault
and so sincerely repented of it. The penitent still urged the evil tendency of his book to subvert all religion, and the little ground of hope there could be for
one whose writings would continue to do mischief
when his body was laid in ashes. The curate, finding'
no other way to comfort him, told him, that he did well
in being afflicted for the evil desian with which he
published his book; but that he ought to be very thankful that there was no danger of its doing any hurt:
that his cause was so very bad, and his arguments so
weak, that he did not apprehend any ill effects of it:
in short, that he might rest satisfied his book could do
no more mischief after his death, than it had done
whilst he was living. To which he added, for his further satisfaction, that he did not believe any besides
his particular friends and acquaintance had ever been




A HUNTINo  PARTY.             47
at the pains of reading it, or that any body after his
death would ever inquire after it. The dying man
had still so much the frailty of an author in him, as
to be cut to the heart with these consolations; and
without answering the good man, asked his friends
about him, with a peevishness that is natural to a sick
person, where they had picked up such a blockhead?
And whether they thought him a proper person to attend one in his condition? The curate finding that
the author did not expect to be dealt with as a real
and sincere penitent, but as a penitent of importance,
after a short admonition withdrew; not questioning
but he should be again sent for if the sickness grew
desperate. The author however recovered, and has
sinmcd written two or three other tracts with the same
spirit, and very luckily for his poor soul, with the
same success.                              C.
A iUNTiNG PARTY.
o —    ocat ingenti clamore CithEron,
Taygettque carnes
VIRG. Georg. iii. 43,
" The echoing hills and chiding hounds invite."
THosE x whohave searched into human nature, observe
that nothing so much shows the nobleness of the soul,
as that its felicity consists in action. Every man has
such an active principle in him, that he will find out
something to employ himself upon, in whatever place
or state of life he is posted. I have heard of a gentleman who was tinder close confinement in the Bastile se.ven years; during which time he amused himself in
scattering a few small pins about his chamber, gathering them up again, and placing them in different
figures on the arm of a chair. He often told his
friends afterwards, that unless he had found out this
piece of exercise, he verily believed he should have
lost his senses.




to             A HUNTING PARTY.
Sir Roger, with whose character I hope my read'
ers are at present pretty well acquainted, has in hia
youth gone through the whole course of those rural
diversions which the country abounds in; and which
seem to be extremely well suited to that laborious industry a man may observe here in a far greater degree than in towns and cities. IHe has in his youthful
days taken forty coveys of partridges in a season; and
tired many a salmon with a line consisting but of a
single hair  The constant thanks and good wishes of
the neighbourhood always attended him, on account of
his remarkable enmity towards foxes; havihg destroyed more of those vermin in one year, than it was
thought the whole county could have produced. Indeed the Knight does not scruple to own among his
most intimate friends, that in order to establish his
reputation this way, he has secretly sent for great
numbers of them out of other counties, which he
used to turn loose about the country by night, that he
might the better signalize himself in their destruction
the next day. His hunting-horses were the finest and
best managed in all these parts. His tenants are stili
full of the praises of a gray stone-horse that unhappily staked himself several years since, and was buried with great solemnity in the orchard.
Sir Roger, being at present too old for fox-hunting,
to keep himself in action, has disposed of his beagles,
and got a pack of stop hounds. What these want in
speed, he endeavours to make amends for by the deepness of their mouths and the variety or their notes,
which are suited in such manner to each other, that'
the whole cry makes up a complete concert. He is
so nice in this particular, that a gentleman having
made him a present of a very fine hound the othe
day, the Knight returned it by the servant with a great
many expressions of civility; but desired him to tell
his master, that the dog he had sent was indeed a most
excellent bass, but that at present he only wanted a
counter tenor. Could I believe my friend had ever
read Shakspeare, I should certainly conclude he had
taken the hint from Theseus in the Midsummer N ight's
Dream.




A HUNTING PARTY.              49
1 My hota.ds are bred out of the Spartan kind.
So Slued, so sanded; and their heads are hung
With ears that sweep away the morning dew.
Crook-knee'd and dew-lap'd like Thessalian bulls,
Slow ill pursuit, but match'd in mouths like bells
Each ur ler each. A cry more tuneable
Was never halloo'd to, nor cheer'd with horn."
Sir Roger is so keen after this sport, that he has
been out almost every day since I came down; and
upon the chaplain's offering to lend me his easy pad,
I was prevailed on yesterday rmorning to make one of
the company. I was extremely pleased, as we rid
along to observe the general benevolence of all the
neighbourhood towards my friend. The farmers' sons
thought themselves happy if they could open a gate
for the good old Knight as he passed by; which he
generally requited with a nod or a smile, and & kind
inquiry after their fathers or uncles.
After we had rode about a mile from home, we came
upon a large heath, and the sportsmen began to beat.
They had done so for same time when, as 1 was at a
little distance from the rest of the company, I saw a
hare pop out from a small furze-brake almost under
my horse's feet. I marked the way she took, which
I Jadeavoured to make the company sensible of by extending my arm: but to no purpose, till Sir Roger,
who knows that none of my extraordinary motions
are insignificant, rode up to me, and asked me, "If
puss was gone that way'." Upon my answering Yes,
fe immediately called in the dogs, and put them upon
the scent As they were going off, I heard one of the
country-fellows muttering to his companion, "That'twas a wonder they had not lost all their sport, fot
want of the sileat gentleman's crying, Stole away."
This with my aversion to leaping hedges, made me
withdraw to a risnig _oround, from whence I could
have the pleasure of tYe whole chase, without the
fatigue of keeping in with the hounds. The hare
inmmediately threw them above a mile behind her;
but I was pleased to find, that instead of running
straight forwards, or in hunter's language, flying the
VoL. L-4




50            A HUNTING PARTY.
corntry, as I was afraid she might have done, she
wheeled about, and described a sort of a circle round
the hill where I had taken my station, in such a manner as gave me a very distinct view of the sport. I
could see her first pass by, and the dogs some time
afterwards unravelling the whole track she had made
and following her through all her doubles. I was at
the same time delighted in observing that deference
which the rest of the pack paid to each particular hound,
according to the character he had acquired among
them. If they were at a fault, and an old hound ol
reputation opened but once, he was immediately followed by the whole cry; while a raw d<, or one
who was a noted liar, might have yelped hischeart out,
without being taken notice of.
The hare now, after having squatted two or three
times, and been put up again as often, came still
nearer to the place where she was at first started.
The dogs pursued her, and these were followed by
the jolly Knight, who rode upon a white gelding, en
compassed by his tenants and servants, and cheering
his hounds with all the gaiety of five-and-twenty.
One of the sportsmen rode up to me, and told me,
that he was sure the chase was almost at an end, be.
cause the old dogs, which had hitherto lain behind,
now headed the pack. ThI'  fellow was in the right.
Our hare took a large field just under us, followe by
the full cry, in view. I must confess the brightness
of the wreather, the cheerfulness of every thing around
me, the chiding of the hounds, which was returned
upon us in a double echo from two neighbouring
hills, with the hallooing of the sportsmen, and the
soundirng of the horn, lifted my spirits into a most
lively pleasure, which I freely indulged because 3
was sure it was innocent. If I was under any conccrn, it was on the account of the poor hare, that
was now quite spent, and almost within the reach
of her enemies; when the huntsman getting forward, th.ew down his pole before the dogs. They
were now within eight yards of that game which
they had been pursuing for almost as many hours;




A HUNTING PARTY.              51
yet on the signal before~mention2d they all made a
sudden stand, and though they continued opening
as much as before, durst not once attempt to pass
beyond the pole. At the game time Sir Roger rode
forward, and alighting, took up the hare in his
arms; which he soon after delivered up to one of
his servants, with an order, if she could be kept
alive, to let her go in his great orchard: where it
seems he has several of these prisoners of war,
who live together in a very comfortable captivity.
I was highly pleased to see the discipline of the
pack, and the good-nature of the Knight, who could
not find in his heart to murder a creature that had
given him so much diversion.
As we were returning home, I remembered that
MonsieurPaschal, in his most excellent discourse on
the Misery of Man, tells us, That " all our endeavours
after greatness, proceed from nothing but a desire of
being surrounded by a multitude of persons and affairs
that may hinder us from looking into ourselves, which
is a view we cannot bear.."  He afterwards goes on
to show that our love of sports comes from the same
reason, and is particularly severe upon hunting."'What," says he, " unless it be to drown thought, can
make men throw away so much time and pains upon
a silly animal, which they might buy cheaper in the
market?"  The foregoing reflection is certainly just,
when a man suffers his whole mind to be drawn into
his sports, and altogether loses himself in the woods;
but does not affect those who propose a far more laudable end from this exercise, I mean, "the preservation of health, and keeping all the organs of the soul
m a condition to execute fer orders.'  Had that incomparable person, whom 1 last quoted, been a little
more indulgent to himself in this point, the world
might probably have enljoyed him muchlonger; whereas, through too great an application to his studies in
his youth, he contracted that ill habit of body, which,
after a tedious sickness, carried him off, in the fortieth
year of his age; and the whole history we have of
his life till that time, is but one continued account of




52               ON LAUGHTERL
the behaviour of a noble soul, struggling under innu.
rmerable pains and distempers.
For my own part I intend to hunt twice a week du
rmng my stay with SiRoger; and shall prescribe
the moderate use of this exercise to all my country
friends, as the best kind of physic for mending a bad
consitution, and preserving a good one.
I cannot do this better than in the following lines
out of Mr. Dryden.*
" The first physicians by debauch were made;
Excess began, and Sloth sustains the trade.
By chase our long-liv'd fathers earn'd their food;
Toil strung the nerves, and purified the blood;
But we their sons, a pamper'd race of men,
Are dwindled down to threescore years and ten.
Better to hunt in fields for health unbought,
Than fee the Doctor for a nauseous draught.
Tle wise for cure on exercise depend:
God never made his work for man to mend.
ON LAUGHTER.
Ride ai sapis --. MART.
MART.
"Laugh, if you're wise."t
Ma. HOBBS, in his discourse of Human Nature,
which in my humble opinion, is much the best of all
his works, after some very curious observations upon
Laughter, concludes thus: "The passion of Laughter is nothing else but sudden glory arising from some
sudden conception of some eminency in ourselves, by
comparison with the infirmity of others, or with our
own formerly: for men laugh at the follies of them* A former annotator observes, that Mr. Budgell could
be no sportsman, by making his hunting party in the
month of July.
t See Dennis's Original Letters, p. 147, 2 vols. 8 vo. 1721




ON LAUGHTER.                63
selves pest, when they come suddenly to remembrance,
except they bring with them any present dishonour."
Accordling to this author, therefore, when we hear a
nlan lauh excessively, instead of saying he is very
merry, Wre ought to tell him he is very proud. An%
indeed, ii' we look into the bottom of this matter, we
shall m set with many observation- to confirm us in
his opinivn. Ery-one-lah          e —ls
in ian i     ti oflolly-4    elf.  It was formerly
the cubton for every great house in England to keep
a tame tool dressed in petticoats, that the heir of the
family mnight have an opportunity of joking upon him,
and divtrting himself with his absurdities. For the
same reason idiots are still in request in most of the
courts or Germany, where there is not a prince of any
great magnificence, who has not two or three dressed,
distingu;shed, undisputed fools in his retinue, whorn
the rest of the courtiers are always breaking there
jests upon.
The Lutch, who are more famous for their industry
and application, than for wit and homour, hang up
in several of their strees what they call the sign of the
Gaper, that is, the Vead of an idiot dressed in a cap
and bells, and gaping in a most immoderate manner.
This is a standing jest at Amsterdam.
Thus,.very one diverts himself with some person
or other that is below him in point of understanding,
and triuniphs in the superiority of his genius, whilst
he has such objects of derision before his eyes. Mr.
Dennis,las very well expressed this in a couple of
humorous lines, which are part of a translation of a
satire in Monsieur Boileau.
"TL.is one fool lolls his tongue out at another,
And:hakes his empty noddle at his brother."
Mr. h')bbs's reflection gives us the reason why the
insignif- ant people above-mentioned are stirrers up of
laughter among men of a gross taste; but as the more
understanding part of mankind do not find their risibility affected by suchordinaryobjects, itmayl worth




64               ON LAUGHTER.
*he while to examine into the several provocatives of
laughter, in men of superior sense and knowledge.
In the first place I must observe, that there is a set
of merry 4rol s, whom the common people of all countries admire, and seem to love so well, that they could
eat them, according to the old proverb: I meanl those
circumforant )us wits whom evei y nation calls by the
name of that dish of meat which it loves best. In
Holland they are termed Pickled Herrings; in France,
Jean Pottages; in Italy, Maccaronies; and in Great Britain, Jack Puddings. These merry wags, from whatsoever food they receive their titles, that they may
make their audiences laugh, always appear in a fool's
coat, and commit such blunders and mistakes in every
step they take, and every word they utter, as those
who listen to them would be ashamed of.
But this little triumph of the understanding, under
the disguise of laughter, is no where more visible than
in that custom which prevails every where among us
on the first day of April, when every body takes it in
his head to make as many fools as he can. In proportion as there are more follies discovered, so there is
more laughter raised on this day than on any other in
the whole year. A neighbou r of mine, who is a haberdasher by trade, and a very shallow, conceited fellow,
makes his boast that for these ten years successively,
he has not made less than an hundred April fools. My
landlady had a falling out with him about a fortnight
ago, for sending every one of her children upon some
sleeveless errand, as she terms it. Her eldest son
went to buy an halfpenny worth of incle at a shoemaker's; the eldest daughter was despatched half a
mile to see a monster: and in short, the whole family
of innocent children made April fools. Nay, my landlady herself did not escape him. This empty fellow
has laughedi upon these conceits ever since.
This art of wit is well enough when confined to one
day in a twelvemonth; but there is an ingenious tribe
of men sprung up of late years, who are for making
April fools every day in the year. These gentlemen
are commonly distinguished by the name of Biters: a




ON LAUGISTR. 
race of men that are perpetually emplc yed lr iaulgh
ing at those mistakes which are of their own production.
Thus We see in proportion as one man is more refined than another, he chooses his fool out of a lower
or higher class of mankind; or, to speak in a more
hilosophical language, that secret elation or pride of
heart, which is generally called laughter, arises in
him, from his comparing himself with an object beLow him; whether it so happens that it be a natural
or an artificial fool. It is indeed very possible, that
the persons we laugh at may in the main of their
characters be much wiser men than ourselves; but if
they would have us laugh at them, they must fall
short of us in those respects which stir up this passion.
I am afraid I shall appear too abstracted in my speculations, if I show, that when a man of wit makes
us laugh, it is by betraying some oddness or infirmnity
in his own character, or in the representation which
he makes of others; and that when we laugh at a
brute, or even at an inanimate thing, it is at some action or incident that bears a remote analogy to any
blunder or absurdity in reasonable creatures.
But to come into common life: I shall pass by the
consideration of those stage coxcombs that are able to
shake a whole audience, and take notice of a particular sort of men who are such provokers of mirth in
conversation, that it is impossible for a club or merry
meeting to subsist without them: I mean those honest
gentlemen that are always exposed to the wit and
raillery of their well-wishers and companions; that are
pelted by men, women, and children, friends and fois,
and, in a word, stand as butts in conversation, for
every one to shoot at that pleases. I know several of
these butts who are men of wit and sense, though by
some odd turn of humour, some unlucky cast in their
person or behaviour, they have always the misfortune
to make the company merry. The truth of it is. a
man is not qualified for a butt, who has not a good
deal of wit and vivacity, even in the ridiculous side of
nis character. A stupid butt is only fit for the conver



56'PARADISE OF
sation of ordinary people: men of wit require one
that will give them play, and bestir himself in the
absurd part of his behaviour. A butt with these accomplishments, frequently gets the laugh of his side,
and turns the ridicule upon him that attacks him.
Sir John Falstaff was an hero of this species, and
gives a good description of himself in his capacity ot
a butt, after the following manner: "Men of all sorts
(says that merry Knight) take a pride to gird at me.
The brain of any man is not able to invent any thing
that tends to laughter more than I invent, or is invented on me. I am not only witty in myself. but the cause
that wit is in other m,-                  C.
ThIE PARADISE OF THE AMERICAN
INDIANS.
Felices errore #uo —
LUCAN i. 454.'H appy in their mistake."
THE Americans believe that all creatures have
souls, not only men and women, but brutes, vegetables, nay even the most inanimate things, as stocks
and stones. They believe the same of all the works
of art, as of knives, boats, looking-glasses; and
that as any of these things perish, their souls go
into another world, which is inhabited by the ghosts
of men and women. For this reason they always
place by the corpse of their dead friend a bow and
arrows, that he may make use of the souls of them
in the other world, as he did of their wooden bodies
in this. flow absurd soever such an opinion as
this may appear, our European philosophers have
maintained several notions altogether as improbable.
Somv' of Plato's followers in particular, when they
talk 2? the world of ideas, entertain us with substances and beings no less extravagant and chimera



THE AMERICAN INDIANS.           51
cal. Many Aristotelians have likewise spoken as
unintelligibly for their substantial forms. 1 shall
only instance Albertus Magnus, who, in his Dissertation upon the Loadstone, observing, that fire will
destroy its magnetic virtues, tells us that he took
particular notice of one as it lay glowing amidst
an heap of burning coals, and that he perceived a
certain blue vapour to arise from it, which he believed might be the substantial form, that is, in our
West-Indian phrase, the soul of the loadstone.
There is a tradition among the Americans, that
one of their countrymen descended in a vision to
the great repository of souls, or, as we call it here,
to the other world; and that upon his return he
gave his friends a distinct account of every thing
he saw among those regions of the dead. A friend
of mine, whom I have formerly mentioned, prevailed upon one of the interpreters of the Indian
kings,* to inquire of them, if possible, what tradition they have among them of this matter; which,
as well as he could learn by those many questions
which he asked them at several times, was in substance as follows:
The visionary, whose name was Marraton, after
having travelled for a long space under a hallow
mountain, arrived at length on O'e confines of this
world of spirits, but could not kater it by reason
of a thick forest made up of bushes, brambles, and
pointed thorns, so perplexed and interwoven with
one another, that it was impossible to find a passage
through it. Whilst he was looking about for some
track or pathway that might be worn in any part
of it, he saw a huge lion couched under the side
of it, who kept his eye upon him in the same posture as when he watches for.is prey. The Indian
immediately started back, whieSt the lion rose with
a spring, and leaped towards him. Being wholly'
destitute of all other weapons, he stooped down to
* It is mentioned in No. 50 of the Spectator, that four
Indian kings visited England in March, 1709.
30




68         THE AMERICAN INDIANS.
take up an huge stone in his hand; but to his imfinite surprise grasped nothing, and found the supposed stone to be only the apparition of one. If he
was disappointed on this side, he was as much
pleased on the other, when he found the lion, which
had siezed or, his left shoulder, had no power to hurt
him, and was only the ghost of that ravenous creature which it appeared to be. He no sooner got rid
of his impotent enemy, but he marched up to the
wood, and after having surveyed it for some time,
endeavoured to press into one part of it that was a
little thinner than the rest; when again, to his great
surprise, he found the bushes made no resistance,
but that he walked through briers and brambles
with the same ease as through the open air; and in
short, that the whole wood was nothing else but a
wood of shades. He immediately concluded, that
this huge thicket of thorns and brakes was designed as a kind of fence or quick-set hedge to the
ghosts it enclosed; and that probably their soft substances might be torn by these subtle points and
prickles, which were too weak to make any impressions in flesh and blood. With this thought he
resolved to travel through this intricate wood; when
by degrees he felt a gale of perfumes breathing
upon him, that grew stronger and sweeter in proportion as he advanced. He had not proceeded
much further, when he observed the thorns and
briers to end, and give place to a thousand beautifiul
green trees covered with blossoms of the finest
scents and colours, that formed a wilderness of
sweets, and were a kind of lining to those rugged
scenes which he before passed through. As he was
comning out of this delightfil part of the wood, and
entering upon the plains it enclosed, he saw several
horsemen rushing by him, and a little while after
heard the cry of a pack of dogs. He had not listened long before he saw t'he apparition of a milkwhite steed, with a young man on the back of It,
advancing upon full stretch after the souls of about
an hundred beagles, that were hunting down the




PARADISE OF              59
ghost of an hare which ran away before them
with an unspeakable swiftness. As the man on the
milk-white steed came by him, he looked upon him
very attentively, and found him to be the young
Prince Nicharagua, who died about half a year
before, and by reason of his great virtues, was at
that time lamented over all the western parts of
America.
He had no sooner got out of the wood, but he
was entertained with such a landscape of flowery
plains, green meadows, running streams, sunny
hills, and shady vales, as were not to be represent
ed by his own expressions, nor, as he said, by the
conceptions of others. This happy region was
peopled with innumerable swarms of spirits, who
applied themselves to exercises and diversions,
according as their fancies led them. Some of them
were tossing the figure of a coit; others were pitching the shadow of1 a bar; others were breaking the
apparition of a horse; and multitudes employing
themselves upon ingenious handicrafts with the
souls of departed utensils, for that is the name which
in the Indian language they give their tools when
they are burnt or broken. As he travelled through
this delightful scene, he was very often tempted to
pluck the flowers that rose every where about him
in the greatest variety and profusion, having never
seen several of them in his own country: but he
quickly found, that though they were objects of his
sight, they were not liable to his touch. He at
length came to the side of a great river, and
being a good fisherman himself, stood upon the
banks of it some time to look upon an angler that
had taken a great many shapes of fishes, which lay
flouncing up and down by him.
I should have told my reader, that this Indian had
been formerly married to one of the greatest beauties of his country, by whom he had several children. This couple were so famous for their love
and constancy to one another, that the Indians to
this day, when they give a married mal joy of his




O0          THE AMERICAN INDIANS.
wife, wish they may live together like Marraton and
Yaratilda. Marraton had not stood long by the fisherman, when he saw the shadow of his beloved Yaratilda, who had for some time fixed her eye upor
him, before he discovered her. Her arms were stretch
ed out toward him, floods of tears ran down her eyes,
her'looks, her hands, her voice called him over to her;
and at the same time seemed to tell him that the river
was unpassable. Who can describe the passion made
up of joy, sorrow, love, desire, astonishment, that rose
in the Indian upon the sight of his dear Yaratilda 1
He could express it by nothing but his tears, which
ran like a river down his cheeks as he looked upon
her. He had not stood in this posture long, before
he plunged into the stream that lay before him; and
finding it to be nothing but the phantom of a river,
stalked on the bottom of it till he arose on the other
side. At his approach Yaratilda flew into his arms,
whilst Marraton wished himself disencumbered of
that body which kept her from his embraces. After
many questions and endearments on both sides, she
conducted him to a bower which she had dressed
with all the ornaments that could be met with in those
blooming regions. She had made it gay beyond imagination, and was every day adding something new
to it.
As  Marraton stood astonished at the unspeakable
beauty of her habitation, and ravished with the fragrancy that came from every part of it, Yaratilda
told him that she was preparing this bower for his
reception, as well-knowing that his piety to his God,
and his faithful dealing toward men, would certainly bring him to that happy place, whenever his
life should be at an end. She then brought two of
her children to him, who died some years before,
and resided with her in the same delightful bower;
advising him to breed up those others which were
still with him in such a manner, that they might
hereafter all of them meet together in this happy
place.
The tradition tells us further that he had after



NATURAL LOVE OF BRUTES FOR THEIR YOUNG. 61
wards a sight of those dismal habitations which are
the portion of ill men after death; and mentions
several molten seas of gold, in which were plunged
the souls of barbarous Europeans, who put to the
sword so many thousands of poor Indians for the
sake of that precious metal.             C.
NATURAL LOVE OF BRUTES FOR THEIR
YOUNG, &c.
-Equidem credo, quia sit divinitus illis
Ingentum     --
VIRG. Georg. i. 451.
- — "I deem their breasts insplr'd
With a divine sagacity."'
MY friend Sir Roger is very often merry with me
upon my passing so much of my time among his poultry. He has caught me twice or thrice looking after
a bird's nest, and several times sitting an hour or two
together near a hen and chickens. He tells me he
believes I am personally acquainted with every fowl
about his house: calls such a particular cock my favourite;' and frequently complains that his ducks and
geese have more of my company than himself.
I must confess I am infinitely delighted with those
speculations of nature which are to be made in a
country life; and as my reading has very much lain
among books of natural history, I cannot forbear
reccollecting upon this occasion the several remarks
which I have met with in authors, and comparing
them with what falls under my own observation
the arguments for Providence drawn from the natural history of animals being in my opinion dmonstrative.
The make of every kind of animal is different
from that of every other kind; and yet there is not
the least turn in the muscles or twist in the fibres
4




82        SNATUNAL LOVE OF BRUTES
of any one, which does not render them more prO
per for that particular animal's way of life than any
other cast or texture of them would have been.
The most violent appetites in all creatures are lust
and hunger. The first is a perpetual call upon them
to propagate their kind; the latter to preserve themselves.
It;s astonishing to consider the different degrees
of care that descend from the parent to the young,
so far as is absolutely necessary for the leaving a
posterity. Some creatures cast their eggs as chance
directs them, and think of them no further: as insects and several kinds of fish. Others, of a nicer
frame, find out proper beds to deposit them in, and
there leave them: as the serpent, the crocodile, and
ostrich: others hatch their eggs, and tend the birth
until it is able to shift for itselft
What can we call the principle which directs
every different kind of bird to observe a particular
plan in the structure of its nest, and directs all the
same species to work after the same model?  It
cannot be imitation; for though you hatch a crow
under a hen, and never let it see any of the works
of its own kind, the nest it makes shall be the same,
to the laying of a stick, with all the other nests of
the same species. It cannot be reason; for were
animals endued with it to as great a degree as man,
their buildings would be as different as ours, according to the different'conveniences that they would
propose to themselves.
Is it not remarkable, that the same temper of
weather, which raises this genial warmth in animals, should cover the trees with leaves, and the
fields with grass, for their security and concealment,
and produce such infinite swarms of insects for the
support and sustenance of their respective broods 1
Is it not wonderful, that the love of the parent
should be so violent while it lasts, and that it should
last no longer than is necessary for the preservation
of the young 7
The violence of this natural love is exemplified




FOR THEIR YOUNG, &C.             63
oy a very barbarous experiment; which I shal
quote at length, as I find it in an excellent author,
an  hope my readers will pardon the mentioning
su -h an instance of cruelty, because there is nothing
can so effectually show the strength of that princlple in animals of which I am here speaking. "A
person who was well skilled in dissections opened
a bitch, and as she lay in the most exquisite tortures, offered her one of her young puppies, which
she immediately fell a licking; and for the time
seemed insensible of her own pain. On the removal,
she kept her eye fixed on it, and began a wailing
sort of cry, which seemed rather to proceed from
the loss of her young one, than the sense of her
own torments."
But notwithstanding this natural love in brutes
is much more violent and intense than in rational
creatures, Providence has taken care that it should
be no longer troublesome to the parent than it is
useful'to the young; for so soon as the wants of
the latter cease, the mother withdraws her fondness, and leaves them to provide for themselves;
and what is a very remarkable circumstance in this
part of instinct, we find that the love of the parent
may be lengthened out beyond its usual time, if the
preservation of the species requires it: as we may
see in birds that drive away their young as soon as
they are able to get their livelihood, but continue to
feed them if they are tied to the nest, or confined within
a cage, or by any other means appear to be out of a
condition of supplying their own necesslties.
This natural love is not observed in animals to ascend from the young to the parent, which is not at all
necessary for the continuance of the species: nor indeed
in reasonable creatures does it rise in any proportion,
as it spreads itself downwards; for in all family
affection, we find protection granted and favours bestowed, are greater motives to love and tendernees,
than safety, benefits, or life received.
One would wonder to hear sceptical men disputing
for the reason of animals, and telling us it is only out




64         NATURAL LOVE OF SBRUTES
pride and prejudices that will not allow them the use
of that faculty.
Reason shows itself in all occurrences of life;
whereas the brute makes no discovery of such a talent, but in what immediately regards his own preservation, or the continuance of his species. Animals in
their generation are wiser than the sons of men; but
their wisdom is confined to a few particulars, and lies
in a very narrow compass. Take a brute out of his
instinct, and you find him wholly deprived of understanding. To use an instance that comes often undei
observation:
With what caution does the hen provide herself a
nest in places unfrequented, and free from noise and
disturbance! When she has laid her eggs in such a
manner that she can cover them, what care does she
take in turninrg them frequently, that all parts may
partake of the vital warmth! LWhen she leaves them,
to provide for her necessary sustenance, how punctu
ally does she return before they have time to cool, and
become incapable of producing an animal! In the
summer you see her giving herself greater freedoms,
and quitting her care for above two hours together;
but in winter, when the rigour of the season would
chill the principles of life, and destroy the young one,
she grows more assiduous in her attendance, and stays
away but half the time. When the birth approaches,
*with how much nicety and attention does she help the
chick to break its prison! not to take notice of her
covering it from the injuries of the weather, providing
it proper nourishment, and teaching it to help itself;
nor to mention her forsaking the nest, if, after the
usual time of reckoning, the young one does not make
its appearance. A chymical operation could not be
followed with greater art or diligence than is seen in
the hatching of a chick; though there are many other
birds that show an infinitely greater sagacity in all
the forementioned particulars.
But at the same time the hen, that has all this seeming ingenuity (which is indeed absolutely necessary
for the propagation of the species) considered in other




FOR THEIR YOUNG, b&C.           66
respects, is without the least glimmerings of thought
or common sense. She mistakes a piece of chalk for
an egg, and sits upon it in the same manner. She is
insensible of any increase or diminution m the number
of those she lays. She does not distinguish between
her own and those of another species; and when the.birth appears of ever so different a bird, will cherish it
for her own. In all these circumstances which do not
carry an immediate regard to the subsistence of her
self or her species, she is a very idiot.
There is not, in my opinion, any thing more mysterious in nature than this instinct in animals, which
thus rises above reason, and falls infinitely short of
it. It cannot be accounted for by any properties in
matter, and at the same time works after so odd a
manner, that one cannot think it the faculty of an intellectual being. For my own part, I look upon the
principle of gravitation in bodies, which is not to be
explained by any known qualities inherent in the bodies themselves, nor from any laws of mechanism,'but,
according to the best notions of the greatest philosophers, is an immediate impression from the First Mover, and the divine energy acting in the creatures.
+    *    *    *
As 1 was walking this morning in the great yard
that belongs to my friend's country-house, I was wonderfully pleased to see the different. workings of instinct in a hen followed by a brood of ducks. The
young, upon the sight of a pond, immediately ran into
it: while the step-mother, with all imaginable anxiety, hovered about the borders of it, to call them out
of an element that appeared to her so dangerous and
destructive. As the different principle which acted in
these different animals canncS be termed reason, so
when we call it instinct, we mean something we have
no knowledge of. To me, as I have hinted, it seems the
immediate direction of Providence, and such an operation of the Supreme Being, as that which determines
all the portions of matter to their proper centres.  A'VOL. I.-5




66         NATURAL LOVE OF BROTIS
modern philosopher, quoted by Monstlir Bayle in his
learned dissertation on the Souls of Brutes, delivers the
same opinion, though in a bolder form of words, where
he says Deus cst anima brutorum, " God himself is
the soul of brutes." Who can tell what to call that
seeming sagacity in animals, which directs them to
such food as is proper for them, and makes them, naturally avoid whatever is noxious or unwholesome 
Tully has observed, that a lamb no sooner falls from
its mother, but immediately and of its own accord it
applies itself to the teat. Dampier, in his travels, tells
us, that when seamen are thrown upon any of the unknown coasts of America, they never venture upon
the fruit of any tree, how tempting soever it may appear, unless they observe that it is marked with the
pecking of birds; but fall on without any fear or apprehension where the birds have been before them.
But notwithstanding animals hat nothing like the
use of reason, we find in them all the lower parts of
our nature, the passions and senses in their greatest
strength and perfection. And here it is worth our observation, that all beasts and birds of prey are wonderfully subject to anger, malice, revenge, and all the
other violent passions that may animate them in search
of their proper food; as those that are incapable of defending themselves, or annoying others, or whose safety lies chiefly in their flight, are suspicious, fearful,
and apprehensive of every thing they see or hear;
whilst others, that are of assistance and use to man,
have their natures softened with something mild and
tractable, and by that means are qualified for a domestic life. In this case the passions generally correspond with the make of the body. We do not find
the fury of a lion in so weak and defenceless an animal as a lamb, nor the meekness of a lamb in a creature so armed for battle and assault as the lion. In
the same manner, we find that particular animals have
a more or less exquisite sharpness and sagacity in
those particular senses which most turn to their advantage, and in which their safety and welfare is the
most concerned.




FOR THEIR Y'3UR   &C.            67
Nor must we here omit that great variety of arms
with which nature has differently fortified the bodies
of se eral kind of animals, such as claws, hoofs, horns,
teeth, and tusks, a tail, a sting, a trunk, or a proboscis. It is likewise observed by naturalists, that it must
be some hidden principle distinct from what we call
reason, which instructs animals in the use of these
their arms, and teaches them to manage them to the
best advantage; because they naturally defend themselves with that part in which their strength lies, before the weapon be formed in it; as is remarkable in
lambs, which, though they are bred within doors, and
never saw the actions of their own species, push at
those who approach them with their forehead, before
the first budding of a horn appears.
I shall add to these general observations an instance
which Mr. Locke has given us of Providence even iL.
the imperfections of a creature which seems the meanest and most despicable in the whole animal world.
"We may," says he, " from the make of an oyster,
or cockle, conclude, that it has not so many nor so
quick senses as a man, or several other animals: nor
if it had, would it, in that state and incapacity of transferring- itself from one place to another, be bettered by
them. What good would sight or hearing do to a
creature, that cannot move itself to or from the object,
wherein at a distance it perceives good or evil q And
would not quickness of sensation be an inconvenience
to an animal that must be still where chance has once
placed it, and there receive the afflux of colder or warmer, clean or foul water, as.: happens to come to it."
I shall add to this instance out of Mr. Locke another
out of the learned Dr. More, who cites it from Cardan,
in relation to another animal which Providence has
left defective but at the same time has shown its wisdom in the formation of that organ in which it seems
chiefly to have failed. " What is more obvious and ordinary than a mole? and yet what more palpable argument of Providence than she? The members of her
body are so exactly fitted to her nature and manner of
ife: for her dwelling being under ground where no



09B       NATURAL LOVE OF BRUTES
thing is to be seen, nature has so obscurely fitted her
with eyes, that naturalists can scarce agree whether,
she have any sight at all, or no. But for aimends, what
she is capable of for her defence and warning of danger, she has very eminently conferred upon her; for
she is exceeding quick of hearing. And then her short
tail and short legs, but broad fore-feet armed with sharp
claws; we see by the event to what purpose they are,
she so swiftly working herself under ground, and mamaking her way so fast in the earth as they that behold it cannot but admire it. Herlegs therefore are short
that she need dig no more than will serve the mere
thiclmessofherbody; and her fore-feet are broad, that
she may scoop away much earth at a time; and little
or no tail she has, because she courses it not on the
ground, like the rat or mouse, of whose kindred she
is; but lives under the earth, and is fain to dig herself
a dwelling there. And she making her way through
so thick an element, which will not yield easily, as
the air or the water, it had been dangerous to have
irawn so long a train behind her; for her enemy
might fall upon her rear, and fetch her out, before she
had completed or got full possession of her works."
I cannot forbear mentioning Mr. Boyle's remark
upon this last creature, whom I remember somewhere in his works observes, that though the mole
be not totally blind (as it is commonly thought) she
has not sight enough to distinguish particular objects. Her eye is said to have but one humour in
it, which is supposed to give her the idea of light,
but of nothing else, and is so formed that this idea
is probably painful to the animal. Whenever she
comes up into broad day she might be in danger of
being taken, unless she were thus affected by a
light striking upon her eye, and immediately warning her to bury herself in her proper element. More
sight would be useless to her, as none at all might
be fatal.
I have only instanced such animals as seem the
most imperfect works of nature; and if Providence
shows itself even in the blemishes of these crea.




TRUE AND FALSE HUMOUR,            69
tures, how much more does it discover itself in.the
several endowments which it has variously bestowed
upon such creatures as are more or less finished
and completed in their several faculties, according
to the condition of life in which they are posted I
TRUE AMND FALSE HUMOUR.
Risu inepto res ineptior nulla est.
" Nothing so foolish as the laugh of fools."
AMONG all kinds of writing, there is none in
which authors are more apt to miscarry than in
works of humour, as there is none in which they are
more ambitious to excel. It is not an imagination
that teems with monsters, a head that is filled with
extravagant conceptions, which is capable of furnishing the world with diversions of this nature; and yet,
if we look into the productions of several writers, who
set up for men of humour, what wild irregular fancies, what unnatural distortions of thought do we
meet with? If they speak nonsense, they believe
they are talking humour; and when they have drawn
together a scheme of absurd, inconsistent ideas, they
are not able to read it over to themselves without
laughing. These poor gentlemen endeavour to gain
themselves the reputation of wits and humorists, by
such monstrous conceits as almost qualify them for
Bedlam; not considering that humour should always
lie under the check of reason, and that it requires
the direction of the nicest judgment, by so much the
more as it indulges itself in the most boundless freedoms. There is a kind of nature that is to be observed
in this sort of compositions, as well as in all other;
and a certain regularity of thought which must discover the writer to be a man of sense, at the same
time that he appears altogether given up to caprice.
For my part, when I read7 the delirious mirth of an
uinsilful author, I cannot be so bai barous as to diver.




oQ        TRUE AND FALSE HUMOUR.
myself a".th it, but am rather apt to pity the man,
than la.ugl at any thing he wr tes.
The deceased Mr. Shadwell, who had himself a
great deal of the talent which I am treatkg of; represents an empty rake, in one of his plays, as very
much surprised to hear one say that breaking of windows was not humour; and I question not but several
English readers will be as much startled to hear me
affirm, that many of those raving incoherent pieces,
which are often spread among us, under odd chimerical titles, are rather the offsprings of a distempered
brain than works of humour.
It is indeed much easier to describe;what is not
humour, than what is; and very difficult to define it
otherwise, than as Cowley has done wit, by negatives.
Were I to give my own notions of it, I would deliver
them after Plato's manner, in a kind of allegory, and
by supposing Hunmour to be a person, deduce to him
all his qualifications, according to the following genealogy. Truth was the founder of the family, and the
father of Good Sense. Good Sense was the father of
Wit, who married a lady of collateral line called Mirth,
by whom he had issue Humour. Humour therefore
being the youngest of this illustrious family, and descended from parents of such different dispositions, is
very various and unequal in his temper; sometimes
you see him putting on grave looks and a solemn habit,
sometimes airy inhis behaviour and fantastic in his
dress: insomuch that at different times he appears as
serious as a judge and as jocular as a Merry Andrew.
But as he has a great deal of the mother in his constitution, whatever mood he is in, he never fails to make
his company laugh.
But since there is an impostor abroad, who takes
upon him the name of this young gentleman, and
would willingly pass for him in the world; to the end
that well-meaning persons may not be imposed upon
by cheats, 1 would desire my readers, when they meet
with this pretender, to look into his parentage, and to
examine him strictly, whether or no he be remotely allied to Truth, and lineally descended from Good Sense




TRUE AND FALSE qIUMOUR.           71
if not, they may conclude him a counterfeit. They
may likewise distinguish by a loud and excessive
lauahter, in which he seldom gets his company to join
witR him. For as True Humour generally looks serious, while every body laughs about him; False Humour is always laughing whilst every body about hitm
looks serious. I shall only add, if he has not hi nilm
a mixture of both parents, that is, if he would pass for
the offspring of Wit without Mirth, or Mirth without
Wit, you may conclude him to be altogether spurious
and a cheat.
The impostor of whom I am speaking, descends originally from Falsehood, who was the mother of Nonsense, who was brought to bed of a son called Frenzy,
who married one of the daughters of Folly, commonly
kcnown by the name of Laughter, on whom lie begot
that monstrous infant of which I have been here speaking. I shall set down at length the genealogical table
of False Humour, and, at the same time, place under
it the genealogy of True Humour, that the reader may
at one view behold their different pedigrees and ret Jations.
Falsehood.
Nonsense.
Frenzy.     Laughter.
False Humour.
Truth.
Good Sense.
Wit.    Mfirth.
Humour.
I might extend the allegory, by mentioning several
of the children of False Humour, who are more in
number than the sands of the sea, and amight in particular enumerate the m any sons and daughteriewhich
he has begot in this island. But as this would be a
very invidious task, I shall only observe in general4
that False Hurour differs from the True as a monkey does from a man.




72        TRUE AND FALS RI HUMI.
First of all, He is exceedingly given to little apib
tricks and buffooneries,
Secondly, He so much delights in mimickry, that
it is all one to him whetner he exposes by it vice ant
folly, luxury and avarice: or, on the contrary, virtue
and wisdom, pain and poverty.
Thirdly, He is wonderfully unlucky, insomuch that
he will bite the hand that feeds him, and endeavour
to ridicule both friends and foes indifferently. For,
having but small talents, he must be merry where he
can, not where he should.
Fourthly, Being entirely void of reason, he pureues no point either of morality or instruction, but is
ludicrous only for the sake of being so.
Fifthly, Being incapable of having any thing but
mock representations, his ridicule is always personal,
and aimed at the vicious man, or the wrrter; not at
the vice, or at the writing.
I have here only pointed at the whole species ot
False Humorists, but as one of my principal designs
in this paper is to beat down that malignant spirit
which discovers itself in the writings of the presen
age, I shall not scruple, for the future, to single out
any of the small wits that infest the world with such
compositions as are ill;natured, immoral, and absurd.
This is the only exception which I shall make to the
general rule I have prescribed myself, of attacking
multitudes, since every honest man ought to look upon
himself as in a natural state of war with the libeller
and lampooner, and to annoy them wherever they f11
in his way. This is but retaliating upon them, and
Ieating them as t.ey treat others.
tl.




TRUE CHARMS OF A WOMAN.             7i
LAETITIA AND DAPHNE,
OR,'-E TRUE CHARMS OF A W6MAN.
Fervidus tecum puer, et -solutis
Gratiae zonis, properentqjue nymnph,
Et parum comis sine te uventas,
Mercuriusque.          HOR. 1. Od. xxx.
"The Graces with their zones unloos'd;
The nymphs their beauties all expos'd;
From every spring, and every plain;
Thy pow'rful, hot, and winged Boy;
And Youth, that's dull without thy joy;
And MIercory compose thy train.
CREECH
A FRIEND of mine has two daughters, whom I wir.
call Latitia and Daphne; the former is one of the
greatest beauties of the age in which she lives, tile
latterno way remarkable for any charms in her person.
Upon this one circumstance of their outward form, the
good and ill of their lives seem to turn. Lsetitia has
nlot, from her very childhood, heard any thing else but
commendations of her features and complexion, by
which means she is no other than nature made her, a
very beautiful outside.  The consciousness of her
charms has rendered her insupportably vain and insolent towards all who have to do with her. Daphne,
who was almost twenty before one civil thing had
ever been said to her, found herself obliged to acquire
some accomplishments to make up for the want of those
attractions which she saw in her sister. Poor Daphne
was seldom submitted to in a debate wherein she was
concerned; her discourse had nothing to recommend
it but the good sense of it, and she was always under
a necessity to have very well considered what she was
to say before she uttered it; while Latitia was listen.
ed to with partiality, and approbation sat in the courtenances of those she conversed with, before she conw




t4        TRUE CHARMS OF A WOMA#.'
municated what she had to say. These causes have
produced suitable effects, and Laetitia is as insipid a
companion, as Daphne is an agreeable one. Lmetitia,
confident of favour, has studied no arts to please:
Daphne, despairing of any inclination towards her person, has depended only on her merit. Laetitia has
always something in her air that is sullen, grave, and
disconsolate. Daphne has a countenance that appears
cheerful, open, and unconcerned. A young gentleman
saw Lwetitia this winter at a play, and became her captive. His fortune was such, that he wanted very little
introduction to speak his sentiments to her father. The
lover was admitted with the utmost freedom into the
family, where a constrained oehaviour, severe looks,
and distant civilities, were the highest favours he could
obtain of Laetitia; while Daphne used him with the
good humour, familiarity, and innocence of a sister:
-insomuch that he would often say to her, "Dear
Daphne, wert thou but as handsome as Laetitt."  She
received such language with that ingenuous and p.easing mirth, which is natural to a woman withou design. He still sighed in vain for Laetita, but found
certain relief in the agreeable conversation Of Dapnne.
At length, heartily tired with the haugnty Impertinence
of Laetitia, and'charmed with the repeated instances
of good humour he had observed in Daphne, he one day
told the latter, that he had something to say to her he
hoped she would be pleased with —"Faith, Daphne,"
continued he, "I am in love with thee, and despise thy
sister sincerely." The manner of his declaring himself
gave his mistress occasion for a very hearty faughter.
-"Nay," says he, "I knew you would laugh at me,
but I will ask your father." He did so; the father receiled his intelligence with no less joy than surprise,
and was very glad he had now no care left but for his
beauty, which he thought he could carry to market at
his leisure. I do not know any thing that has pleased
me so much a great while, as this conquest of my
friend Daphne's. All her acquaintance congratulated
her upon her chance-nledley, and laugh at that premeditating murderer h:r sister. As it is an argument




TRUE CHARMS OF A WOMAN.            7 
of a light mind, to think the worse of ourselves for the
unperfections of our persons, it is equally below us to
value ourselves upon the advantages of them. The
female world seem to be almost incorrigibly gone astray in this particular; for which reason] shall recommend the following extract out of a friend's letter,* to
the professed beauties, who are a people almost as unsufferable as the professed wits.'Monsieur St. Evremond has concluded one of his
Essays with affirming, that the last sighs of a handsome woman are not so much for the Toss of her life,
as of her beauty. Perhaps this raillery is pursued too
far, yet it is turned upon a very obvious remark, that
woman's strongest passion is for her own beauty, and
that she values it as her favourite distinction. From
hence it is that all arts, which pretend to improve it
or preserve it, meet with so general a reception among
the sex. To say nothing of many false helps and
contraband wares of beauty, which are daily vended
in this great mart, there is not a maiden gentlewoman
of a good family, in any county of South Britain,
who has not heard of the virtues of May-dew, or isunfurnished with some receipt or other in favour of
her complexion; and I have known a physician of
learning and sense, after eight years study in the university, and a course of travels into most countries of
Europe, owe the first raising of his fortunes to a
cosmetic wash.'This has given mE occasion to consider how so
universal a disposition in womankind, which springs
from a laudable motive, the desire of pleasing, and
proceeds upon an opinion, not altogether groundless,
that nature may be helped by art, may be turned to
their advantage. And, methinks, it would be an acceptable service to take them out of the hands of
quacks and pretenders, and to prevent their imposing
upon themselves, by discovering to them the true secret and art of improving beauty.'In order to this, before I touch upon it directly, it
~ Mr. John Hughes.




76        TRUE CHARXE OF A WOMAN.
will be necessary to lay down a few preliminary
maxims, viz.'That no woman can be handsome by the force of
features alone, any more than she can be witty only
by the help of speech:'That pride destroys all symmetry and grace, and
affectation is a more terrible enemy to fine laces than
the small-pox:'That no woman is capable of being beautiful, who
is not incapable of being false'And, That what wourld be odious in a friend, is
deformity in a mistress.' From these few principles, thus laid down, it will
be easy to prove, that the true art of assisting beauty
consists in embellishing the whole person by the proper ornaments of virtuous and commendable qualities.
By this help alone it is, that those who are the favourite work of nature, or, as Mr. Dryden expresses
it, the porcelain clay of humanklind, become animated,
and are in a capacity of exerting their charms: and
those who seem to have been neglected by her, like
models wrought in haste, are capable in a great measure of finishing what she has left imperfect.'It is, methinks, a low and degrading idea of that
sex, which was created to refine the joys, and soften
the cares of humanity, by the most agreeable participation, to consider them merely as objects of sightThis is abridging them of their natural extent of power, to put them  upon a level4with their picture at
Kneller's. How much nobler is the contemplation
beauty, heightened by virtue, and commanding oufr
esteem and love, while it draws our observation!
How faint and spiritless are the charms of a coquette,
when compared with the real loveliness of Sophronia's
innocence, piety, g.-ood-humour, and truth: virtues
which add a new softness to her sex, and even beautify her beauty! That agreeableness, which must
otherwise have appeared no longer in the modest
virgin, is now preserved in the tender mother, the
prudent friend, and the faithful wife. Colours artfullly'spread upon canvass may entertain the eye, but not




LUXURY AND AVARICE.             71
affeetthe heart; and she who takes no care to add to
the r'tural graces of her person any excelling quali
ties, piay be allowed still to amuse, as a picture; but
not to triumph, as a beauty.'When Adam is introduced by Milton, describing
Eve in Paradise, and relating to the angel the impressions he felt upon seeing her at her first creation, he
does not represent her like a Grecian Venus, by her
shape or features; but by the lustre of her mind,
which shone in them, and gave them their power of
charming.
" Grace was in all her steps, Ileav'n in her eye,
In all her gestures, dignity and love!"
Without this irradiating power, the proudest fair
one ought to know, whatever her glass may tell her
to the contrary, that her most perfect features are uninformed and dead.'I cannot better close this moral, than by a short
epitaph written by Ben Jonson, with a spirit which
nothing could inspire but such an object as I have
been describing:
"Underneath this stone doth lie
As much virtue as could die;
Which when alive did vigour give
To as much beauty as could live."'
R.
LUXURY AND AVARICE.
Julus et in jeure agro
Naascuntur domini —
PERSIUS.
"Our passions play'he tyrants in our breast'.
MOST of the trades, professions, and ways ot ivmg
among mankind, take their original from the love o!
pleasure, or the fear of want. The former, when it
becomes too violent, degenerates into luxury, and the
latter into avarice, as these two principles of action
4*




78;          LUXURY AND AVARICe.
draw different ways.-Persius has given us a very
humorous account of a young fellow who was roused
out of his bed, in order to be sent upon a long voyage
by Avarice, and afterward over persuaded and kept.
at home by Luxury I I shall set down at length the
pleadings of these two imaginary persons as they are
in Mr. Dryden's translation of them.
"1 Whether alone, or in thy harlot's lap,
When thou would'st take a lazy morning's nap;
lip, up, says Avarice; thou snor'st again,
Strctchest thy limbs, and yawnast, but all in vain.
The rugged tyrant no denial takes;
At his command th' unwilling sluggard wakes.
What must I do? he cries; What! says his lord;
Why rise, make ready, and go straight aboard:
With fish, from Euxine seas, thy vessel freight;
Flax, castor, Coan wines, the precious weight
Of pepper, and Sabean incense, take
With thy own hands, from the tir'd camel's back,
And with post-haste thy running markets make.
Be sure to turn the penny; lie and swear,'Tis wholesome sin: but Jove, thou says't, will hear.
Swear, fool, or starve; for the dilemma's even;
A tradesman thou! and hope to go to heav'n?
" Resolv'd -for sea, the slaves thy baggage pack,
Each saddled with his burden on his back:
Nothing retards thy voyage now, but he,
That soft voluptuous prince, called Luxury;
And lie may ask this civil question: Friend,
What dost thou make a shipboard. To what end?
Art thou of Bethlehem's noble college free?
Stark, staring mad, that thou would'st tempt the sea t
Cubb'd in a cabin, on a mattress laid,
On a brown George, with lousy swobbers fed;
Dead wine that stinks of the Borachio, sup
From a foul jack, or greasy maple cup?
Say, would'st thou bear all this, to raise thy storiu
From six i' th' hundred to six hundred more?
Indulge, and to thy genius freely give;
For not to live at ease, is not to live.
Death stalks behind thee, and each flying hour
Does some loose remnant of thy life devour.
Live, while thou liv'st; for death will make us all
A name, a nothing but an old wife's tale.
Speak: wilt thou Avarice or Pleasure choose
R be thy lord' Take one, and one refuse."




LUXURY AND AVARICE.              79, When a government flourishes in zonq;.ests, w*
is secure from foreign attacks, it naturally falls into
all the pleasures of Luxury; and as these pleasures
are very expensive, they put those who are addicted
to them upon raising fresh supplies of money, by all
the methods of rapaciousness and corruption; so that
Avarice and Luxury very often become one compli
cated principle of action, in those whose hearts are
wholly set upon ease, magnificence, and pleasure.
The most elegant and correct of all the Latin historians observes, that in his time, when the most formidable states of the world were subdued by the Romans,
the republic sunk into those two vices of a quite different nature, Luxury and Avarice:* and accordingly
describes Catiline as one who coveted the wealth of
other men, at the same time that he squandered away
his own. This observation on the commonwealth,
when it was in its height of power and riches, holds
good of all governments that are settled ina state of
ease and prosperity. At such times men naturally endeavour to outshine one another in pomp and splendour, and having no fears to alarm them from abroad,
indulge themselves in the enjoyment of all the pleasures they can get into their possession: which naturally produces Avarice, and an immoderate pursuit
after wealth and riches.
As I was humouring myself in the speculaticn of
these two great principles of action, I could not forbear throwing my thoughts into a little kind of allegory or fable, with which I shall here present my
reader.
There were two very powerful tyrants engaged It
a perpetual war against each other, the name of the
first was Luxury, and of the second Avarice. The
aim of each of them was no less than universal monarchy over the hearts of mankind. Luxury had many
gnerals under him, who did him great service, as
Pleasure, Mirth, Pomp, and Fashion. Avarice was
Alieni appetens, sui profusus.
iALL




980         LVXURY a15t AVAICSW.
likewise very strong in his officers, being faithf'lly
served by Hunger, Industry, Care, and Watchftlness: he had likewise a privy-counsellor, who was
always at his elbow, and -whispering something or
other in his ear: the name of this privy-counsellor
was Poverty. As Avarice conducted himself by the
counsels of Poverty, his antagonist was entirely
guided by the dictates and advice of Plenty, who was
his first counsellor and minister of state, that concerted all his measures for him, and never departed out
of his sight. While these two great rivals were thus
contending for empire, their conquests were very various. Luxury got possession of one heart, and Avarice of another. The father of a family would often
range himself under the banners of Avarice, and the
son under those of Luxury. The wife and husband
would often declare themselves on the two different
parties; nay, the same person would very often side
with one in his youth, and revolt to the other in his
old age. Indeed, the wise men of the world stood
neuter; but alas! their numbers were not considerable. At length, when these two potentates had wearied themselves with waging war upon one another,
they agreed upon an interview, at which neither of
their counsellors were to be present. It is said that
Luxury began the parley, and after having represented the endless state of war in which they were engaged, told his enemy, with a frankness of heart
which is natural to him, that he believed they two
should be very good friends, were it not for the instigations of Poverty, that pernicious counsellor, who
made an ill use of his ear, and filled him with groundless apprehensions and prejudices. To this Avarice
replied, that he looked upon Plenty (the first minister
of his antagonist) to be a much more destructive
counsellor than Poverty, for that he was perpetually
suggesting pleasures, banishing all the necessary
cautions against want, and consequently undermining those principles on which the government of Avarice was founded. At last, in order to an accommodation, they agreed upon this preliminary; that each




IMMORTAL17  OF THE SOUL.           a'
of them should immediately dismiss his privy-coun.
edllor. When things were thus far adjusted towards
a peace, all other differences were soon accommodated,:nsomuch that for thefuture they resolved to live as
ood friends and confederates, and to share between
em whatever conquests were made on either side.
For this reason, we now find Luxury and Avarice
taking possession of the same heart, and dividing the
same person between them.-To which I shall only
add, that since the discarding of the counsellors abovementioned, Avarice supplies Luxury in the room of
Plenty, as Luxury prompts Avarice in the place of
Poverty.
IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL
-Inter silvs acaderai quarere veruna.
IIOR. 2 Ep. ii. 45.
"To search for truth in academic groves."
THE course of my last* speculation led me insensibly into a subject upon which I always meditate
with great delight, I mean the Immortality of the
Soul. I was yesterday walking alone in one of my
friend's woods, and lost myself in it very agreeably,
as I was running over in my mind the several arguments that establish this great point, which is the
basis of morality, and the source of all the pleasing
hopes and secret joys that can arise in the heart of a
reasonable creature. I consider those several proofs
drawn:
First, From the nature of the Soul itself, and particularly its Immateriality; which, though not absoIt will easily be perceived that the speculation alll.
ded'to is contained in a preceding paper, which, perhaps,
we did not consider to be deserving of a place in this se.
lection.-This note will also suffice to explain similar al.
o.sions in -ur subsequent extracts.
Vor T.-6      5




12        IIMMORTALITY or THE SODM.
lutely necessary to the eternity of its duraton, nas
I think, been evinced to almost a demonstrat:on.
Secondly, From its passions and sentiments, as
particularly from its love of existence, its horror of
annihilation, and its hopes of immortality, with that
sweet satisfaction which it finds in the practice of
virtue, and that uneasiness which follows it upon the
commission of vice.
Thirdly, From the nature of the Supreme Bein%
whose justice, goodness, wisdom, and veracity, are aI
concerned in this great point.
But among these and other excellent arguments for
the Immortality of the Soul, there is one drawn from
the perpetual progress of the soul to its perfection,
without a possibility of ever arriving at it; which is
a hint that I do not remember to have seen opened
and improved by others who have written on this subject, though it seems to me to carry a great weight
with it. Hlow can it enter into the thoughts of man,
that the Soul, which is capable of such immense perfections, and of receiving new improvements to all
eternity, shall fall away into nothing almost as soon
as it is created? Are such abilities made for no purpose? A brute arrives at a point of perfection that he
can never pass: in a few years he has all the endowments he is capable of: and were he to live ten thousand more, would be the same thing he is at present.
Were a human soul thus at a stand in her accomplishments, were her faculties to be full blown, and
mcapal)Ie of further enlargements, I could imagine it
might fall away insensibly, and drop at once into a
state of annihilation. But can we believe a thinking
being, that is in a perpetual progress of improvements,
and tlavelling on from perfection to perfection, after
having just looked abroad into the works of its Creator, and made a few discoveries of his infinite goodness, wisdom, and power, must perish at her first
setting out, and in the very beginning of her inquines?
A man, considered in his present state, seems only
sent into the world to propagate his kind. He pro



IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUl.           83
eides himself with a successor, and immediately quits
hiq post to make room for him.
H — ares
Heredem alterius, velut unda sulpervenit undam,
HOR. 2 Ep. ii. 175.
" — Heir crowds heir, as in a rolling flood
Wave urges wave."
CIREECH.
He does not seem born to enjoy life, but to deliver
it dourn to others. This is not surprising to consider
m animals, which are formed for our use, and can
finish their business in a short life. The silk-worm,
after having spun her task, lays her eggs and dies.
But a man can never have taken in his full measure
of knowledge, has not time to subdue his passions,
establish his soul in virtue, and come up to the perfection of his nature, before he is hurried off the stage.
Would an infinitely wise Being make such glorious
creatures for so mean a purpose 3 Can he delight
in the production of such abortive intelligence, such
short-lived reasonable beings? Would he give us
talents that are not to be exerted? Capacities that are
never to be gratified? How can we find that wisdom,
which shines through all his works in the formation
of man, without looking on this world as only a
nursery for the next, and believing that the several
generations of rational creatures, which rise up and
disappear in such quick successions, are only to receive their first rudiments of existence here, and afterward to be transplanted into a more friendly climate, where they may spread and flourish to all
eternity?
There is not, in my opinion, a more pleasing and
triumphant consideration in religion than this of the
perpetual progress which the soul makes towards the
perfection of its nature, without ever arriving at a
period in it. To look upon the soul as goming on
from strength to strength, to consider that she is to
shine for ever with new accessions of glory, and
brighten:t all eternity: that she will be still addmg




84        IMMORTALITY' OF THE SOUL.
virtue to vrrtue, and knowledge to knowledge; cari
ties in it something wonderfully agreeable to that am.
bition which is natural to the mind of man. Nay, it
must be a prospect pleasing to God himself, to see his
creation for ever beautifying in his eyes, and drawing
nearer to him, by greater degrees of resemblance.
Methinks this single consideration, of the progress
of a finite spirit to perfection, will be sufficient to extinguish all envy in inferior natures, and all contempt
in superior. That cherubim, which now appears as a
God to a human Soul, knows very well that the period will come about in eternity, when the human
Soul shall be as perfect as he himself now is: nay,
when she shall look down upon that degree of perfection, as much as she now falls short of it. It is true,
the higher nature still advances, and by that means
preserves his distance and superiority in the scale of
being; bft he knows that how high soever the station
is of vwllch he stands possessed at present, the inferior
nature will at length mount up to it, and shine forth
in the same degree of glory.
With what astonishment and veneration may we
look into our own souls, where there are such hidden
stores of virtue and knowledge, such inexhausted
sources of perfection! We know not yet what we
shall be, nor will it ever enter into the heart of man
to conceive the glory that will be always in reserve
for him. The Soul, considered with its Creator. is
like one of those mathematical lines that may draw
nearer to another for all eternity without a wossibility
of touching it: and can there be a thought so transporting, as to consider ourselves in these perpetual
approaches to him, who is not only the standard of
perfection but of happiness!
The following translation of the speech of Cato on
the Immortality of the Soul, cannot be sufficiently
admired for conciseness, purity, and elegance of
uhrae




TRUE WIT AND MIXT WIT.               8
CATO alone, t4c.
"It must be so-Plato, thou reason'st wellElse whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire,
This longing after immortality I
Or whence this secret dread, and inward horror,
Of falling into nought! why shrinks the soul
Back on herself, and startles at destruction?'Tis the divinity that stirs within us;'Tis Heav'n itself that points out an hereafter,
And intimates eternity to man.
Eternity! thou pleasing, dreadful thought!
" Through what variety of untry'd being,
Through what new scenes and changes must we pass
The wide, th' unbounded prospect lies before me;
But shadows, clouds, and darkness rest upon i.
Here will I hold. If there's a power above us,
(And that there is all nature cries aloud
Through all her works) he must delight in virtue;
And that which he delights in must be happy.
But when, or where!-This world was made for Cavear
I'm weary of conjectures-This must end'em.
" Thus am I doubly arm'd; my death and life,
My bane and antidote are both before me.
This, in a moment, brings me to an end;
But this informs me I shall never die.
The soul, secur'd in her existence, smiles
At the drawn dagger, and defies its point.
The stars shall fade away, the sun himself
Grow dim with age, and nature sink in years;
But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth,
Unhurt amidst the war of elements,
The wreck of matter, and the crush of worlds."
TRUE WIT AND MIXT WIT.
Scribsndi recee sapere est et principium etfone.
Sound judgment is the ground of writing well.
ROSiCOMMON.
"WIT," observes Mr. Locke, "lies in the asserm
blage of ideas, and putting'thoHe toaethel with quick.
aess and variety, wherein can be round any resera




96         TRUE WIT AND MIXT.WIT.
blance or congruity to make up pleasant pictures and
agreeable visions in tbe fancy."
This is, I think, th; best and most philosophical
account that I have ever met with of wit, which gene
rally, though not always, consists in such a resemblance and congruity of ideas as this author mentions.
1 shall only add to it, by way of explanation, that every resemblance of ideas is not that which we call wit,
unless it be such a one that gives delight and surprise
to the reader. These two properties seem essential to
wit, more particularly the last of them. In order, therebfore, that the resemblance in the ideas be wit, it is necessary that the ideas should not lie too near one another in the nature of things; for where the hkeness is
obvious, it gives no surprise. To compare one man's
singing to that of another, or to represent the whiteness of any object by that of milk and snow, or the
variety of its colours by those of the rainbow, cannot
be called wit, unless, besides this obvious resemblance,
there be some further congruity discovered in the two
ideas, that is capable of giving the reader some surprise. Thus when a poet tells us the bosom of his
mistress is as white as snow, there is no wit in the
comparison; but when he adds with a sigh, it is as cold
too, it then grows into wit. Every reader's memory
may supply him with innumerable instances of the
same nature. For this reason, the similitudes in heroic poets, who endeavour rather to fill the mind with
great zonceptions, than to divert it with such as are
new and surprising, have seldom any thing in them
that can be called wit. Mr. Locke's account of wit,
with this shot. explanation, comprehends most of tl
species of wit, as metaphors, similitudes, alleg,
enigmas, mottoes, parables, fables, dreams,
dramatic writings, burlesque, and all the is    A of
allusion. There are many other pieces of wit (how
remote soever they may appear at first sight from the
fqregoing description) which upon exammation will
be found to agree with it.
As true wit generally'consists in this resemblance
and congruity of ideas, f.ilse wit chiefly consists in the




TRUE WIT AND MIXT WIT.             81
resemblance and congruity sometimes of sing.e letters
as in anagrams, cbronograms, lipograms, and acrostics: sometimes ofsyllables, as in echoes and doggerel rhymes: sometimes of words, as in puns and quibbles: and sometimes of whole sentences or poems, cast
into the figures of eggs, axes, or altars: nay, some
carry the notion of wit so far, as to ascribe it even to
external mimickry; and to look upon a man as an ingenious person, that can resemble the tone, posture,
or face of another.
As true wit consists in the resemblance of ideas,
and false wit in the resemblance of words, according
to the foregoing instances; there is al'other kind of
wit, which consists partly in the resemblance of ideas,
and partly in the resemblance of words, which for distinction sake I shall call mixt wit. This kind of wit
is that which abounds in Cowley, more than in any
author that ever wrote. Mr. Waller has likewise a
great deal of it. Mr. Dryden is very sparing in it.
Milton had a genius much above it. Spenser is in the
same class with Milton. The Italians, even in their
epic poetry, are full of it. Monsieur Boileau, who
formed himself upon the ancient poets, has every
where rejected it with scorn. If we look after mnixt
wit among the Greek writers, we shall find it nowhere but in the epigrammatists. There are indeed
some strokes of it in the little poem ascribed to Musaus, which by that, as well as many other marks,
betrays itself to be a modern composition. If we look
into the Latin writers, we find none of this mixt wit
in Virgil, Lucretius, or Catullus; very little in Horace, but a great deal of it in Ovid, and scarce anything
se in Martial.
xt wit is a composition of pun and true wit, and
or less perfect, as the resemblance lies in the
ideas o, i;n the words. Its foundations are laid partly
in falsehood and partly in truth; reason puts in her
claim for one half of it, and extravagance for the
other. The only province, therefore, for this kind of
wit IS epigram, or those little occasional poems, that inI
their own nature are nothing else but a tissue of epi



8:        TRUE WIT AND MIXT WIT.
grams. 1 cannot conclude this head of mixt wit, with.
out owning that the admirable poet, out of whom I
have taken the examples of it, had as much true wit
as any author that ever wri:, and indeed all other
talents of an extraordinary genius.
It may be expected, since I am upon this subject,
that 1 should take notice of Mr. Dryden's definition of
wit; which, with all the deference that is due to the
judgment of so great a man, is not so properly a definition of wit, as of good writing in general. Wit, as
he defines it, is "a propriety o2 words and thoughts
adapted to the subject." If this be a true definition
of wit, I am apt to think that Euclid was the greate
wit that ever set pen to paper. It is certain th
never was a greater propriety of words and thougiLts
adapted to the subject, than what that author has made
use of in his Elements. I shall only appeal to my
reader, if this definition agrees with any notion he has
of wit. If it be a true one, I am sure Mr. Dryden was
not only a better poet, but a greater wit than Mr. Cowley; and Virgil a much more facetious man than
either Ovid or Martial.
Bouhours, whom I look upon to be the most.penetrating of all the French critics, has taken pains to
show, that it is impossible for any thought to be beautiful which is not Just, and has not its foundation in
the nature of things; that the basis of all wit is truth;
and that no thought can be valuable, of which good
sense is not the ground-work. Boileau has endeavoured to inculcate the same notion in several parts of
his writings, both in prose and verse. This is that
natural way of writing, that beautiful simplic;'
which we so much admire in the compositions r,'
ancients: and which nobody deviates from, b,
who want strength of genius to make a thr
in its own natural beauties. Poets wh( l.
strength of genius to give that majestic.Iiicity to
nature, which we so much admire in the works of
the ancients, are forced to hunt after foreign ornaments,
and not to let any piece of wit of what kind soever
escape them. I look Tpon these writet a as Goths ii




CHURCH MUSIC.               93
softened in the most moving strains of musi(, can
never fail of humbling or exalting the soul to any pitch
of devotion. Who can hear the terrors of the Lord of
Hosts, described in the most expressive melody, without being awed into a veneration? Or who can hear
the kind and endearing attributes of a merciful Father,
and not be softened into love towards him?
As the rising and sinking of the passions, the casting soft or noble hints into the soul, is the natural
privilege of music in general, so more particularly of
that kind which is employed at the altar. Those impressions which it leaves upon the spirits are more
deep and lasting, as the grounds from which it receives its authority are founded more upon reason. It
diffuses a calmness all around us, it makes us drop all
those vain or immodest thoughts which would be an
hinderance to us in the.performance of that great duty
of thanksgiving, vhich, as we are informed by our
Almighty Benefactor, is the most acceptable return
which can be made for those infinite stores of blessings
which he daily condescends to pour down upon his
creatures. When we make use of this pathetical method of addressing ourselves to him, we can scarce
contain from raptures'! Ilhe heart is warmed with a
sublimity of goodness! We are all piety and all love I
How do the blessed spirits rejoice and wonder to
behold unthinking man prostrating his soul to his
dread Sovereign in such a warmth of piety as they
themselves might not be ashamed of!
1 shall close these reflectionss with a passage taken
out of the third book of Milton's Paradise Lost, where
those harmonious beings are thus nobly described:
Then crown'd again, their golden harps they took,
Harps ever tun'd, that glitt'ring by their side,
Like quivers hung, and with preamble sweet
Of charming symnphony, they introduce
The sacred song, and waken raptures high:
No one exempt, no voice but well could join
Melodious part, such concord is in Heav'n.




4, CLEANLINESS.
CLEANLINESS.
~Simplex maunditiis --
HOR.
Charms neat without the help of art
CREICH.
I HAD occasion to go a few miles out of town, some
days since, in a stage-coach, where I had for my fellow-travellers a dirty beau, and a pretty young quaker
woman. lHaving no inclination to talk much at that
time, I placed myself backward, with a design to survey them, and pick a speculation out of my two companions. Their different figures were sufficient of
themselves to draw my attention. The gentleman was
~ressed in a suit, the ground whereof had been black,
as I perceived from some few spaces that had escaped
the powder, which was incorporated with the greatest
part of his coat: his periwig, which cost no small sum,
was after so slovenly a manner cast over his shoulders,
that it seemed not to have been combed since the year
1712; his linen, which, was not much concealed, was
daubed with plain Spanish from the chin to the lowest
button, and the diamond upon his finger (which naturally dreaded the water) put me in mind how it sparkled amidst the rubbish of the mine, where it was first
discovered. On the other hand, the pretty quaker appeared in all the elegance of cleanliness. Not a speck
was to be found upon her. A clear, clean oval face,
just edged about with little thin plaits of the purest
cambric, received great advantages from the shade ot
her black hood; as did the whiteness of her arms from
that sober-coloured stuff, in which she had clothed
herself. The plainness of her dress was very well
suited to the simplicity of her phrases; all which put
together, though they could not give me a great opinion of her religion, they did of her innocence.
This adventure occasioned my throwing together a
few hints upon cleanliness, which I shall consider as
one of the half virtues, as Aristotle calls them, and
shall recommend it under the three folk wing heads;




CLEANLI-NTESS.       
as it is a mark of politeness; as it produces love; and
as it bears analogy to purity of mind.
First, It is a mark of politeness. It is universadly
agreed upon, that no one, unadorned with this virtue,
can go into company, without giving a manifest offence. The easier or higher any one's fortune is, this
duty rises proportionably. The different nations of the
world are as much distinguished by their clearniness,
as by their arts and sciences. The more any country
is civilized, the more they consult this part of poite
ness.-We need but compare our ideas of a female
Hottentot and all English beauty, to be satisfied of the
truth of what hath been advanced.
In the next place, cleanliness may be said to be the
foster-mother of love. Beauty indeed most commonly
produces that passion in the mind, but cleanliness preserves it. An indifferent face and person, kept in perpetual neatness, hath won many a heart from a pretty
slattern. Age itself is not unamiable, while it is preserved clean and unsullied; like a piece of metal constantly kept smooth and bright, we look on it with
more pleasure than on a new vessel that is cankered
with rust.
I must observe further, that as cleanliness renders
us agreeable to others, so it makes us easy to ourselves, that it is an excellent preservative of health;
aIid that several vices, destructive both to mind and
body, are inconsistent with the habit of it. But these
reflections I shall leave to the leisure of my readers,
rand shall observe in the third place, that it bears a
great analogy with purity of mind, and naturally inspires refined sentiments and passions.
We find from experience, tlat through the prevalence of custom, the most v'.ious actions lose their
horror, by being made familiar to us. On the contrary,
those who live in the neighbourhood of good examples,
fly from the first appearances of whnt is shocking. It
fares with us much after the same ma:ner as our ideas.
Our senses, which are the inlets to all the images conveyed to the mind, can only transmit the impression
of such things as usually surround them. So that




96               CLEANLINESS.
pure and unsullied thoughts are naturally suggested to
the mind, by those objects that perpetually encompass
us, when they are beautiful and elegant in their kjnd.
In the East, where the warmth of the climate makes
cleanliness more immediately necessary than in colder
countries, it is made one part of their religion: the
Jewish law, and the Mahometan, which in some
things copies after it, is filled with bathings, purifications, and other rites of the like nature. Though
there is the above-named convenient reason to be assigned for these ceremonies, the chief intention undoubtedly was to typify inward purity and cleanliness
of heart by those outward washings. We read several injunctions of this kind in the book of Deuteronomy, which confirm this truth; and which are but illaccounted for by saying as some do, that they were
only instituted for convenience in the desert, which
otherwise could not have been habitable for so many
years.
I shall conclude this essay with a story which 1
have somewhere read in an account of Mahometan
superstitions.
A Dervise of great sanctity one morning had the
misfortune, as he took up a crystal cup which was
consecrated to the prophet, to let it fall upon the ground,
and dash it in pieces. His son coming in, solne time
after, he stretched out his hand to bless him, as his
manner was, every morningo: but the youth going out
stumbled over the threshold and broke his arm   As
the old man wondered at these events, a caravan passed
by in its way from Mecca. The Dervise approached
it to beg a blessing: but as he stroked one of the holy
camels, he received a kick from the beast that sorely
bruised him. His sorrow and amazerrent increased
upon him, until he recollected, that through hurry and
inadvertency, he had that morning colne abroad without washing his hands.




IMMODERAIE LOVE OF PRAISE.:97
IMMODERATE LOVE OF PRAISE
C'pias non placuisse nimis.
MART.
One would not please too much.
A LATE conversation which I fell into, gave me an
opportunity of observing a great deal of beauty in a
very handsome woman, and as much wit in an ingenious man, turned into deformity in the one, and absurdity in the other, by the mere force of affectation.
The fair one had something in her person upon which
her thoughts were fixed, that she attempted to show
to advantage in every look, word, and gesture. The
gentleman was as diligent to do justice to his fine parts,
as the lady to her beauteous form. You might see his
imagination on the stretch to find out something uncommon, and what they call bright, to entertain her;
while she writhed herself into as many different postures to engage him. When she laughed, her lips were
to sever at a greater distance than ordinary, to show
her teeth; her fan was to point to somewhat at a distance, that in the reach she may discover the roundness of her arm; then she is utterly mistaken in what
she saw, falls back, smiles at her own folly, and is so
wholly discomposed, that her tucker is to be adjusted,
her bosom exposed, and the whom woman put into
new airs and graces. While she was doing all this,
the gallant had time to think of something very pleasant to say next to her, or make some unkind observation on some other lady, to feed her vanity. These
unhappy effects of affectation, naturally led me to look
into that strange state of mind which so generally
discolours the behaviour of most people we meet with.
The learned Dr. Burnet, in his Theory of the Earth.
takes ocoasion to observe, That every thought is attended with consciousness and representativeness; the
mind has nothing presented to it but what is immedi
ately followed by a reflection or corscience, which
tells you whether that which was so presented is
graceful or umbecoming. This act of the mind disVOL. I.-7    5*




9 IMMODEAATE LOVE OF PIRAISI
covers itself in the gesture, by a proper behaviour in
those whose consciousness goes no further than to
direct them in the just progress of their preseint state
or action; but betrays an interruption in every second
thought, when the consciousness is employed in too
fondly approving a man's own conceptions; which
sort of consciousness is what we call affectation.
As the love of praise is implanted in our bosoms as
a strong incentive to woithy actions, it is a very difficult task to get above a desire of it for things that
should be wholly indifferent. Women, whose hearts
are fixed upon the pleasure they have in the consciousness that they are the objects of love and admiration,
are ever changing the air of their countenances, and
altering the attitude of their bodies, to strike the hearts
of their beholders with new sense of their beauty.
The dressing part of our sex, whose minds are the
same with tfle sillier part of the other, are exactly in
the like uneasy condition to be regarded for a well-tied
cravat, a hat cocked with an uncommon briskness, a
very well-chosen coat, or other instances of merit,
which they are impatient tu see unobserved.
This apparent affectation, arising from an ill-governed consciousness, is not so much to be wondered
at in such loose and trivial minds as these: but when
you see it reign in characters of worth and distinction,
It is what you cannot but lament, not without some
indignation. It creeps into the heart of the wise man
as well as that of the coxcomb. When you see a man
of sense look about for applause, and discover an itching inclination to be commended; lay traps for a little
incense, even from those whose opinion he values in
nothing but his own favour; who is safe against this
weakness'? Or who knows whether he is guilty of
it or not? The best way to get clear of such a light
fondness for applause, is to take all possible care to
throw off the love of it upon occasions that are not in
themselves laudable, but as it appears we hope for no
praise from them. Of this nature are all graces in
men's persons, dress, and bodily deportment, which
will naturally be winning and attractive if we thinlk




IMMODERATE LOVE OF PRA ISE.          99
not of them, but lose their force in proportion to our
endeavour to make them such.
When our consciousness turns upon the maia design
of life, and )ur thoughts are employed upon tk e chief
purpose either in business or pleasure, we shaAl never
betray an affectation, for we cannot be guilty of it:
but when we give the passion of praise an unbridled
liberty, our pleasure in little perfections, robs us of
what is due to us for great virtues and worthy qualities. Bow many excellent speeches and honest actions are lost, for want of being mdifferent where we
ought? Men are oppressed with regard to their way
of speaking and acting, instead of having their
thoughts bent upon what they should do or say; and
by those means bury a capacity for great things. by
their fear of failing in indifferent things. This, perhaps, cannot be called affectation; but it has some
tincture of it, at least so far, as that their fear of erring
in a thing of no consequence, argues they would be
too much pleased in performing it.e
It is only from a thorough disregard to himself in
such particulars, that a man can act with a laudable
sufficiency: his heart is fixed upon one point in view;
and he commits no errors, because he thinks nothing
an error but what deviates from that intention.
The wild havoc affectation makes in that part of the
world, which should be most polite, is visible wherever
we turn our eyes: it pushes men not only into impertinences in conversation, but also in their premeditated
speeches. At the bar it torments the bench, whose
business it is to cut off all superfluities in what is spoken before it by the practitioner; as well as several
little pieces of injustice which arise from the law itself.
I have seen it make a man run from the plrpose before
a judge, who was, when at the bar himself, so close
and logical a pleader, that with all the pomp of elo.
quence inhis power, he never spoke a word too much.4
It might be borne even here, but it often ascends th4
pulp;t itself; and the declaimer, in that sacred place
Chancellor Cowper.




M00      IMMODERATE LOVE OF PRAISE.
is fiequently so impertinently witty, speaks of the last
day itself with so many quaint phrases, that there is
no man who understands raillery, but must resolve to
sin no more. Nay, you may behold him sometimes
in prayer, for a proper delivery of the great truths he
is to utter, humble himself with so very well-turned
phrase, and mention his own unworthiness in a way
so very becomlng, that the air of the pretty gentleman
is preserved, under the lowliness of'the preacher.
I shall end this with a short letter I writ the other
day to a very witty rman, overrun with the fault I arnt
speaking of.'Dear Sir,'I spent some time with you the other day, and
must take the liberty of a friend to tell you of the ussufferable affectation you are guilty of in all you say
and do. When I gave you a hint of it, you asked me
whether a manis to be cold to what his friends thinrd
of him? No, b t praise;6 not to be the entertainment
of every moment. He tc.at hopes for it must be able
to suspend the possession of it till proper periods of life,
ar death itself. If you would not rather be commended than be praiseworthy, contemn little merits; and
allow no man to be so free with you, as to praise you
to your face. Your vanity by these means will want
its food. At the same time your passion for esteem
will be more fully gratified; men will praise you in
their actions; where you now receive any compliment, you will then receive twenty cviz.ties; till thg'
you will never have of either.'              T.




sUNs.                   Oi
PUNS.
Non equidem studeo, bullatts ut miht nuic
Pagina turgoscat, dare pondus idoneajum,
PES. Sat v.. i9,
"'Tis not ihc eed my taient to engage
In lofty trifles, or to swell my page
W.th wind and noise."
DRYbEN.
THERE is no kind of filse wit which has been so
recommended by the practice of all ages, as that which
consists in a jingle of words, and is comprehended under the general name of Punning. It is indeed i.possible to kill a weed, which the soil has a natural disposition to produce. The seeds of punning are in the
minds of all men; and though they may be subdued
by reason, reflection, and good sense, they will be very
apt to shoot up in the greatest genius that is not broken and cultivated by the rules of art. Imitation is
natural to us, and wvlen it does not raise the mind to
poetry, painting, music, or other more noble arts, it
often breaks out in puns and quibbles.
Aristotle, in the eleventh chapter of his book of
rhetoric, describes two or three kinds of puns, which
he calls paragrams, among the beauties of good writing, and produces instances of them out of some of
the greatest authors in the Greek tongue. Cicero has
sprinkled several of his works with puns, and in his
book, where he lays down the rules of oratory quotes
abundance of sayings as pieces of wit, whlh also,
upon examination prove arrant puns. But t':>- age in
which the pun chiefly flourished, was in the reign of
king James the first.-That learned monarch was himself a tolerable punster, and made very few bishops
or privy-counsellors, that had not some time or other
signalized themselves by a clinch or a conundrum. It
was therefore in this age that the pun appeared with
pomp and dignity. It had before been admitted into
merry speeches and ludicrous compositions, but was
now delivered with great gravity from the pulpit, -I
pronounced in the most solemn manner at the ccnx!uc',
6




102                  PUNS.
table. The greatest authors, in their most serious
works, made frequent use of puns. The sermons of
Bishop Andrews and the tragedies of Shakspeare are
full of them. Tl'e sinner was punned into repentance
by the former, as in the latter nothing is more usual
than to see a hero weeping and quibbling for a dozen
lines together.
I must add to these great authorities, which seem
to have given a kind of sanction to this piece of false
wit, that all the writers of rhetoric have treated of punIling with very great respect, and divided the, several
klins of it into hard names, that are reckoned among
the ingures of speech, and recommended as ornaments
in discourse.-I remember a country schoolnaster of
my acquaintance told me once, that he had been in
company with a gentleman whom he looked upon to
}>e the greatest paragrammatist among the moderns.
Upon inquiry, I found my learnedfnenJhad dined that
(lay with Mr. Swan, the famous punster; and desiring
hlim to give me son.e account of Mlr. Swan's conversatior, he told me that he generally talked in the paranomasia, that he sometimes gave into the plce,
but that in his humble opinion he shined most in the
antanaclasis.
I must not here omit, that a famous university of
this land was formerly very much infested with puns;
out whether or no this might not arise from the fens
and marshes in which it was situated, and w-hic!n are
now drained, I must leave to the determination of more
skilful naturalists.
After this short history of punning, one would wonder how it should be so entirely banished oat of the
learned world as it is at present, especially since it
had found a place in the writings of the most ancient
polite authors. To account for tis we must consider,
that the first race of authors, who were the great heroes in writing, were destitute of all rules an I arts of
criticism; and for that reason, though they e:kcel later
writers in greatness of genius, they fall short of them
in accuracy and correctness. The moderns cannot
reach their beautms, bhut can avoid their imper fectionm




PUNS.                   103
When the woild was furnished with these authors of
the frst eminence, there grew up another set of writers, who gained themselves a reputation by the remarks which they made on the works of those who
preceded them. It was one of the employments of
these secondary authors, to distinguish the several
kinds of wit by terms of art, and to consider them as
more or less perfect, according as they were founded
in trtth. It is no wonder, therefore, that even such
authors as Isocrates, Plato, and Cicero, should have
such little blemishes as are not to be met with in authors of a much inferior character, who have written
since those several blemishes were discovered. I do
not find that there was a proper separation made between puns and true wit by any of the ancient authors, except Quintilian and Longinus. But when
this distinction was once settled, it was very natural
for all men of sense to agree in it. As for the revival
of this false wit, it happened about the time of the
revival of letters; but ats soon as it was once detected,
it immediately vanished and disappeared. At the same
time there is no question, but as it has sunk in one
age and rose in another, it will again recover itself in
some distant period of time, as pedantry and ignorance
shall prevail upon wit and sense. And, to speak the
truth, I do very much apprehend, by some of the late
productions, which have had their sets of admirers,
that our posterity will in a few years degenerate into
a race of punsters; at least, a man may be very excusable for any apprehensions of this kind, that has
seen acrostics handed about the town with great secrecy and applause; to which I must also add a little
epigram called The Witches' Prayer, that fell into
verse when it was read either backward or forward,
excepting only that it cursed one way, and blessed the
other.* When one sees there are actually such painstakers among our British wits, who can tell what it
may end in f If we must lash one another, let it be
* Are not the modern cross readings of the newaspa
pere to be equally censured I




M04           DULNESS THE PARENT
witn the manly strokes of wit and satire: for 1 an. of
the old philosopher's opinion, that if I must suffer from
one or the other, I would rather it should be from the
paw of a lien, than the hoof of an ass. 1 do not
speak this out of any spirit of party. There is a most
crying dulness on both sides. I have seen Tory
Acrostles and Whig Anagrams, and do not quarrel
with either of them, because they are Whigs or Tories, but because they are Anagrams and Acrostics.
But to return to punning. Having pursued the
history of a pun, from its original to its downfal, I
shall here define it to be a conceit arising from the
use of two wQc ds that agree in the sound, but differ
in the sense. The only way therefore to try a piece
of wit, is to translate it into a different language. If
it bears the test, you may pronounce it true: but if
it vanishes in the experiment, you may conclude it to
have been a pun. In short, one may say of a pun,
as the countryman describes his nightingale, that it is
vo: et preterea nihil, a sound, and nothing but a
sound. On the contrary, one may represent true wit
by the description which Aristenetus makes of a fine
woman; when she is dressed, she is beautiful; when
she is undressed, she is beautiful; or as Mercerus
has translated it more emphatically, induitur, formosa est: exuitur, ipsaforma est.*
DULNESS
THE PARENT OF INDECENCY.
Torquet ab obscenis jam munc sermLonibus aurem
HOR.
" He from the taste obscene reclaims our youth."'Mr. Spectator,'MY fortune, quality, and person, are su h as render me as conspicuous as any young woman in town.
* "Dressed she is beautiful, undressed she is beauty's
self."




OF INDECENCY.               1i6
It is in my power to enjoy it in all its vanities; belt I
have, from a very careful education contracted a great
aversion to the forward air and fashion which is practised in all public places and assemblies. I attribute
this very much to the style and manner of our plays.
L was last night at the Funeral, where a confident
lover in the play, speaking of his mistress, cries out
-"Oh that Harriot! to fold these arms about the waist
of that beauteous, struggling, and at last yielding
fair 1" Such an image as this ought, by no means,
to be presented to a chaste and regular audience. I
expect your opinion of this sentence, and recommend
to your consideration as a Spectator, the conduct of
the stage at present with relation to chastity and modesty.
desty.  I am, Sir,
Your constant reader and well-wisher.'
The complaint of this young lady is so just, that
the offence is gross enough to have displeased persons
who cannot pretend to that delicacy and modesty, of
which she is mistress. But there is a great deal to
be said in behalf of an author. If the audience would
but consider the difficulty of keeping up a sprightly
dialogue for five acts together, they would allow a
writer, when he wants wit, and cannot please any
otherwise, to help it out with a little smuttiness. 1
will answer for the poets, that no one ever writ bawdry for any other reason but dearth of invention. When
the author cannot strike out of himself any more of
that which he has superior to those who make up the
bulk of his audience, his natural recourse is to that
which he has in common with them: and a description which gratifies a sensual appetite will please,
when the author has nothing about him to delight a
refined imagination. It is to such a poverty, we must
impute this and all other sentences in plays, which
are of this kind, and which are commonly termed luscious expressions.*
* To the honour of the author of this paper, lie prace
tised the lessons which he taught, and did n At reject gooot




106          DULNESS THZ PABRNT
This expedient to supply the deficiencies of wit, has
been used more or less by most of the authors who have
succeeded on the stage-; though I know but one who
has professedly writ a play upon the basis of the desire
of multiplying our species, and that is the polite Sir
George Etheridge; if I understand what the lady
would beat, inthe play called She would if She could.
Other poets have, here and there, given an intimation
that there is this design under all the disguises and
affectations which a lady may put on: but no author,
except this, has made sure work of it, and put the
imaginations of the audience upon this one purpose,
from the beginning to the end of the comedy. It has
always fared accordingly; for whether it be that all
who go to this piece would if they could, or that the
innocents go to it, to guess only what she'would if
she could, the play has always been well received.
It lifts a heavy empty sentence, when there is added:o it a lascivious gesture of body; and when it is too
low to be raised even by that, a flat meaning is enlivened by making it a double one. Writers who want
genius, never fail of keeping this secret in reserve, to
create a laugh or raise a clap. I, who know nothing
Mf women but from  seeing plays, can give great
guesses at the whole structure of the fair sex, by being innocently placed in the pit, and insulted by the
petticoats of their dancers: the advantages of whose
pretty persons are a great help to a dull play. When
a poet flags in writing lusciously, a pretty girl can
move lasciviously, and have the same good consequence for the author. Dull poets in this case use
their audiences, as dull parasites do their patrons;
advice from whatever quarter it came. He published
this lady's letter, and approved of her indignation. He
submitted to her censure, condemned himself publicly,
and corrected the obnoxious passage of his play, in a
subsequent edition which was published in 1712.-Yet
such an expression as the above is delicacy itself when
compared withl some of the impassioned apostrophes of
Otway and Rowe, or even with many of the feebler attempts of modern dramatists.




OF INDECENCY.       1        t
when they cannot longer divert them with their wit
or hurnmour, they bait their ears with something which
is agreeable to their temper, though below their understanding. Apicius cannot resist being pleased, if
you give him an account of a delicious meal; or Clodius, if you describe a wanton beauty: though at the
same time, if you do not awake those inclinations in
them, no men are better judges of what is just and
delicate in conversation. But as Ihave before observed, it is easier to talk to the man, than to the man of
sense.
It is remarkable that the writers of least learning
are best skilled in the luscious way. The poetesses
of the age have done wonders in this kind; and we
are obliged to the lady who writ Ibrahim,* for introducing a preparatory scene to the very action, when
the Emperor throws his handkerchief as a signal for
his mistress to follow him into the most retired part
of the seraglio. It must be confessed his Turkish
majesty went off with a good air, but methought we
made but a sad figure who waited without. his ingenious gentlewoman, in this piece of bawdry, refined
upon an author of the same sex,t who, in the Rover,
makes a country'squire strip to his Holland drawers.
For Blunt is disappointed, and the Emperor is understood to go on to the utmost. The pleasantry of stripping almost naked has been since practised (where indeed it should have been begun) very successfully at
Bartholomew fair.t.
It is not here to be omitted, that in one of the abovementioned female compositions, the Rover is very frequently sent on the same errand; as I take it, above
once every act. This is not wholly unnatural; for,
they say, the men authors draw themselves in their
chief characters, and the women writers may be allowed the same liberty. Thus, as the male wit gives
his hero a great fortune, the female gives her heroine
* Mrs. Mary Pix              t Mrs. Behn.
l The appearance of Lady Mary, a rope-dancer at Bar
tlolmew -fair, gave occasion to this animadversion.




108        DULNESS THE PARENT, &C.
a good gallant, at the end of the play. But, indeed,
there is hardly a play one can go to, but the hero or
fine gentleman of it struts off upon the same account,
and leaves us to consider what good office he has put
us to, or to employ ourselves as we please. To be
plain, a man who frequents plays would have a very
respectful notion of himself, were he to recollect how
often he has been used as pimp to ravishing tyrants,
or successful rakes. When the actors make their exit
on this good occasion, the ladies are sure to have an
examining glance from the pit, to see how they relish
what passes; and a few lewd fools are very ready to
employ their talents upon the composure or freedom of
their looks. Such incidents as these make ladies
wholly absent themselves from the playhouse; and
others never miss the first day of a play,* lest it should
prove too luscious to admit their going with any countenance to it on the second.
If men of wit, who think fit to write for the
stage, instead of this pitiful way of giving delight,
would turn their thoughts upon raising it from such
good natural impulses as are in the audience, but
are choked up by vice and luxury, they would not
only please, but befriend us at the same time. If a
man had a mind to be new in his way of writing,
might not he who is now represented as a fine gentlernan, though he betrays the honour and bed of
his neighbour and friend, and lies with half the
women in the play, and is at last rewarded with
her of the best character in it: I say, upon giving
the comedy another cast, might not such a one divert
the audience quite as well, if at the catastrophe he
were found out for a traitor, and met with contempt
accordingly?  There is seldom a person devoted to
above one darling vice at a time, so that there is room
enough to catch at men's hearts to their good and advantage, if the poets will attempt it with the honesty
which becomes their characters.
* On the first night of the exhibition of a new play,
virtuous women about this time came to see it in masks,
then generally worn bhr women of the town




PICTS AND BRITISH LADIES.        109
There is no man who loves his bottle or his mistress, in a manner so very abandoned, as not to be
capable of relishing an agreeable character, that is noway a slave to either of those pursuits. A man that
is temperate, generous, valiant, chaste, faithful, and
honest, may, at the same time, have wit, humour,
mirth, good-breeding, and gallantry. While he exerts
these latter qualities, twenty occasions might be invented to show he is master of the other noble virtues.
Such characters would smite and reprove the heart
of a man of sense, when he is given up to his pleasures. He would see he has been mistaken all this
while, and be convinced that a sound constitution and
an innocent mind, are the true ingredients for becoming, and enjoying life. All men of true taste would
call a man of wit, who should turn his ambition this
way, a friend and benefactor to his country; but 1I
am at a loss what name they would give him, who
makes use of his capacity for contrary purposes.
R.
THE PICTS AND THE BRITISH LADIES.
Tu non inventa reperta es.
OVID. Met. i. 654.
"So found, is worse than lost."
ADDISON.
COMPASSION for the gentleman, who writes the following letter, should not prevail upon me to fall upon
the fair sex, if it were not that 1 find they are frequently fairer than they ought to be. Such impostures are not to be tolerated in civil society, and 1 think
his misfortune ought to be made public, as a warning
for other men always to examine into what they ad&
mire.'Sir,'Supposing you to be a person of general knowledge, I make my application to you on a very particular oceasion. I have a great mind to be rid of my




110       PICTS AND BRITISH LADIES.
wife; and hope, when you consider my case, you
will be of opinion [ have very just pretensions to a
divorce. I am a mere man of the town, and have
very little improvement, but what I have got from
plays. 1 remember in the Silent Woman, the learn
ed Dr. Cutbert, or Dr. Otter (1 forget which) makes
one of the causes of separation to be error personc
when a man marries a woman, and finds her not to be
the same woman whom he intended to marry, but
another. If that he law, it is, I presume, exactly my
case. F or you are to know, Mr. Spectator, that there
are women who do not let their husbands see their
faces till they are married.'Not to keep you in suspense, I mean plainly that
part of the sex who paint. They are some of them
so exquisitely skilful in this way, that give them but
a tolerable pair of eyes to set up with, and they will
make bosom, lips, cheeks, and eye-brows by their own
industry. As for my dear, never man was so enamoured as I was of her fair forehead, neck, and arms,
as well as the bright jet of her hair; but to my great
astonishment I find they were all the effect of art.
Her skin is so tarnished with this practice, that when
she first wakes in a morning, she scarce seems young
enough to be the mother of her whom I carried to bed
the night before. 1 shall take the liberty to part with
her by the first opportunity, unless her father will
make her portion suitable to her real, not to her assumed courntenance.-This 1 thought fit to let him and
her know by your means.' lam, Sir,'Your most obedient humble servant.'
I cannot tell what the law, or the parents of the lady
will do for this injured gentleman, but must allow he
has very much justice on his side. I have indeed very
long observed this evil, and distinguished those of our
women who wear their own, from those in borrowed
complexions, by the Picts and the British. There does
not need any great discernment to judge which are
which.-The British have a lively animated aspect




PI:TS AND BRITISH LADIES.        ill
the Picts, though never so beautiful, have dead uninformed countenances. The muscles of a real face
sometimes swell with soft passion, sudden surprise,
and are flushed with agreeable confusions, according
as the objects before them, or the ideas presented to
them, affect their imagination. But the Picts behold
all things with the same air, whether they are joyful
or sad; the same fixed insensibility appears upon all
occasions. A Pict, though she ta es all that pains to
invite the approach or lovers, is obliged to keep them
at a certain distance; a sigh in a languishing lover
if fetched too near her, would dissolve a feature; and
a kiss snatched by a forward one, might transfer the
complexion of the mistress to the admirer. It is hard
to speak of these false fair ones, without saying something uncomplaisant, but I would only recommend to
them to consider how they like coming into a room.few painted: they may assure themselves, the near
approach of a lady who uses this practice, is much
more offensive.
Will Honeycomb told us one day an adventure he
once had with a Pict. ~ This lady had wit, as well as
beauty, at will, and made her business to gain'hearts
for no other season but to rally the torments of her
lovers. She would make great advances to insnare
men, but without any manner of scruple break off
when there was no provocation. Her ill-nature and
vanity made my friend very easily proof against the
charms of her wit and conversation: but her beauteous. form, instead of being blemished by her falsehood
and inconstancy, every day increased upon him, and
she had new attractions every time he saw her. When
she observed Will irrevocably her slave, she began to
use him as much, and after many steps towards such
a cruelty, she at last utterly banished him. The unhappy lover strove in vain, by servile epistles, to revoke his doom; till at length he was forced to the last
refuge, a round sum of money to her maid, This cor
rupt attendant placed him early in the morning behind the hangings in her mistress's dressing-room.
He stood very conveniently to observe, without be.




112       PICTS AND BRITISH LADIES.
mg seen. The Pict begins the face she designed te
wear that day, and I have heard him protest she
had worked a full half hour before he knew her to
be the same woman. As soon as he saw the dawn
of that complexion, for which he had so long languished, he thought fit to break from his concealment, repeating that of Cowley:
" Th' adorning thee with so much art,
Is but a barbarous skill;'Tis like the pois'ning of a dart,
Too apt before to kill."
The Pict stood before him in the utmost confusion
with the prettiest smirk imaginable on the finished
side of her face, pale as ashes on the other. Honeycomb seized all her gally-pots and washes, and
carried off his handkerchief full of brushes, scraps
of Spanish wool, and phials of unguents. The
lady went into the country, the lover was cured.
It is certain no faith ought to be kept with cheats
and an oath made to a Pict is of itself void. I would
therefore exhort all the British ladies to single them
out, fior do I know any but Lindamira who should
be exempt from discovery; for her own complexion
is so delicate, that she ought to be allowed the cowering it with paint, as a punishment for choosing
to be the worst piece of art extant, instead of the
masterpiece of nature.
In the meantime, as a pattern for improving their
charms, let the sex study the agreeable Statira.
Her features are enlivened with the cheerfulness
of her mind, and good-humour gives an alacrity to
her eyes. She is graceful without affictig an air,
and unconcerned without appearing careless. Her
having no manner of art in her mind, makes her
want none in her person.
How like is this lady, and how unlike is a Pict
to that discription Dr. Donne gives of his mistress!
" ______ Her pure and eloquent blood
Spoke in her cheeks, and so distinctly wrought,
That one would almost say her body thought."
R.




DIGNIY OF' MAN, &C.          113
THE
DIGNITY OF MAN
A PROOF OF HIS IMMORTAL TY.
Sentio te sedem hominum ac dornum con; emplari; quea
si tibi parva (ut est) ita videtur, htec celestia senmpet
spectato; illa humana contemnito.
CICERO, Somn. Scip.
"I perceive you contemplate the seat and L,abitation of
men; which, if it appears as little to you as it really
is, fix your eyes perpetually upon heavenly objects,
and despise earthly."
IF the universe be the creature of an intelligent
mind, this mind could have no immediate regard to
himself in producing it. He needed not to make
trial of his omnipotence, to be informed what effects
were within its reach: the world as existing in his
eternal idea was then as beautiful as now it is drawn
forth into being; and in the immense abyss of his
essence are contained far brighter scenes than will
be ever set forth to view; it being impossible that
the great author of Nature should bound his own
power by giving existence to a system of creatures,
so perfect that he cannot improve upon it by any
other exertions of his almighty will. Between finite
and infinite there is an unmeasured interval, not to
be filled up in endless ages; for which reason, the
most excellent of all God's works must be equally
short of what his power is able to produce as the
most imperfect, and may be exceeded with the same
ease.
This thought hath made some imagine, (what it
must be confessed is not impossible) that the unifathomed space is ever teeming with new births, the
younger still inheriting a greater perfection than the
elder But as this doth not fall within my present
view, I shall content myself with taking notice, that
the consideration now mentioned proves undeniably,
that the ideal worlds in the divine understanding
VOL I1.-8




114        DIGNIY OF MAN A PROOF
yield a prospect incomparably more ample, various,
and delightful, than any created world can do; and
that therefore as it is not supposed that God should
make a world merely of inanimate matter, however
diversified, or inhabited only by creatures of no
higher an order than brutes: so the end for which
he designed his reasonable offspring is the contemplation of his works, the enjoyment of himself, and
in both to be happy; having, to this purpose, endowed thcin with correspondent faculties and desires. He can have no greater pleasure from a bare
review of his works, than from the survey of his own
ideas; but we may be assured that he is well pleased
in the satisfaction derived to beings capable of it,
and for whose entertainment he hath erected this immense theatre. Is not this more than an intimation
of our immortality? Man, who when considered as
on his probation for a happy existence hereafter, is
the most remarkable instance of divine wisdom, if
we cut him off from all relation to eternity, is the
most wonderful and unaccountable composition in
the whole creation. He hath capacities to lodge a
much greater variety of knowledge than he will be
ever master of, and an unsatisfied curiosity to tread
the secret paths of nature and providence; but, with
this, his organs, in their present structure, are rather
fitted to serve the necessities of a vile body, than tc
minister to his understanding; and from the little
spot to which he is chained, he can frame but wandering guesses concerning the innumerable worlds
of light that encompass him, which, though in themselves of a prodigious bigness, do but just glimmer
in the remote spaces of the Heavens; and, when
with a great deal of time and pains he hath laboured
a little way up the steep ascent of truth, and beholds
with pity the groveling multitude beneath, in a moment his foot slides, and he tumbles down heallong
into the grave.
Thinking on this, I am obliged to believe, in justice
to the Creator of the world, tl at there is another state,
when man shall be better situated for contemplation,




OF HIS IMMORTA.LITY.           115
or rather have it in i is power to remove froln a bject to
object, and from wolld to world; and be accommodated with senses, and other helps, for making the quickest and most amazing discoveries. How does such a
genius as Sir Isaac Newton, from amidst the darkness that involves human understading, break forth,
and appear like one of another species! The vast machine we inhabit lies open to him; he seems not unacquainted with the general laws that govern it; and
whiie with the transport of a philosopher he beholds
sand admires the glorious work, he is capable of paying at once a more devout and more rational homage
to his Maker. But, alas! how narrow is the prospect
even of such a mind! and how obscure to the compsas
that is taken in by the ken of an angel; or of a soul
but newly escaped from its imprisonment of the body.
For my part I freely indulge my soul in the confidence of its future grandeur; it pleases me to think
that I, who know so small a portion of the works of
the Creator, and with slow and painful steps creep
up and down on the surface of this globe, shall ere
long shoot away with the swiftness of imagination,
trace out the hidden springs of nature's operations,
be able to keep pace with tle heavenly bodies in the
rapidity of their career, be a spectator of the long
chain of events in the natural and'moral worlds, visit
the several apartments of the creation, know how they
are furnished and how inhabited, comprehend the or~ier, and measure the maonitudes and distances of those
orbs, which to us seem disposed without any regular
design, and set all in the same circle; observe the depensance of the parts of each system, and (if our minds
are big enough to grasp the theory) of the several systems upon one another, from whence results the harmony of the uniuerse. In eternity a great deal may be
done of this kind. I find it of use to cherish this generous ambition; for besides the secert refi'shrrent it
diffuses through my soul, it engages rI e in an endeavour to improve my faculties, as well as to exercise
them conformably tc:he rank I now hold among rest




116        DIGNITY OF MAN A PROOF
sonable beings, and the hope I have of being once advanced to a more exalted station.
The other, and that the ultimate end of man, is the
enjoyment of God, beyond which he cannot form a
wish. Dim at best are the conceptions we have of
the Supreme Being, who, as it were, keeps his crea
tures in suspense, neither discovering, nor hiding himself; by which means, the libertine hath a handle to
dispute his existence, while the most are content tc
speak him fair, but in their heart prefer every trifling
satisfaction to the favour of their Maker, and ridicule
the good man for the singularity of his choice. Will
there not a time come, when the free-thinker shall see
his impious schemes overturned, and be made a convert to the truth he hates; when deluded mortals
shall be convinced of the folly of their pursuits, and
the few wise, who followed the guidance of Heaven,
and, scorning the blandishments of sense and the sordid bribery of the world, aspired to a celestial abode,
shall stand possessed of their utmost wish, the vision
of the Creator? Here the mihd heaves a Ichught now
and then towards him, and hath some transient glances
of his presence: when, in the instant it thinks itself to
have the fastest hold, the object eludes its expectations,
and it falls back tired and baffled to the ground.
Doubtless there is some more perfect vray of conversing with heavenly beings. Are not spirits capable of
mutual intelligence, unless immersed in bodies, or by
their intervention? must superior natures depend on
inferior for the main privilege of sociable beings that
of conversing with and knowing each other? what
would they have done had matter never been created?
I suppose, not have lived in eternal solitude. As incorporeal substances are of a nobler order, so be sure
their manner of intercourse is answerably more expedite
and intimate. This method of communicat on we call
intellectual vision, as something analogous to the
sense of seeing, which is the medium of our acquain.
tance with this visible world. And in some such way
can God make himself the object of immediate itub.
tion to the blessed; and as he can, it is not improba.




TRUE AND FALSE WIT.             117
ble that he will, always condescending, in the circurnstances of doing it, to the weakness and proportion of
finite minds. His works but faintly reflect the image
of his perfections; it is a second-hand knowledge; to
have a just idea of him, it may be necessary that we
see him as he is. But what is that? it is something
that never entered into the heart of man to conceive;
yet what we can easily conceive, will be a fountain oi
unspeakable and everlasting rapture. All created glories will fade and die away in his presence. Perhaps
it will be my happiness to compare the world with the
fair exemplar of it in the divine mind; perhaps to view
the original plan of those wise designs that have beer.
executing in a long succession of ages. Thus emploved in finding out his works, and comtemplating
thel: author, how shall I fall prostrate and adoring
my nody swallowed up in the immensity of matter
my mind in the infinitude of his perfections!
TRUE AND FALSE WIT.
A DREAM.
Humano capiti cervicem pictor equinam
Jungere si velit, et varias inducere plumas,
Undiqtue collatis membris, ut turpiter atrum
Desinat in piscem mulierformosa superne;
Spectatum admissi risum teneatis amici?
Credite, Pisonis isti tabula, fore librum
Persimilem, cujus, velut a~gri somnia, vanta
Jinguntur species
HOR. Ars. Poet. ver. L
" If in a picture, Piso, you should see
A handsome woman with a fish's tail,
Or a man's head upon a hore's neck,
Or limbs of beast, of the most different kinds,
Cover'd with feathers of all sorts of birds;
Would you not laugh, and think the painter mad 1
Trust me that book is as ridicule: is,
Whose incoherent style, like sick men's dreams,
Varies all shapes, and mixes all extremes."
ROSCOMMON.




118         TRUE AND FALSE WIT.
METHOUGHT I was tr.nsported into a cc untry that
was filled with prodigies and enchantments, governed
by the goddess of Falsehood, and entitled the Region
of False Wit. There was nothing in the fields, the
woods, and rivers, that appeared natural. Several of
the trees blossomed in leaf-oold, some of them produced bonelace, and some of tenam precious stones. The
fountains bubbled in an opera tune, and were filled
with stags, wild-boars, and mermaids that lived among
the waters: at the same time that dolphins and several kinds of fish played upon the banks, or took their
pastime in the meadows. The birds had many of
them golden beaks, and human voices. The flowers,erfumed the air with smells of incense, ambergris,
and pulvillios;* and were so interwoven with one
another, that they grew up m pieces of embroidery.
The winds were filled with sighs and messages of
distant lovers. As I was walking to'and fro in this
enchanted wilderness, I could not forbear breakin_
out into soliloquies upon the several wonders whicK
lay before me, when, to my great surprise, I found
there were artificial echoes in every walk, that by
repetitions of certain words which I spoke, agreed
with me, or contradicted me, in every thing I said.
In the midst of my conversation with these invisible
companions, I discovered in the centre of a very dark
grove a monstrous fabric built after the Gothic manner, and covered with innumerable devices in that
barbarous kind of sculpture. I immediately went up
to it, and found it to be a kind of heathen temple,,
consecrated to the god of Dulness. Upon my entrance
I saw the deity of the place dressed in the habit of a
monk, with a book in one hand, and a rattle in the
other. Upon his right hand was Industry, with a lamp
burning before her; and on his left Caprice, with a
monkey sitting on her shoulder. Before his feet there
stood an altar of a very odd make, which as I afterwards found, was shaped in that manner to comply
with the inscription that surrounded it. Upon the
* Sweet scents.




TRUE AND FALSE WIT.            119
altai there lay several offerings of axes, wings, and
eggs, cut in paper, and inscribed with verses. The
temple was filled with votaries, who applied them.
selves to different diversions, as their fancies directed
them. In one part of it I saw a regiment of Anagrams, who were continually in motion, turning to
the right or to the left, facing about, doubling their
ranks, shifting their stations, and throwing themselves
into all the figures and counter-marches of the most
changeable and perplexed exercise.
Not far from these was a body of Acrostics, made
up of very disproportioned persons. It was disposed
into three columns, the officers planting themselves in
a line on the left hand of each column. The officers
were all of them, at least six feet high, and made three
rows of very proper men; but the common soldiers,
who filled up the spaces between the officers, were
such drawfs, cripples, and scarecrows, that one could
hardly look upon them  without laughing. There
were behind the Acrostics two or three files of Chronograms, which differed only f'om  the former, as
their officers were equipped (like the figure of Time)
with an hour-glass in one hand, and a scythe in the
other, and took their posts promiscuously among the
private men whom they commanded.
In the body of the temple, and before the very face
of the deity, methought I saw the phantom of Tryphiodorus the lipogrammatist, engaged in a ball with
four-and-twenty persons, who pursued him by turns
through all the intricacies and labyrinths of a countrydance, without being able to overtake him.
Observing several to be very busy at the western
end of the temple, I inquired into what they were doing, and found there was in that quarter the great
magazine of Rebuses. These were several things of
the most different natures tied up m bundles, and
thrown upon one another in heaps like faggots. You
might behold an anchor, a night-rail, and a hobbyhorse bound up together. One of the workmen seeing me very much surprised, told me, there was an
infinite deal of wit in several of those bundles, MnA




120         TRUE AND FALSE WIT.
that he would explain them to me it I pleased: I
thanked him for his civility,'ut told him I was in
very great haste at that time. As 1 was going out
of the temple, I observed in one corner of it a cluster
of men and women laughing very heartily, and diverting themselves at a game of Crambo. I heard
several Double Rhymes as I passed by them, which
raised a great deal of mirth.
Not far from these was another set of merry people
engaged at a diversion, in which the whole jest was
to mistake one person for another. To give occasion
for these ludicious mistakes, they were divided into
pairs, every pair being covered from head to foot with
the same kind of dress, though perhaps there was not
the least resemblance in their faces. By these means
an old man was sometimes mistaken for a boy, a
woman for a man, and a black-a-moor for a European, which very often produced great peals of laughter. These 1 guessed to be a party of Puns. but
being very desirous to get out of this world of magic,
which had almost turned my brain, I left the temple,
and crossed over the fields that lay about it with all
the speed I could make. I was not gone far, before I
heard the sound of trumpets and alarms, which seemed
to proclaim the march of an enemy; and as I afterwards found, was in reality what I apprehended it.
There appeared at a great distance a very shining
light, and, in the midst of it, a person of a most beau.
tiful aspect: her name was Truth. On her right
hand there marched a male deity, who bore several
quivers ozn his shoulders, and grasped several arrows
in his hand; his name was Wit. The approach of
these two enemies filled all the territories of False
Wit with an unspeakable consternation,' insomuch that
the goddess of those regions appeared in person upon
her frontiers, with the several inferior deities, and the
different bodies of forces which I had before seen in
the temple, who were now drawn up in array, and
prepared to give their foes a warm reception. As the
march of the enemy was very slow, it gave time to
the several inha'Jittnts who bordered upon the regions




TRUE AND FALSE WIT.            121
of Falsehood to draw their forces into a body, with a
designto stand upon their guard as neuters, and attend
the issue of the combat.
I must here inform my reader, that the frontiers of
the enchanted region, which I have before described,
were inhabited by the species of Mixed Wit, who
made a very odd appearance when they were mustered together in an army. They were men whose
bodies were stuck full of darts, and women whose
eyes were burning glasses: men that had hearts of
fire, and women that had breasts of snow. It would
be endless to describe several monsters of the like nature, that composed this great army: which immeuately fell asunder, and divided itself into two parts,
the one half throwing themselves behind the banners
of Truth, and' the others behind those of Falsehood.
The goddess of Falsehood was of a gigantic stature, and advanced some paces before the front of her
army; but as the dazzling light which flowed from
Truth began to shine upon her, she faded insensibly;
insomuch that in a little space she looked rather likla huge phantom, than a real substance. At length,
as the goddess of Truth approached stil. nearer to
her, she fell away entirely, and vanished amidst the
brightness of her presence; so that there did not remain the least trace or impression of her figure in the
place where she had been seen.
As at the rising of the sun the constellations grow
thin, ard the stars go out one after another, till the
whole hemisphere is extinguished; such swas the vanishing of the goddess: and not only of the goddess
herself, but of the whole army that attended her,
which sympathized with their leader, and shrunk into
nothing, in proportion as the goddess disappeared. At
the same time the whole temple sunk, the fish betook
themselves to the streams, and the wild beasts to the
woods, the fountains recovered their murmurs, the
birds their voices, the trees their leaves, the flowers
their scents, and the whole face of nature its true and
genuine appearance. Though I still continued asleep
I fancied myself as it were awakened out of a dream
Vu




122         TtRUE AND FALSE WIT.
when 1 saw this region of prodigies restored to woods
and rivers, fields and meadows.
Upon the removal of that wild scene of wonders
which had very much disturbed my imagination, 1
took a full survey of the persons of Wit and Truth:
for indeed it was impossible to look upon the first,
without seeing the other at the same time. There
was behind them a strong compact body of figures.
The genius of Heroic Poetry appeared with a sword
in her hand, and a laurel on her head. Tragedy was
crowned with cvypress, and covered with robes dipped
in blood. Satire had smiles in her look, and a dagger
under her garment. Rhetoric was known by her
thunderbolt: and Comedy by her mask. After several other figures, Epigram marched up in the rear,
who had been posted there at the beginning of the expedition, that he might not revolt to the enemy, whom
he was suspected to favour in his heart. I was very
much awed and delighted with the appearance of the
god of Wit: there was something so amiable and yet
so piercing in his looks, a: inspired me at once with
love and terror. As I was gazing on him, to my unspeakable joy he took a quiver of arrows from his
shoulder, n order to make me a present of it; but
as I was reaching out my hand to receive it of him,
I knocked it against a chair, and by that means
awaked.                                    C.
[We shall add to these remarks of Addison the fol
lowing opinion on Aragrams, Acrostics, &c.
from another part of the Spectator.]
Several kinds of false wit, that vanished in the
refined ages of the world, discovered themselves again
in the times of monkish ignorance.
As the monks were the masters of all that litktle
learning which was then extant, and had their whole
lives entirely disengaged from business, it is no wonder that several of them, who wanted genius for
higher performances, emr?loyed mary hours in the




TRUE AND FALSE WIT.            123
composition of such tricks in writing, as required
much time and little capacity. I have seen half the..Eneid turned into Latin rhymes by one of the beaus
esprits of that dark age; who says in his peface to
it, that the Eneid wanted nothing but the sweets of
rhyme to make it the most perfect work in its kind.
I have likewise seen a hymn in hexameters to the
Virgin AMary, which filled a whole book, though it
consisted but of the eight following words.
Tot, tibi, sunt, Virgo, dotes, quol, sidera, ctelo.
"Thou h.ast as many virtues, 0 Virgin, as there are
stars in heaven."
The poet rung the changes upon these eight several
words, and by that means made his verses almost as
numerous as the virtues and the stars which they celebrated. It is no wonder that men who had so much
time upon their hands did not only restore all the antiquated pieces of false wit, but enriched the world
with inventions of their own. It was to this age that
we owe the production of anagrams, which is nothing
else but a transmutation of one word into another, or
the turnino of the same set of letters into different
words; which may change night into day, or black
into white, if Chance, who is the goddess that presides
over these sorts of composition, shall so 4direct. I remember a witty author, in allusion to this kind of
writing, calls his rival, who (it seems) was distorted,
and had his limbs set in places that did not properly
belong to them, the anagram of a man.
When the anagrammatist takes a name to work
upon, he considers it at first as a mine not broken up,
which will not show the treasure it contains, till he
shall have spent many hours in the search of it; for
it is his business to find out one word that conceals it
self in another, and to examine the letters in all the variety of stations in which they can possibly be rarged.
I have heard of a gentleman who, when this kind of
wit was in fashion, endeavoured to gain his mistress's
heart by it. She was one of the finest women of het




.24         TRUE AND FALSE WIT.
e, and known by the name of the lady llary Boom
he lover not being able to make any thing of Mary,
by certain liberties indulged to this kind of writing,
converted it into lloU,  and after having shut himself
up for half a year, with        industry, produced an anagram. Upon the presenting it to his mistress, who was a little vexed m her heart to see herself degraded into Moll Boon, she told him, to his infinite surprise, that he had mistaken her sirname, for
that it was not Boon, but Bohun.
t"'        Ibi omnis
Efrusus labor       "
The lover was thunderstruck with his misfortune,
insomuch that in a little time after he lost his senses,
which indeed had been very much impaired by that
continued application he had given to his anagram.
The acrostic was probably invented about the same
time with the anagram, though it is impossible to decide whether the inventor of the one or the other were
the greater blockhead. The simple acrostic is nothing
but the name or title of a person, or thing, made out of
the initial letters of several verses, and by that means
written, after the manner of the Chinese, in a perpendicular line. But besides these, there are compound
acrostics, when the principal letters stand two or three
deep. I have seen some of them where the verses have
not only been edged by a name at each extremity, but
have had the same running down like a seam through
the middle of the poem.
There is another near relation of the anagrams and
acrostics, which is commonly called a chronogram.
This kind of wit, appears very often on many modern
medals, especially those of Germany, when they represent in the inscription the year in vv hich they were
coined. Thus we see on a medal of (xustavus Adolphus the following words: ChrIstVs DuX ergo trlVMphVs. If you take the pains to pick the figures
out of the several words, and range them in their proper order, you will find they amount to MDCXXV1IL




CHRISTIANITY THE PARENT, &C.      IX5
or 1627, the year in which the medal was stamped ~
for as some of the letters distinguish themselves from
the rest, and overtop their fellows, they are to be con3idered in a double capacity, bath as letters and as
figures. Your laborious German wits will turn over
a whole dictionary for one of these ingenious devices.
A man would think they were searching after an apt
classical term, but instead of that they are looking out
a word that has an L, an M, or a D in it. When tlere.
fore we meet with any of these inscriptions, we are
not so much to look in them for the thought, as for the
year of the Lord.
The bouts rimez were the favourites of the French
nation for a whole age together, and that at a time
when it abounded in wit and learning. They were
a list of words that rhyme to one another, drawn up
by another hand, and given to a poet, who was to
make a poem to the rhymes in the same order that
they were placed upon the list: the more uncommon the rhymes were, the more extraordinary was
the genius of the poet that could accommodate his
verses to them. I do not know any greater instance
of the decay of wit and learning among the French
(which generally follows the declension of empire)
than the endeavouring to restore this foolish kind
of wit.
CHRI STIANITY
THE
PARENT OF SUBLIME ELOQUENCE.
Omnia profecto, cum se a cclestibus rebus referet ad
humanas, excelsius magnificentiusque et dicet et
sentiet.                          CICERO.
"The contemplation of celestia things will make a man
both speak and think more sublimely and magn;ticently
when.e descends to human affairs'. was a very common inquiry among the ancients
why the number of excellent orators, under all the




126       tH5RISTIANITY THE PARENT
encouragements the most flourishing states could
give them, fell so far short of the number of those
who excelled in all other sciences. A friend of mine
used merrily to apply to this case an observation of
Herodotus, who says, that the most useful animals
are the most fruitful in their generation; whereas
the species of those beasts that are fierce and mischievous to mankind are but scarcely continued. The
historian instances in a hare, which always either
breeds or brings forth; and a lioness, which brings
forth but once, and then loses all power of conception. But, leaving my friend tohis mirth, I am of opinion, that in these latter ages we have greater cause
of complaint than the ancients had. And since that
solemn festival is approaching, which calls for all
the power of oratory, and which affords as noble a
subject for the pulpit as any revelation has taught
us, the design of this paper shall be to show, that
our moderns have greater advantages towards true
and solid eloquence, than any which the celebrated
speakers of antiquity enjoyed
The first great and substantial difference is, that
their common places, in which almost the whole
force of amplification consists, were drawn from the
profit or honesty of the action, as they regarded only
this present state of duration. But Christianity, as
it exalts morality to a greater perfection, as it brings
the consideration of another life into the question,
as it proposes rewards and punishments of a higher
nature and a longer continuance, is more adapted
to affect the minds of the audience, naturally inclined to pursue what it imagines its greatest interest and concern. If Pericles, as historians report,
could shake the firmest resolution of his hearers,
and set the passions of all Greece in a ferment, when
the present welfare of his country, or the fear of
hostile invasions, was, the subject; what may be
expected from that orator, who warns his audience
against those evils which have no remedy, when
once undergone, either from prudence or time? As
much greater as the evils in a future state are than




OF SUBLIME ELOQ1ENCE,           127
these at present, so much are the motives to per.
suasion under Christanity greater than those which
mere moral consideration could supply us with.
But what 1 now mention relates only to the power
of moving the affections.-There is another part of
eloquence, which is indeed its masterpiece; I mean
the marvellous or sublime. In this the Christian
orator has the advantage beyond contradiction. Our
ideas are so infinitely enlarged by revelation, the eye
of reason has so wide a prospect into eternity, the notions of a Deity are so worthy and refined, and the accounts we have of a state of happiness or misery so
clear and evident, that the contemplation of such objects
will give our discourse a noble vigour, an invincible
force, beyond the power of any human consideration.
Tully requires in his perfect orator some skill in the
nature of heavenly bodies, because, says he, his mind
will become more extensive and unconfined; and when
he descends to treat of human affairs, he will both
think and write in a more exalted and magnificent
manner. For the same reason, that excellent master
would have recommended the study of those great
and gloriousmy steries which revelation has discover.
ed to us; to which the noblest parts of this system of
the world are as much inferior as the creature is less
excellent than its Creator. The wisest and most
knowing among the heathens had very poor and imperfect notions of a future state. They had indeed
some uncertain hopes, either received by tradition
or gathered by reason, that the existence of' virtuous
men would not be determined by the separation of
soul and body; but they either disbelieved a future
state of punishment and misery; or, upon the same
account that Apelles painted Antigonus with' one
side only towards the spectator, that the loss of his
eye might not cast a blemish upon the whole piece;
so these represented the condition of man in its
fairest view, and endeavoured to conceal what they
thought was a deformity to human nature. I have
often observed, that whenever the above-lnentioned
orator in his philosophical discourses is led  y his




28       CsHRISTIANITY THE PARENT
argument to the mention of immortality, he semnts
like one awaked out of sleep; roused and alarmed
with the dignity of the subject, he stretches his
imagination to conceive something uncommon, and,
with the greatness of his thoughts, casts, as it were
a glory round the sentence. Uncertain and unsettled
as he was, he seems fired with the contemplation of
it.-And nothing but such a glorious prospect could
have forced so great a lover of truth as he was, to
declare his resolution never to part with his persuasion of immortality, though it should be proved to
be an erroneous one. But had he lived to see all that
Christianity has brought to light, how would he
have lavished out all the force of eloquence in those
noblest contemplations which human nature is capable of, the resurrection and the judgment that follows
it? How had his breast glowed with pleasure, when
the whole compass of futurity lay open and exposed
to his view? How would his imagination have
hurried him on in the pursuit of the mysteries of
the incarnation? How would he have entered, with
the force of lightning, into the affections of his
hearers, and fixed their attention, in spite of all the
opposition of corrupt nature, upon those glorious
themes which his eloquence hath painted in such
lively and lasting colours?
This advantage Christians have; and it was with
no small pleasure I lately met with a fragment of
Longinus, which is preserved, as a testimony of that
critic's judgment, at the beginning of a manuscript
of the New Testament in the Vatican library. After
that author has numbered up the most celebrated
orators among the Grecians, he says, " add to these
Paul of Tarsus, the patron of an opinion not yet fully
proved." As a heathen, lie condemns the Christian
Religion; and, as an impartial critic, he judges in
favour of the promoter and preacher of it. To me
it seems, that the latter part of his judgment adds
great weight to his opinion of St. Paul's abilities,
since, under all the prejudice of opinions directly
opposite, he is constrained to acknowledge the merit




9O  SUBLIME ELOQUENtEC.        129
of that apostle.. And no doubt, such as "onginus
describes St. Paul, such he appeared to the inhabitants of those countries which he visited and blessed
with those doctrines he was divinely commissioned
to preach. Sacred story gives us, in one circumstance, a convincing proof of his eloquernce, when
the men of Lystra called him Mercury, "because
he was the chief speaker," and would have paid divine worship to him, as to the god who invented and
presided over eloquence. This one account of our
apostle sets his character, considered as an orator
only, above all the celebrated relations of the skill
and influence of Demosthenes and his contemporaries. Their power in speaking was admired, but
still it was thought human: their eloquence warmed
and ravished the hearers, but still it was thought the
voice of man, not the voice of God. What advantage then had St. Paul above those of Greece or
Rome'? I confess [ can ascribe this excellence to
nothing but the power of the doctrines he delivered,
which may have still the same influence on the
hearers; which have still the power, when preached
by a skilful orator, to make us break out in the same
expressions as the disciples, who met our Saviour
in their way to Emmaus, made use of: "Did not
our hearts burn within us, when he talked to us by
the way, and while he opened to us the scriptures?"
I may be thought bold in my judgment by some;
but I must affirm, that no one orator has left us so
visible marks and footsteps of his eloquence as our
apostle. It may perhaps be wondered at, that in his
reasonings upon idolatry at Athens, where eloquence
was born and flourished, he confines himself to strict
argument only; but my reader may remember what
many authol s of the best credit have assured us, that
all attempts upon the affections and strokes of oratory were expressly forbidden by the laws of that
country, in courts of judicature. His want of eloquence therefore here, was the effect of his exact
conformity to the laws; but his discourse on the
resurrection to the Corinthians, his harangue before
VOL. 1.-9




301)          LONDON DESCRIBED.
Agrippa upon his own conversion, and the necessity
of that of others, are truly great, and may serve as
full examples to those excellent rules for the sublime.
which the best of critics has left us. The sum of all
this discourse is, that our clergy have no further to
look for an example of the perfection they may ar
rive at, than to St. Paul's harangues; that when he.
under the want of several advantages of nature, as
&he himself tells us, was heard, admired, and made a
standard to succeeding ages by the best judges of a
different persuasion in religion, I say, our clergy may
learn, that, however instructive their sermons are,
they are capable of receiving a great addition; which
St. Paul has given them a noble example of, and the
Christian religion has furnished them with certain
mnean4 oaf attaining to,
LONDON DESCRIBED
BY FOUR INDIAN KINGS.
1umgmnam aliud natura, aliud sapientia dixit.
JUVENAL
WGood taste and nature always speak the same."
WHEN the four Indian kings* were in this country
about a twelvemonth ago, I often mixed with the rab.
ble, and followed them a whole day together, being
wonderfully struck with the sight of everv thing that
is new and uncommon. I have since their departure
employed a friend to make many inquiries of their
* "The Spectator is written by Steele, with Addison's
help; it is often very pretty. Yesterday it was made of
a nqble hint I gave him long ago for his Tattlers, about
an Indian king, supposed to write his travels in England.
I repent he ever had it. I intended to have written a
book on that subject. I believe he has spent it all in one
paper, and all,ae tinder hints there ares mine too; but I
never see him nor Addison." —Swift's Letter to Mfre
Johnston, dated London, Apr'i 2S, 1711.




LO.N'DCN DEE CRIBED.          131
landlord, the upholsterer, relating to theii manners and
conversation, as also concerning the remarks which
they made in this country: for, next to the forming
a right notion of such strangers, I should be desirous of learning what ideas they have conceived of
Us.
The upholsterer finding my friend vtery inquisitive
about these his lodgers, brought him some time since
a little bundle of papers, which he assured him were
written by king Sa Ga Yean Qua Rash Tow, and,
as he supposes. left behind by some mistake. These
papers are now translated, and contain abundance
of very odd observations, which 1 find this little fraternity of kings made during their stay in the isle of
Great Britain. I shall present my reader with a
short specimen of them in this paper, and may perhaps communicate more to him hereafter. In the article of London are the following words, which without doubt are meant of the church of St. Paul.
"On the most rising part of the town there stands
a huge house, big enough to contain the whole nation
of which I am king. Our good brother E Tow O
Koam, king of the Rivers, is of opinion it was made
by the hands of thr t great God to whom it is consecrated. The kings ot dranajah and of the Six Nations
oelieve that it was created with the earth, and produced on the same day with the sun and moon. But
for my own part, by the best information that I could
get of this matter, I am apt to think that this prodigious pile was fashioned into the shape it now bears by
several tools and instruments, of which they have a
wonderful variety in this country. It was probably
at first a huge misshapen rock that grew upon the top
of the hill, which the natives of the country (after
having cut it into a kind of regular figure) bored and
hollowed with incredible pains and industry, till they
had wrought it into all those beautiful vaults and caverns into which it is divided at this day. As soon as
this rock was thus curiously scooped to their liking, a
prodigious number of hands must have been employed in chipping the outside of it, which is now as smooth




132           LONDON DESCRIBE
as the surface of a pebble; and is in several places
hewn out into pillars that stand like the trunks of so
many trees bound about the Lop with garlands o!
leaves. It is probable that when this great work was
begun, which must have been many hundred years
ago, there was some religion among this people; for
they give it the name of the temple, and have a tradition that it was designed for men to pay their devotion
in. And indeed there are several reasons which make
us think that the natives of this country had formerly
among them some sort of worship; for they set apart
every seventh day as sacred: but upon my going into
one of these holy houses on that day, I could not observe any circumstances of devotion in their behaviour. There was indeed a man in blank, who was
mounted above the rest, and seemed to utter something
with a Great deal of vehemence; but as for those un
derneat& him, instead of paying their worship to the
deity of the place, they were most of them bowing an'
courtesying to one another, and a considerable nuniber of them fast asleep.
" The queen of the country appointed two men to
attend us, that had enough of our language to make
themselves understood in some few particulars. But
we soon perceived these two were great enemies to
one another, and did not always agree in the same
story. We could make shiftto gather out of one of them,
that this island was very much infested with a monstrous kind of animals in the shape of men, called
Whigs; and he often told us, that he hoped we should
meet with none of them in our way, for that if we did,
they would be apt to knock us down for being kings.
"Our other interpreter used to talk very much of a
kind of animal called a Tory, that was as great a monster as the Whig, and would treat us as ill for being
foreigners. These two creatures, it seems, are born
with a secret antipathy to one another, and engage
when they meet as naturally as the elephant and the
rhinoceros. But as we saw none of either of these
species, we are apt to think that our guides deceived
us with misrelresentations and fictions, and amused




LONDON DESCRIBED.            133
as with an account of such monsters as are not really
in their country.
" These particulars we made a shift to pick out
from the discourse of our interpreters; which we put
together as well as we could; being able to understand
But here and there a word of what they said, and afterwards making up the meaning of it among ourselves. The men of the country are very cunning
and ingenious in handicraft works, butwithal so very
idle, that we often saw young lusty raw-boned fellows
carried up and down the streets in little covered rooms
by a couple of porters, who arehired for that service.Their dress is likewise very barbarous, for they almost
strangle themselves about the neck, and bind their
bodies with many ligatures, that we are apt to think
are the occasion of several distempers among them,
which our country is entirely free from. Instead of
those beautiful feathers with which we adorn our
heads, they often buy up a monstrous bush of hair,
which covers their heads, and falls down in a large
fleece below the middle of their backs; with which
they walk up and down the streets, and are as proud
of it as if it was of their own growth.
" We were invited to one of their public diversions,
where we hoped'o have seen the great men of their
country running down a stag, or pitching a bar, that
we might have discovered who were the persons of the
greatest abilities among them; but instead of that they
conveyed us into a huge room lighted up with abundance of candles, where this lazy people sat still above
three hours to see several feats of ingenuity performed by others, who it seems were paid for it.
" As for the women of the country, not being able
to talk with them, we could only make our remarks
upon them at a distance. They let the hair of their
heads grow to a great length; but as the men make
i great show with heads of hair that are none of their
own, the women, who they say have very fine heads
of hair, tie it up in a knot, and cover it from being
seen. The women look like angels, and would bo




134              STAGE TRICKcS;
more beautiful than the sun, wel  it not for little
blaick spots that are apt to break out in their faces,
and sometimes rise in very odd figures. 1 have observed that those little blemishes Wear off very soon;
but when they disappear in one part of the face, they
are very apt to break out in another, insomuch that
I have seen a spot upon the forehead in the afternoon,
which was upon the chin in the mrnrning."
The author then proceeds to show the absurdity
of breeches and petticoats, with many other curious
observations, which I shall reserve for another occasion. Icannot however conclude this paper without taking notice, that amidst these wild remarks
there now and then appears something very reasonable. I cannot likewise forbear observing, that we
are all guilty in some measure of the same narrow
way of thinking which we meet with in this abstract
of the Indian journal, when we fancy the customs,
dresses, and manners of other countries are -idiculous and extravagant, if they do not resemble
those of our own.
C.
STAGE TRICKS.
Garganum mugire outes nemus aut mare Thuscum,
T'anto cume strepitu, ludi spectantur; et artes,
Divitieque peregrince; qui/bn.s o!,litus actor
Cum stelit in scena, concurrit dextera levae,
Dixit adhuc aliquid? Nihil sane. Quid placet ergo 1
Lana Tarentino violas imitato veneno.
HORATIUS.
IMITATED.
Loud as the wirolves on Orca's stormy steep
Howl to the roarings of the northern deep:
Such is the shout, the long.-applallding note,
At Quin's high plume, or Olilield's petticoat,
Or when from. court a birth-day suit bestow'd,
Sinks the lost actor in the taw'ry load.




STAGE IRICKS.              135
Booth enters-hark I'he universal peal!But has he spoken — Not a syllableWhat shook the stage, and made the people sta'e I
Cato's long wig, tlow'rd gown, and lacquer'd chair.
POPE.
ARISTOTLE has observed, that ordinary writers in
tragedy endeavour to raise terror and pity in their
audience, not by proper sentiments aind expressions,
but by the dresses and decorations of the stage.
There is something of this kind very ridiculous in
the English theatre. When the author has a mind
to terrify us, it thunders: when he would make us
melancholy, the stage is darkened. But among all
our tragic artifices, I am the most offended at those
which are made use of to inspire us with magnificent
ideas of the persons that speak. The ordinary method of making a hero, is to clap a huge plume of
feathers upon his head, which rises so very high,
that there is often a greater length from his chin to
the top of his head, than to the sole of his foot. One
would believe, that we thought a great man and a
tall man the same thing. This very much embarrasses the actor, who is forced to hold his neck extremely stiff and steady all the while he speaks; and
notwithstanding any anxieties which he pretends for
his mistress, his country, or his friends, one may
see by his action, that his greatest care and concern
is to keep the plume of feathers from falling off his
head. For my own part, when I see a man uttering
his complaints under such a mountain of feathers,I
am apt to look upon him rather as an unfortunate
lunatic, than a distressed hero. As these superfluous ornaments upon the head make a great man, a
princess generally receives her grandeur from those
additional incumbrances that fall into her tail: I
mean the broad sweeping train that follows her in
all her motions, and finds constant employment for a
boy who stands behind her to open and spread it to
advantage. I do not know how others are affected
at this sight, but I must confess my eyes are who ly




136             STAGE TRICKS.
taken up with the page's part, and, as for the  uIeers,
I am not so attentive to any thing she speaks, as ta
the right adjusting of her train, lest it should chance
to trip up her heels, or incommode her, as she walks
to and fro upon the stage. It is, in my opinion, a
very odd spectacle, to see a queen ve.nting her passions in a disordered motion, and a little boy taking
care all the while that they do not ruffle the tail o6
her gown. The parts that the two persons act on
he stage at the same timune are very different. The
princess is afraid lest she should incur the displeasui e of the king her father, or lose the hero her lover,
whilst her attendant is only concerned lest he should
entangle her feet in her petticoat.
We are told, that an ancient tragic poet, to move
the pity of his audience for his exiled kings and
distressed heroes, used to make the actors represent
them in dresses and clothes that were threadbare
and decayed. This artifice for moving pity seems
as ill contrived as that we have been speaking of,
to inspire us with a great idea of the persons introduced upon the stage. In short, I would have our
conceptions raised by the dignity of thought and
sublimity of expression, rather than by a train of
robes or a plume of feathers.
Another mechanical method of making great men,
and adding dignity to kings and qIeens, is to accompany them with halberts and battle-axes. Two
or three shifters of scenes, with the two candle-snuffers, make up a complete body of guards upon the
English stage; and by the addition of a few porters
dressed in red coats, can represent above a dozen
legions. I have sometimes seen a couple of armies
drawn up together upon the stage, when the poet
has been disposed to do honour to his generals. It
is impossible for the reader's imagination to multiply twenty men into such prodigious multitudes, or
to fancy that two or three hundred thousand soldiers
are fighting in a room of forty or fifty yards in compass. Incidents of sE;:a nature should be told, no
rerestanted.




STAGE TIICKS.             131
-~-    ~Non tamen intus
Digna geri promes in seenam: multaque tolles
Ex oculis, quwt mox narretfacundia pracsens.
IIOR. Arn. Poet. ver. 182.
"Yet there are things improper for a scene,
Which men of judgment only will relate."
ROSCOMMON.
I should, therefore, in this particular, recommend
to my countrymen the example of the French stage,
where the kings and queens always appear unattended, and leave their guards behind the scenes. 1 should
likewise be glad if we imitated the French in banishmg from our stage the noise of drums, trumpets, and
huzzas; which is sometimes so very great, that when
there is a battle in the Haymarket theatre, one may
hear it as far as Charing Cross.
I have here only touched upon those particulars
which are made use of to raise and aggrandize the
persons of a tragedy; and shall show in another paper the several expedients which are practised by
authoir  of a vulgar genius, to move terror, pity, or
admiration, in their hearers.
The tailor and the painter often contribute to the
success of a tragedy more than the poet.-Scenes affect
ordinary minds as much as speeches; and our actors
are very sensible, that a well dresedA play has sometimes brouoht them as full audiences as a well-written one.-'the Italians have a very good phrase to express this art of imposing upon the spectators by appearances; they call it the fourberia della seena" the knavery, or trickish part of the drama." But however the show and outside of the tragedy may work
upon the vulgar, the more understanding part of the
audience immediately see through it, and despise it.
A good poet will give the reader a more lively idea
of an army or a battle in a description, than if he actually saw them drawn up in squadrons and battalions,
or engaged in the confusion of a fight. Our minds
should be opened to great conceptions, and inflamed
with glorious sentiments by what theactor speaks
7




[3(8            STAGE TRICKS.
more than by what he appears. Can all the trappmgs
or equipage of a king or hero, give Brutus half that
pomp and majesty which he receives from a few lines
m Shaks Peare?
Among the several artifices which are put in practice by the poets to fill the minds of an audience with
terror, the first place is due to thunder and lightning,
which are often mna(le use of at the descending of a
god, or the rising of a ghost, at the vanishing of a
devil, or at the death of a tyrant. I have known a
hell introduced into several tragedies with good effect;
and have seen the whole assembly in a very great
alarm all the while it has been ringing. But there is
nothing which delights and terrifies our English theatre so much as a ghost, especially when he appears in
a bloody shirt. A spectre has very often saved a play,
though he has done nothing but stalked across the
stage, or rose through a cleft of it, and sunk again without speaking one word. There may be a proper season for these several terrors; and when they only
come in as aids and assistances to the poet, they are
not only to be excused, but to be applauded. Thus
the sounding of the clock in Venice Preserved makes
the hearts of the whole audience quake; and conveys
a stronger terror to the mind than it is possible for
words to do. The appearance of the ghost in Hamlet
is a masterpiece in its kind, and wrought up with all
the circumstances that can create either attention or
horror. The mind of the reader is wonderfillly prepared for his reception by the discourses that precede
It. His dumb behaviour at his first entrance strikes
the imagination very strongly; but every time he enters he is still mnore terrifying. Who can read the
speech with which young Hamlet accosts him with
out trembling?
"Hlor. Look, my Lord, it comes.
HIam. Angels and ministers of grace defend us!
Be thou a spirit of health, or goblin damnned;
Bring with thee airs from heav'n, or l;asts from hell;
Be thy events wicked or charitable;
Thou com'st ifi such a questionable shape




STAGS TRICKS.               139
That I will speak to thee. I'll call the Elam.lt,
King, Father, Royal Dane. Oh! answer mae!
Let me not burst in ignorance; but tell
Why thy canoniz'd bones, hearsed in death,
Have burst their cerements? Why the sepulchre,
Wherein we saw the quietly inurn'd,
Hath op'd his pond'rous and marble jaws
To cast thee up again'! What may this mean 
That thou dead corse again in complete steel
Revisit'st thus the glimpses of the moon,
Making night liideous "I
1 do not, therefore, find fault with the artifices
abovementioned, when they are introduced with skill
and accompanied by proportionable sentiments and expressions in the writing.
For the moving of pity, our principal machine is
the handkerchief; and indeed in our common tragedies, we should not know very often that the persons
are in distress by any thing they say, if they did not
from time to time apply their handkerchiefs to their
eyes. Far be it from me to think of banishing this instrument of sorrow from the stage; I know a tragedy
could not subsist without it: all that I would contend
for, is to keep it from being misapplied. In a word, I
would have the actor's tongue sympathize with his
eyes.
A disconsolate mother, with a child in her hand, has
frequently drawn compassion from the audience, and
has therefore gained a place in several tragedies. A
modern writer, who observed how this had taken in
other plays, being resolved to double the distress, and
melt his audience twice as much as those before him
had done, brought a princess upon the stage with a
little boy in one hand, and a girl in the other. This
too had a very good effect. A third poet, being resolved to outwrite all his predecessors, a few years ago introduced three children with great success; and, as 1
am informed, a youngf gentleman, who is fully determined to break the most obdurate hearts, has a tragedy by him, where the first person that appears upon
the stage is an afflicted widow in her mourt; ing weeds,




14b              STAGE TRICKS.
rith half a dozen fatherless children attending her,
like tlose that usually hang about the figure of Cha.
rity. Thus several incidents:hat are beautifill in a
good writer, become ridiculous by falling into the
hands of a bad one
But among all our methods of moving pity or terror, there is none so absurd and barbarous, and what
more exposes us to the contempt and ridicule of our
neighbours, than that dreadful butchering of one another, which is very frequent upon the Elglish stage.
To delight in seeing men stabbed, yoisoned, racked,
or impaled, is certainly the sign of a cruel temper;
and as this is often practised before the British audience, several French critics, who think these are grateful spectacles to us, take occasion firom them to represent us as a people that delight in blood. It is, indeed
very odd, to see our stage strewed with carcasses in
the last scenes of a tragedy; and to observe in the
wardrobe af the play-house several daggers, poniards,
wheels, bowls for polson, and many other instruments
of death. Murders and executions are always transacted behind the scenes in the French theatre; which
in general is very agreeable to the manners of a polite and civilized people: but as there are no exceptions to this rule on the French stage, it leads them
into absurdities almost as ridiculous as that which fills
under our present censure. I remember in the famous
play of Corneille, written upon the subject of the Horatii and Curiatii, the fierce young hero who had
overcome the Curiatii one after another, (instead of
being congratulated by his sister for his victory, being.upbraided by her for having slain her lover,) in the
height of his passion and resentment kills her. If any
thing could extenuate so brutal an action, it would be
the doing of it on a sudden, before the sentiments of
nature, reason, or manhood, co'uld take place in him.
However to avoid public bloodshed, as soon as his
passion is wronight to its height, he follows his sister
the whole length of the stage, and forbears killing her
till they are both withdrawn behind t.le scenes. I must
confess, had he murdered her before the audience, the




STAGE TRICKS.              14u
Ildecency might have been greater; but as it is, it appears very unnatural, and looks like killing il, cold
blood. To give my opinion upon this case, the fact
ought not to have been represented, but to have been
told, if there was any occasion for it.
It may not be unacceptable to the reader to see how
Sophocles has conducted a tragedy under the like delicate circumstances. Orestes was in the same condi
tion with Hamlet in Shakspeare, his mother having
murdered his father, and taken possession of his kingdom in conspiracy with her adulterer. That young
prince therefore, being determined to revenge his
father's death uponl those who filled his throne, conveys himself by a beautiful stratagem into his mother's
apartment, with a resolution to kill her. But because
such a spectacle would have been too shocking to the
audience, this dreadful resolution is executed behind
the scenes: the mother is heard calling out to her son
for mercy; and the son answering her, lhat she showed
no mercy to his father: after which she shrieks out
that she is wounded, and by what follows we find that
she is slain. I do not remember that in any of our
plays there are speeches made behind the scenes,
though there are other instances of this nature to be
met with in those of the ancients; and I believe my
reader will agree with me, that there is something infinitely more affecting in this dreadful dialogue between
the mother and her son behind the scenes, than could
have been in any thing transacted before the audience.
Orestes immediately after meets the usurper at the
entrance of his palace; and by a very happy thought
of the poet, avoids killing him before the audience, by
telling him that he should live some time in his present bitterness of soul before he would despatch him,
and by ordering him to retire into that part of the palace where he had slain his father, whose murder he
would revenge in the very same place where it. was
committed. -By these means the poet observes that
decency, which Horace afterwards established by a
rule, of forbearing to commit paricides or unnatural
murders before the audience.
el,




142             ST'AGE TRICKS.
Nec coran populo natos Medea trucidet.
Ars. Poet. ver. 186
ILet not Medea draw her murd'ring knfe,
And spill her children's blood upon the stage."
ROSCOMMON.
The French have therefore refined too much upon
Horace's rule, who never designed to banish all kinds
of death from the stage: but only such as had too
much horror in them, and which would have a better
effect upon the audience when transacted behind the
scenes. I would therefore recommend to my countrymen the practice of the ancient poets, who were very
sparing of their public executions, and rather chose to
perform them behind the scenes, if it could be done with
as great effect upon the audience. At the same time 1
must observe, that though the devoted persons of the
tragedy were seldom slain before the audience, which
has generally something ridiculous in it, their bodies
were often produced after their death, which has
always in it something melancholy or terrifying; so
that the killing on the stage does not seem to have;.en avoided only as an indecency, but also as an improbability..Vec pueros coramn populo MJedea trucidet
Aut humana palam coquat exta nefarius dltreus;
Aut in avem Progne vertatur, Cadnmus in anguen,
Quodcunque ostendis mihi sic, incredulis odi.
Hor. Ars. Poet. ver. 115
": Medea must not draw her murd'ring knife
Nor Atreus there his horrid feast prepare
Cadmus and Progne's metamorphoses,
(She to a swallow turn'd, he to a snake)
And whatsoever contradicts my sense,
I hate to see, and never can believe."
ROSCOMMOX
I have now gone through the several dramatic inventions which are made use of by the igonrant poets
to supply the place of tragedy, and by the skilful to
improve it: some of which I could wish entirely rejected, and the rest to be used with caution. It would




THE PROPER READ; KG, &C.         143
be an endless task to consider comedy in the same
light, and to mnention the innumerable shifts that small
wits put in practice to raise a laugh. Bullock in a
short coat, and Norris in a long one, seldom fail of this
effect. In ordinary comedies, a broad and a narrow
brimmed hat are different characters. Sometimes the
wit of the scene lies in a shoulder-belt, and sometinmes in a pair of whiskers. A lover running about
the stage with his head peeping out of a barrel,* was
thought a very good jest in King Charles the Second's
time: and invented by one of the first wits of that age.
But because ridicule is not so delicate as compassion,
and because the objects that make us laugh are infimitely more numerous than those that make us weep,
there is a much greater latitude for comic than tragic
artifices, and by consequence a much greater indulgence to be allowed them.
C.
ON THE PROPER READING OF
THE COMMON PRAYER.
Pronunciatio est vocis et vultus et gestus moderatio oum
venustate.
Delivery is a graceful management of the voice, countenance, and gesture.
THE well reading of thl, comi.on prayer, is of so
great importance, and so much neglected, that I take
the liberty to offer to the consideration of the reader
some particulars on that subject; and what more worthy his observation than this? A thing so public, and
of so high consequence. It is indeed wonderful, that
the frequent exercise of it should not make the per.
formers of that duty more expert in it. This inability
as I conceive, prpceeds from the little care that ~s taken
* The comedy of The Comical Revenge, )r Love in m
Tub, by Sir George Etheridge, 1664.




144        THE PROPER READING OF
of their reading, while boys are at school, where the
reading of English is wholly neglected, or at least
read to very little purpose, without any due observations made to them o0' the proper accent and manner
of reading: by this means they have acquired such
ill habits as will not easily be removed. The only
way that I know of to remedy this, is to propose some
person of great ability that way as a pattern for them;
example being most effectual to convince the learned
as well as instruct the ignorant.
I have been a constant frequenter of the service o
the church of England for above these four years last
past, and until Sunday was seven-night never discovered, to so great a degree, the excellency of the common prayer. When being at St. James's, Garlick hill
church, I heard the service read so distinctly, so emphatically, and so fervently, that it was next to an
impossibility to be unattentive. My eyes and my
thoughts could not wander as usual, but were confined
to my prayers: I then considered i addressed myself
to the Almighty, and not to a beautiful face. And when
I reflected on my former performances of that duty, I
found I had run it over as a matter of form, in comparison to the manner in which I then discharged it. My
mind was really affected, and fervent wishes accompanied my words. The confession was read with such a
resigned humility, the absolution with such a comfortable authority, the thanksgivings with such a relhgious joy, as made me feel those affections of the mind
in the manner 1 never did before. To remedy therefore
the grievance above complained of I humbly propose,
that this excellent reader, upon the next and every annual assembly of the clergy of Sion-College, and all
other conventions, should read prayers before them.
For then those that are afraid of stretching their mouths
and spoiling their soft voices, will learn to read with
clearness, loudness, and strength. Others that affect a
rakish, negligent air by folding their arms, and lolling
on their book, will he taught a decent behaviour, and
comely erection of body.'hase that read so fast as ii
impatient of their work, may learn to speak deliberately.




THE COmMON  "AYEBR.          145
There is another sort of persons whom I call Pindaric
readers, as being confined to no set measure; these
pronounce five or six words with great deliberation,
and the five or six subsequent ones with as great celerity: the first part of a sentence with a very exalted
voice, and the latter part with a submissive one: sometimes again with one sort of a tone, and imlmeiately
after with adififrent one. These gentlemen will learn
of my admired reader an evenness ot voice and delivery. And all who a'i innocent of these affectations,
but read with such ar. indifferency as if they did not
understand the language, may then be informed of the
art of reading movingly and fervently, how to place
the emphasis, and give the proper accent to each
word, and how to vary the voice according to the nature of the sentence. There is certainly a very great
difference betweenthe reading a prayer and a gazette,
which I beg to inform a set of readers, who affect,
forsooth, a certain gentleman-like familiarit.y of tone,
and mend the language as they go on, crying instead
of pardoneth and absolveth, pardons and absolves
These are often pretty classical scholars, and woukl
think it an unpardonable sin to read Virgil or Martia
with so little taste as they do divine service.
This indiferency seems to me to arise front the endeavour of avoiding the imputation of cant, and the
false notion of it. It 1wll be proper therefore to trace the
original and signification of this word. Cant is, by
some people, derived from one Andrew Cant, who,
they say, was a Presbyterian minister in some illiterate
part of Scotland, who by exercise and use had obtained the faculty, alias gift, of talking in the pulpit
in such a dialect, that it is said he was understood by
none but his own congregation, and not by all of them.
Since Master Cant's time it has been unders.ood in a
larger sense, and signifies all sudden exclamations,
whlnings, unLsual tones, and in fine -al praying -and
preaching, like the unlearned of the presbyterians.
Iut I hope a proper elevation of voice, a due empha.
sis and accent, are not to come within this descrip.
tion; so that our readers may still beas unlike tie
oa. L-t-o




146     THE PROPER READ.NG OF, &TC.
Presbyterians as they please. The dissenters, I mean
such as I have heard, do indeed elevate their voices,
but it is with sudden jumps from the lower to the
higher part of them; and that with so little sense ot
skill, that their eleva:ion and cadence is bawling and
muttering. They make use of an emphasis, but so
improperly, that it is often placed on some very insigninfcant particle, as upon if, or and. Now if these
improprieties have so great an effect on the people,
as we see they have, how great an influence would
the service of our church, containing the best prayers
that ever were composed, and that in terms most affecting, most humble, and most expressive of oul
wants, and dependence on the object of our worship,
disposed in most proper order, and void of all confu
sion; what influence, I say, would these prayers
have, were they delivered with a due emphasis, and
apposite rising and variation of voice, the sentence
concluded with a gentle cadence, and, in a word, with
such an accent and turn of speech as is peculiar to
prayer?
As the matter of worship is how managed, in dis.
senting congregations, you find insignificant words
and phrases raised by a lively vehemence: in our own
churches, the most exalted sense depreciated, by a dispassionate indolence. I remember to have heard Dr.
S   -  say in his pulpit, of the Common Prayer,
that, at least, it was as perfect as any thing of human
institution; if the gentlemen who err in this kind
would please to recollect the many pleasantries they
have read upon those who recite good things with an
ill grace, they would go on to think that what in that
case is only ridiculous, in themselves is impious. But
leaving this to their own reflections, I shall conclude
this trouble with what Caesar said upon the irreguiarity of tone.none who read before him, " Do you read
or sing? If you sing, you sing very ill."
T.




DISGRACE OF SPIES, &d.         147
DISGRACE OF SPIES
AND'rHEIR PATRONS.
Hi narrataferunt alio: menTuraqu6 icti
Creeit; et auditis aliquid novus adjzzit aur or.
OVIDIUS.
Some tell what they have heard, or tales devise:
Each fll'ion still improv'd with added lies.
OvID describes the Palace of Fame as situated in
the very centre of the universe, and perforated with so
many windows and avenues as gave her the sight of
every thing that was done in the heavens, in the earth,
and in the sea. The structure of it was contrived in
so admirable a manner, that it echoed every word
which was spoken in the whole compass of nature:
so that the palace, says the poet, was always filled
with a confused hubbub of low dying sounds, the
voices being almost spent, and worn out before they
arrived at this general rendezvous of speeches and
whispers.
I consider courts with the same regard to the governments which they superintend, as Ovid's Pa ace
of Fame with regard to the universe. —The eyes of a
watchful minister run through the whole people.
There is scarce a murmur or complaint that does not
reach his ears. They have news-gatherers and intelligencers distributed into their several walks and
quarters, who bring in their re spective quotas, and make
them acquainted with the discourse and conversation
of the whole kingdom or commonwealth where they
are employed. the wisest of kings, alluding to these
invisible and unsuspected spies, who are planted by
kings and rulers over their fellow-zitizens, as well as
to those voluntary informers, that are buzzing about
the ears of a great man, and making their court by
such secret methods of intelligence, has given us a
very prudent caution: "Curse not the king, no not
in thy thought, and curse not the rich in thy bedchamr
ber: for a bird of the air shall carry the voice, ami
that which hath wings shall tell the matter."




148           DISGRAC E OP SPIES
As it is absolutely necessary for rulers to make use
of other people's eyes and ears, they should take particular care to do it in such a manner, that it may not
bear too hard on the person whose life and conversation are inquired into. A man who is capable of so
infamous a calling as that of a spy, is not very much
to be relied upon. He can have no great ties of
honour, or checks of conscience, to restrain him in
those covert evidences, where the person accused has
no opportunity of vindicating himself. He will be
more industrious to carry that which is grateful, than
that which is true. There will be no occasion for him,
if he does not hear and see things worth discovery;
so that he naturally inflames every word and circumstance, aggravates what is faulty, perverts what is
good, and misrepresents what is indifferent. Nor is
it to be doubted but that such ignominious wretches
let their private passions into these their clandestine
informations, and often wreak their particular spite or
malice against the person whom they are set to watch.
It is a pleasant scene enough, which an Italian author describes between a spy, and a cardinal who employed him. The cardinal is epresented as minuting
down every thing that is told him. The spy begin.
with a low voice, Such a one, the advocate, whispered
to one of his friends, within my hearing, that your
eminence was a very great poltrori: and after having
given his patron time to take it down, adds, that another called him a mercenary rascal in a public conversation. The cardinal replies, Very well, and bids him
go on. The spy proceeds, and loads him with reports
of the same nature, till the cardinal rises in great
wrath, calls him an impudent scoundrel, and kicks
him out of the room.
It is observed of great and keroic minds, that they
have not only shown a particular disregard to thosG
unmerited reproaches which have been cast upon them,
but have been altogether free from that impertinent
curiosity of inquiring after them, or the poor revenge
of resenting them. The histories of Alexander and
CGtsar are iul of this kind of instances.,Vulgar souls




AND THEIR PATRONS.             149
are of a quite contrary character. Dionysius, the
tyrant of Sicily, had a dungeon which was a very
curious piece of architecture, and of which, as I am
informed, there are still to be seen some remains in
that island. It was called "Dionysius's Ear," and
built with several little windings and labyrinths in the
form of a real ear. The structure of it made it, a kind
of whispering place, but such a one as gathered the
voice of him who spoke into a funnel which was placed at the very top of it. The tyrant used to lodge
all his state criminals, or those whom he supposed to
be engaged together in any evil designs upon him, in
this dungeon. He had at the same time an apartment
over it, where he used to apply himself to the funnel,
and by that means over-hear every thing that was
whispered in the dungeon. I believe one may venture
to affirm, that a Caesar or an Alexander would rather
have died by the treason, than have used such disingenuous means for the detecting of it.
A man, who in ordinary life is very inquisitive after
every thing which is spoken ill of him, passes his
time but very indifferently. He is wounded by every
arrow that is shot at him, and puts it in the power of
every insignificant enemy to disquiet him. Nay, he
will suffer from what has been said of him, when it is
forgotten by those who said or heard it. For this reason I could never bear one of those officious friends
that would be telling every malicious report. every idle
censure that passed upon me. The tongue of man is
so petulant, and his thoughts so variable, that one
should not lay too great a stress upon any present
speeches and opinions. Praise and obloquy proceed
very frequently out of the same mouth upon the same
person, and upon the same occasion. A generous enemy will sometimes bestow commendations, as the
dearest friend cannot sometimes refrain from speaking
111. The man who is indifferent in either of these respects, gives his opinion at random, and praises or
disapproves as he finds himself in humour.
I shall conclude this essay with a part of a character, which is finely drawn by the Earl of Clarendon




AbO              DISPLAY OF
in the first book of his History, and which gives us
the lively picture of a great man teasing himself with
an absurd curiosity.
"He had not that application and submission, and
reverence for the queen, as might have been expected
from his wisdom and breeding; and often crossed her
pretences and desires with more rudeness than was
natural to him. Yet he was impertinently solicitous
to know what her Majesty said of him in private, and
what resentments she had towards him. And when
by some confidents, who had their ends upon him from
those offices, he was informed of some bitter expressions fallen from her Majesty, he was so exceedingly
afflicted and tormented with the sense of it, that sometimes by passionate complaints and representations to
the king; sometimes by more dutiful addresses and
expostulations with the queen, in bewailing his misfor.
tune, he frequently exposed himself, and left his condition worse than it was before, and the eclaircissement commonly ended in the discovery of the person
from whom he had received his most secret intelligence."
DISPLAY OF
VARIOUS CHARACTERS,
IN A VISION.
Animam pictura pasczt mnan.
VIRG.
And with an emnty picture feeds his mind.
DRYDEN.
THE following morning's dream I shall colnmunicate to my reader, rather as the first sketch and outlines of a vision, than as a finished piece.
I dreamed that I was admitted into a long spacious
gallery, which had one side covered with pieces of all
the famous painters who are now living, and the other
with the works of the greatest masters that are dead,




VAaIOUS CHARaCTERS            151
On the s de of the living, I saw several persons busy
in drawing, colouring, and designing. On the side of
the dead painters, I could not discover more than one
person at work, who was exceeding slow in his motions, and wonderfully nice in his touches.
I was resolved to examine the several artists that
stood before me, and accordingly applied myself to the
side of the living. The first I observed at work in this
part of the gallery was Vanity, with his hair tied behind him in a riband and dressed like a Freachman.
All the faces he drew were very remarkable for their
smiles, and a certain smirking air which he bestowed
indifferently on every age and degree of either sex.
The toujorsgai appeared even in his judges bishops,
and privy-counsellors.  In a word, all his men were
petitse mitres, and all his women zcosettes. The
drapery of his figures was extremely well suited to his
faces, and was made up of all the glaring colours that
could be mixed together; every part of the dress was
in a flutter, and edeavoured to distinguish itself
above the rest.
On the left hand of Vanity stood a laborious workmnan, who I found was his humble admirer, and copied after him. He was dressed like a German, and
had a very hard name that sounded something like
Stupidity.
The third artist that I looked over was Fantasque,
dressed like a Venetian scaramouch. He had an ex
cellent hand at chimera, and dealt very much in dis
tortions and grimaces. He would sometimes afliight
himself with the phantoms that flowed from his pencil. In short, the most elaborate of his pieces was at
best but a terrifying dream; and one could say nothing more of his finest figures, than that they were
agreeable monsters
The fourth person I examined was very remarkable
for l;is hasty hand, which left his pictures so unfit ished, that the beauty in the picture (which was designed to continue as a monument of it to posterity) fased
sooner than in the person after whom it was drawn.
He mine so much haste to despatch his business, that




t62    DISPLAY OF VARIOUS CHARACTERS.
he neither gave himself timne to clean his penci4s, not
mix his colours. The name of this exkedltious workman was Avarice.
Not far from this artist I saw another of a quite different nature, who was dressed in the habit of a Dutchman, and known by the name of Industry. His
figures were wonderfully laboured. If he drew the
portraiture of a man, he did not omit a single hair in
his face; if the figure of a ship, there was not a rope
among the tackle that escaped him. He had likewise
hung a great part of the wall with night-pieces, that
seemed to show themselves by the candles which were
lighted up in several parts of them; and were so inflamed by the sun-shine which accidentally fell upon
them, that at first sight I could scarce forbear crying
outfire.
The five foregoing artists were the most considerable on this side of the gallery; there were indeed several others whom I had not time to look into. One
of them, however, I could not forbear observing, who
was very busy in retouching the finest pieces, though
he produced no originals ofiis' own. H-is pencil aggravated every feature that was before overcharged,
loaded every defect, and poisoned every colour it touched. Though this workman did so much mischief on
the side of the living, he never turned his eye towards
that of the dead. His name was Envy.
Having taken a cursory view of one side of the
gallery, I turned myself to that which was filled by
the works of those great masters that were dead; when
immediately I fancied myself standing before a multitude of spectators, and thousands of eyes looking upon
me at once; for all before me appeared so like men
and women, that I almost forgot they were pictures.
Raphael's figures stood in one row, Titian's in another,
Guido Rheni's in a third. One part of the wall was
peop;ed by Hannibal Carrache, another by Correggio,
and another by Rubens. To be short, there was not
a great master among the dead who had not contributed. to the embellishment of this side of the gallery
T'e p rsons that owed their being to these several




GLOOMY PRESAGES RIDICULED.          153
masters appeared all of them to be real and alive, and
differed among one another only in the variety of their
shapes, complexions, and clothes; so that they looked
like different nations of the same species.
Observing an old man (who was the same person 1
before mentioned, as the only artist that was at work
on this side of the gallery) creeping up and down from
one picture to another, and retouching all the fine pieces that stood before me, 1 could not but be very attentive to all his motions. I found his pencil was so very
light, that it worked imperceptibly, and after a thousand touches, scarce produced any visible ef!fct on the
picture in which he was employed  However, as he
busied himself incessantly, and repeated touch after
touch without rest or intermission, he wore off insensibly every little disagreeable gloss that hung upon a
figure. He also added such a beautiful brown to the
shades, and mellowness to the colours, that he made
every picture appear more perfect than when it came
fresh from the master's pencil. I could not forbear
looking upon the face of this ancient workman, and
immediately, by the long lock of hair upon his forehead, discovered him to be Time.
Whether it was because the thread of my dream
was at an end I cannot tell,but upon my taking a survey of this imaginary old man, my sleep left me.
C.
GLOOMY PRESAGES RIDICULED.
Somnnia, terrores magicos, miracula, sagas
Nocturneos lemures, portentaque ThIessala rides,
HOR.
Visiens and magic spells can you despise,
And augh at witches, ghosts, and prodigies I
GOING yesterday to dine with an old acquaintonce, I had the misfortune to find his whole family
very much deJccted.  Upon asking him the occasion
of it, he to d me that h;s wife had dreamt a strange




154      GLOOMY PRESAGES RIDICULED.
dream the night before, which they were afraid por
tended some misfortune to themselves or to their
children. At her coming into the room I observed a
settled melancholy in her countenance, which I
should have been troubled for, had I not heard from
whence it proceeded. We were no sooner At down,
but after having looked upon me a little while, " my
dear," says she, turning to her husband, " you may
now see the stranger that was in the candle last night."
I was reflecting with myself on the oddness of the
fancy. In the midst of these my musings she desired
me to reach her a little salt upon the point of my knife,
which 1 did in such a trepidation and hurry of obedience, that I let it drop by the way; at which she
immediately startled, and said it fell towards her.
Upon this I looked very blank; and, observing the
concern of the whole table, began to consider myself,
with some confusion, as a person that had brought a
disaster upon the family. The lady however recovering herself, after a little space, said to her husband
with a sigh, "my clear, misfortunes never come single."  My friend, I found, acted but an under paut at
his table, and being a man of more good-nature than
understanding, thinks himself obliged to fall in with
all the passions and humours of his yoke-fellow: " Do
not you remember, child," says she, " that the pigeonhouse fell the very afternoon that our careless wench
spilt the salt upon the table?"-" Yes," says he, " my
dear, and the next post brought us an account of the
battle of Alnianz%." The reader may guess at the
figure I made, after having done all this mischief. I
despatched my dinner as soon as I could with my
usual taciturnity; when, to my utter confusion, the
lady seeing me quitting my knife and fork, and laying
them across one another upon my plate, desired mle
that I would humour her so far as to take them out of
that figure, and place them side by side. What the
absurdity was which I had committed I did not know,
but I suppose there was some traditionary superstition;n it; a id therefore, in obedience to:he lady of the
house, disposed of my knife and fork in two parallel




GLOOMY PRESAGES RIDICULED.        355,ines, which is the figure I shall always lay them in
for the future, though I do not know any reason for it.
It is not difficult for a man to see that a person has
conceived an aversion to him. For my own part, 1
quickly found, by the lady's looks, that she regarded
me as a very odd kind of fellow, with an unfortunate
aspect, for which reason I took my leave immediately
after dinner, and withdrew to my own lodgings. Upon
my reblrn home, I fell into a profound contemplation
on the evils that attend these superstitious follies ot
mankind; how they subject us to imaginary afflictions,
and additional sorrows, that do not properly come within our lot. As if the natural calamities of life were not
sufficient for it, we turn the most indifferent circumstances into misfortunes, and suffer as much from
trifling accidents, as from real evils. I have known
the shooting of a star spoil a night's rest; and have
seen a man in love grow pale and lose his appetite,
upon the plucking of a merry-thought. A screechowl at midnight has alarmed a family more than a
band of robbers; nay, the voice of a cricket hath
struck more terror than the roaring of a lion. There
is nothing so inconsiderable, which may not appear
dreadful to an imagination that is filled with omens
and prognostics. A rusty nail, or a crooked pin,
shoot up into prodigies.
I remember I was once in a mixed assembly, that
was full of noise and mirth, when on a sudden an old
woman unluckily observed there were thirteen of us
m company. This remark struck a panic terror into
several who were present, insomuch that one or two
of the ladies were going to leave the room; but a friend
of mine taking notice that one of our female compan
ions was big with child, affirmed there were fourteen
in the room, and that instead of portending one of the
company should die, it plainly foretold one of them
should be born. Had not my friend found this expedient to break the omen, 1 question not but half the
women in the company would have fallen sick thid
very night.
An old mai 3 that is troubled with the vapours. pro,




156       GLOOMY PRESAGES RIDICULED.
duces infinite disturbances of this kind among her
friends and neighbours. I know a maiden aunt, of a
great family, who is one of these antiquated sybils,
that forebodes and prophesies from one end of the year
to the other. She is always seeing apparitions, and
hearing death-watches; and was the other day almost
frighted out of her wits by the great house-dog, that
howled in the stable at a time when she lay ill of the
tooth-ache  Such an extravagant'ast of mind engages multitudes of people, not only in impertinent terrors, but in supernumerary duties of life; and arises
from that fear and ignorance which are natural to the
soul of man. The horror with which we entertain the
thoughts of death (or indeed of any future evil) and
the uncertainty of its approach, fill a melancholy mind
with innumerable apprehensions and suspicions, and
consequently dispose it to the observation of such
groundless prodigies and predictions. For as it is the
chief concern of wise men, to retrench the evils of life
by the reasonings of philosophy; it is the employment
of fools, to multiply them by the sentiments of superstition.
For my own part, I should be very much troubled
were 1 endowed with this divining qutality, though it
should inform me truly of every thing that can befall
me. I would not anticipate the relisui of any happiless, nor feel the weight of any misery, before it actually arrives.
I know but one way of fortifying my soul against
these gloomy presages and terrors of mind, and that
is, by securing to myself the friendship and protection
of that Being, who disposes of events, and governs futurity. He sees, at one view, the wvLole thread of my
existence, not only that part of it which I have alrea1iy passed through, but that which r ins forward into
all the depths of eternity. When I lay me down to
sleep, I recommend myself to his care, when I awake,
I give myself up to his direction. Amidst all the evils
that threaten me, I will look up to h;m for help, and
question not but he will either avert them, or turn them
to my advantage. Though I know neither the time
nor the marrnr of the death I amn to die. I am not at




AN ABSENT MA$S                157
a I solicitous about it; because I am sure that he knows
them both, and that he will not fail to comfort anr
support me under them.
AN ABSENT MAN.
Yon convivere licet, nec urbe tota
Quisquam est tan prope tam proculgue nobi
MAR r
What correspondence can I hold with you,
Who are so near, and yet so distant too X
HAVING reflected on the little absences and distract:ons in mankind, I have resolved to make tnem the
subject of this speculation. I have been the more confirmed in my design, when I'have considered that
they were very often blemishes in the characters of
men of excellent sense; and helped to keep up the
reputation of that Latin proverb, which Mr. Dryden
has translated in the following lines:
" Great wit to madness sure is near ally'd,
And thin partitions do their bounds divide."*
My reader will, I hope, perceive, that I distinguish
it man who is absent because he thinks of something
else, from one who is absent because he thinks of nothing at all. The latter is too innocent a creature to
be taken notice of; but the distractions of the former
may, I believe, be generally accounted for from one of
these reasons.
Either their minds are wholly fixed on some particu-,ar science, which is often the case of mathematicians
and other learned men; or are wholly taken up with
some violent passion, such as anger, fear, or love,
which ties the mind to some distant object; or, lastly,
these distractions proceed from a certain vivacity and
* "SNullum magnum ingenium sine mixtura demen
e."-Seneca Je Tranquil. Anim. cap. xv.
8*




1t593          AN ABSENT MAN.
fick eneis m a man's temper, which, while it raises
up infinite nambers of ideas in the mind, is continuliy tpushing it on, without allowing it to rest on any
particular image. Nothing therefore is more unnatural than the thoughts and conceptions of such a man
which are seldom occasioned either by the company
he is in, or any of those objects which are placed before him. While you fancy he is admiring a beautiful woman, it is an even wager that he is solving a
position in Euclid; and while you may imagine he is
reading the Paris Gazette, it is far from being impossible, that he is pulling down and rebuilding the front
of his country house.
At the same time that I am endeavouring to expose
this wealmkness in others, I shall readily confess that 1
once laboured under the same infirmity myself. The
mnethod I took to conquer it was a firm resolution to
earn something from whatever I was obliged to see,,r hear. There is a way of thinking, if a man can
attain to it, by which he may strike somewhat out of
any thing. I can at present observe those starts of
good sense, and struggles of unimproved reason in the
conversation of a clown, with as much satisfaction as
the most shining periods of the most finished orator;
and can make a shift to command my attention at a
puppet-show or an opera, as well as at Hamlet or
Othello. I always make one of the company I am in;
for though I say little myself, my attention to others,
and those nods of approbation which I never bestow
unmerited, sufficiently show that I am among them.
Whereas an absent man, though of good sellbe, is every day doing and saying an hundred things, which
he afterwards confesses, were somewhat mal a-propos, and undesigned.
Monsieur Bruyere has given us the character of an
absent man with a great deal of humour, which he
has pushed to an agreeable extravagance; with the
heads of it I shall conclude my present paper.
" Menalcas (says that excellent author) comes down
in a morning, opens his door to go out, but shuts it
again, because lie perceives that he has his night-cap




AN ABSENT MAN.              159
on; and examining himself further, finds that he is
but half-shaved, that he has stuck his sword on his
right side, that his stockings are about his heels, and
that his shirt is over his breeches. When he is
dressed, he goes to court, comes into the drawingroom, and walking bolt-upright under a branch of
candlesticks, his wig is caught up by one of them,
and hangs (tangling in the air. All the courtiers
fall a laughing, but Menalcas laughs louder than
any of them, and looks about for tihe person that is
the jest of the company. Coming down to the court
gate he finds a coach, which, taking for his own, he
whips into it; and the coachman drives off, not
aoubtin- but lie carries his master. As soon as he
stops, iienalcas throws himself out of the coach,
crosses the court, ascends the staircase, and runs
through all the chambers with the greatest familiarity; reposes himself on a couch, and fancies himself at home. The master of the house at last comes
in; Menalcas rises to receive him, and desires him
to sit down; he talks, muses, and then talks again.
The gentleman of the house is tired and amazed:
Mlenalcas is no less so, but is every moment in hopes
that his impertinent guest will at last end his tedious
visit. Night comes on, when Menalcas is hardly
undeceived.
" When he is playing at backgammon, he calls
for a full glass of wine and water; it is his turn to
throw; he has the box in one baud, and his glass
in the other; and being extrerit,y dry, and unwilling to lose time, he swallows down both the dice,
and at the same time throws his wine into the tables.
He writes a letter, and flings the sand into the inknottle; he writes a second, and mistakes the super
scription. A nobleman receives one of them; ano
upon opening it reads as follows:'I would have
you, honest Jack, immediately upon the receipt of
this, take in hay enough to serve me the winter.
His farmer receiv's the other, and is amazed to see
in it,'My Lord, I received your Grace's commands,
with an entire submission to.' —If he is at an ea



J60          INKLE AN: YARICO
tertainment, you may see the pieces of bread continually multiplying round his plate. It is true the
rest of the company want it, as well as their knives
and forks, which Ienalcas does not let them keep
long. Sometimes in a morning he puts his whole
family in a hurry, and at last goes out without being able to stay fcr his coach or dinner; and for that
day, ynu may see him in every part of the town
except the very place where he had appointed to be
upon a business of importance. You would often
take him for every thing that he is not; for a fellow
quite stupid, for he hears nothing; for a fool, for he
talks to himself, and has a hundred grimaces and
motions in his head, which are altogether involun
tary: for a proud man, for he looks full upon you,
and takes no notice of your saluting him. The truth
of it is, his eyes are open, but he makes no use of
them, and neither sees you, nor any man, nor any
thing else. He came once from his country-house,
and his own footmen undertook to rob him, and
succeeded. They held a flambeau to his throat, and
bid him deliver his purse; he did so, and coming
home, told his friends he had been robbed; they
desired to know the particulars;' ask my servants,'
says Menalcas,'for they were with me.' "
X.
HISTORY OF INKLF,  AND YARICO.
MR. THOMAS INKLE, of London, aged twenty
years, embarked in the Downs, in the good ship the
Achilles, bound for the West Indies, on the 16th of
June, 1647, in order to improve his fortune by trade
and merchandise. Our adventurer was the third
son of an eminent citizen who had taken particular
care to instil into his mind an early love of gain, by
making him a perfect master of numbers, and consequently giving him a quick view of loss and ad
vantage, and preventing the natural impulses of 1is




INKLE AND YAR ZO.             161
passions, by prepossession towards his interests.
With a mind thus turned, young Inkle had a person every way agreeable, a ruddy vigour in his countenance, strength in his limbs, wieh ringlets of fair
hair loosely flowing on his shoulders. It happened
in the course of the voyage, that the Achilles, is
some distress, put into a creek on the main of Ame.
rica, in search of provisions: the youth, who is the
hero of my story, among others, went ashore on
this occasion. From their first landing they were
observed by a party of Indians, who hid themselves
in the woods for that purpose. The English unadvisedly marched a great distance from the shore into
the country, and were intercepted by the natives,
who slew the greatest number of them. Our adven
turer escaped among others, by flying into a forest.
Upon his coming into a remote and pathless part of
the wood, he threw himself tired and breathless, on
a little hillock, when an Indian maid rushed from
a thicket behind him. After the first surprise, they
appeared mutually agreeable to each other. If the
European was highly charmed with the limbs, features, and wild'graces of the naked American, the
American was no less taken with the dress, complexion, and shape of an European, covered from
head to foot. The Indian grew immediately enamoured of him, and consequently solicitous for his
preservation: she therefore conveyed him to a cave,
where she gave him a delicious repast of fruits, and,ed him to a stream to slake his thirst. In the midst
of these good offices she would sometimes play witb
his hair, and delight in the opposition of its colour
to that of her fingers; then open his bosom, then
laugh at him for covering it. She was, it seems, a
person of distinction, for she every day came to hir
In a different dress, of the most beautiful shells, bu
gles, and bredes. She likewise brought him a great
many spoils, which her other lovers had presented
to her; so that his cave was richly adorned with all
the spotted skins of beasts, and most party-coloured
feathers of fowls, w';-h that world afforded. To
VOL. I.-11   9




.62          INKLE AND YARICO.
make his confinement more tolerable, sne would car
ry him in the dusk of the evening, or by the favour
of moo-light, to unfrequented groves and solitudes,
and show, him where to lie down in safety and sleep
amidst the falls of waters, and melody of nightin
gales. Her part was to watch and hold him awake
in her arms, for feat of her countrymen, and wake
him on occasions to consult his safety. In this manner did the lovers pass away their time, till they had
learned a language of their own, in which the voyager communicated to his mistress how happy he
should be to have her in his country, where she
should be clothed in such silks as his waistcoat was
made of, and be carried in houses drawn by horses,
without being exposed to wind or weather. All this
he promised he.cr the enjoyment of without such fears
and alarms as they were there tormented with. In
this tender correspondence these lovers lived for several months, when Yarico, instructed by her lover,
discovered a vessel on the coast, to which she made
signals; and in the night, with the utmost joy and
satisfaction, accompanied him to a ship's crew of
his countrymen, bound for Barbadoes. When a vessel from the main arrives at that island, it seems the
planters come down to the shore, where there is an
immediate market of the Indians and other slavevs,
as with us of horses and oxen.
To be short, Mr. Thomas inkle, now coming into
English territories, began seriously to reflect upon his
loss of time, and to weigh with himself how many
days' interest of his money he had lost (luring his stay
with Yarico. This thought made the young man
very pensive, and careful what account he should be
able to give his friends of his voyage. Upon which
considerations the prudent and frugal young man sold
Yarico to a larbadian merchant; notwithstanding
that the poor girl, to incline him to commiserate her
con(lition, told him that she was with child by him;
but he only made use of that ir formation tv rise in his
iemands upon tk e purchaser.




DREAMS, TOKENS OF THE, &C.         163
DREAMS,
TOKENS OF THE GRANDEUR OF THE SOUL.
-Cut pres.t rata sopore
Urget membra quies d mens sine pondere ludit.
PETR.
While sleep oppresses the tired limbs, the mind
Plays without weight, and wantons unconfn'd.
THOUGH there are many authors who have wr:tter
on dreams, they have generally considered them only
as revelations of what has already happened in distant
parts of the world, or as presages of what is to happen
mn future periods of time.
I shall consider this subject in another light, as
dreams may give us some idea of the great excellency
of a human soul, and some intimation of its indepeitdence on matter.
In the first place, our dreams are great instances of
that activity which is natural to the human soul, and
which it is not in the power of sleep to deaden or abate.
When the man appears tired and worn out with the
labours of the day, this active part in his composition
is still busied and unwearied. When the organs ol
sense want their due repose and necessary reparations,
and the body is no longer able to keep pace with that
spiritual substance to which it is united, the soul exerts
herself inher several faculties, and continues in action
till her partner is again qualified to bear her company.
In this case, dreams look like the relaxations and
amusements of the soul, when she is disincumbered
of her machine; her sports, and recreations, when she
has laid her charge asleep.
In the second place, dreams are an instance of that
agility and perfection which is natural to the faculties
of the mind, when they are disengaged from the body
The soul is clogged and retarded in her operations
when she acts in conjunction with a companion t*iat
is so heavy and unwleldy in its motions. But in dreanrs
t is wonderful to obseria with what a sprightliness




,64        Db6EAMS, TOKENS OF THZ
and alacrity she exerts herself. The slow of speech,
make unpremeditated harangues, or convers( readily
in languages that they are but little acquainted with.
The grave abound in pleasantries, the dull in repartees
and points of wit.-There is not a more painful actior.
of the mlind, than invention; yet in dreams it works
with that ease and activity that we are not sensible
when the faculty is employed. For instance, I believe
every one, some time or other, dreams that he is readming papers, books, or letters; in which case the invention prompts so readily, that the mind is imposed
upon, and mistakes its own suggestions for the compositions of another.
I shall under this head quote a passage out of the
Religio Al1/edici, in which the ingenious author gives
an account of himself in his dreaming and his waking thoughts. "We are somewhat more than ourselves in our sleeps, and the slumbers of the body
seem to be but the waking of the soul. It is the ligation of sense, but the liberty of reason: and our
wakinx conceptions do not match the fancies of our
sleeps. At my nativity, my ascendant was the watery
sign of Scorpius: I was born in the planetary hour of
Saturn, and I think 1 have a piece of that Ileaden planet
in me. I am noway facetious, nor disposed for the
mirth and galliardize of company; yet in one dream I
can compose a whole comedy, behold the action, apprehend the jests, and laugh myself awake at the con
ceits thereof. Were my memory as faithful as my
reason is then fruitful, f would never study but in my
dreams; and this time also would I choose for n y devotions; but our grosser memories have then so little
hold of our abstracted understandings, that they forget
the story, and can only relate to our awakened souls
a confused and broken tale of that that has passed.
Thus it is observed, that men sometimes, upon the
hour of their departure, do speak reason above
themselves; for then the soul, beginning to be freed
from the ligaments of the body, begins to reason
ike herself, and to discourse in a strain above morality." -




GRANDEUR O THE SOUL.           1p
We may likewise observe, in the third place, that
the passions affect the mind with greater strength
when we are asleep, then when we are awake. Joy
and sorrow gives us more vigorous sensations of paid
or pleasure at this time, than at any other. Devotion,
likewise, as the excellent author above-mentioned has
hinted, is in a very particular manner heightened and
inflamed, when it rises in the soul at a time that the
body is thus laid at rest. Every man's experience will
inform him in this matter, though it is very probable,
that this may happen differently in different constitutions. I shall conclude this head with the two following problems, which I shall leave to the solution of
my reader. Supposing a man always happy in
nis dreams, and miserable in his waking thoughts,
and that his life was equally divided between them,
whether would he be more happy or miserable? Were
a man a king in his dreams, and a beggar awake, and
dreamed as consequentially, and in as continued unbroken schemes as he thinks when awake, whether
he would be in reality a king or beggar, or rather
whether he would not be both.?
There is another circumstance, which, methinks,
gives us a very high idea of the nature of the soul, in
ire-gard to what passes in dreams: I mean that innumerable multitude and variety of ideas which then
arise in her. Were that active watchful being only
conscious of her own existence at such a;ime, what
a painful solitude would her hours of sleep be? Were
the soul sensible of her being alone in her seeping.moments, after the same manner that she is sensib.e
of it while awake, the time would hang very heavy
en her, as it often actually does when she dreams that
she is in such solitude.
e- &mperque relinqui
ieola sibi, semper longam ineomitata videlur
Ire viats
VIRG.
-_-.She seems alone
To wander in her sleep through ways unknown,
Cileles a2ad aark.
DRYDEN




166      DREAMS, TOKENS OF THE, &c.
But this observation I only can make by the way
What I would here remark, is that wonderfll powe,
in the soul, of producing her own company on these
occasions. She converses with numberless beings of
her own creation, and is transported into ten thousand
scenes of her own raising. She is herself the theatre,
the actors, and the beholder. This puts me in mind
of a saying which I am infinitely pleased with, and
which Plutarch ascribes te Heraclitus. That all men
whilst they are awake are in one common world; kut
that each of them, when he is asleep, is in a world of
his own. The waking man is conversant in the world
of nature; when he sleeps he retires to a private world
that is particular to himself. There seems something
in this consideration that intimates to us a natural
grandeur and perfection in the soul, which is rather to
be admired than explained.
I must not omit that argument for the excellency
of the soul, which 1 have seen quoted out of Tertullian,
namely, its power of divining in dreams. That several such divinations have been made, none can question, who believes the Holy Writings, or who has but
the least degree of a common historical faith; there
being innumerable instances of this nature in several
authors, both ancient and modern, sacred and profane.
Whether such dark presages, such visions of the night,
proceed from any latent power in the soul, during this
her state of abstraction, or from any communication
with the Supreme Being, or from any operation of
subordinate spirits, has been a great dispute among
the learned: the matter of fact is, I think, incontestable and has been looked upon as such by the greatest
writers, who have oeen never suspected either of su
perstition or enthusiasm.
I do not suppose, that the soul in these instances
entirely loose ar d unfettered from the body; it is sufficient, if she is not so far sunk and immersed in matter,
nor entanged and perplexed in her operations, with
such motions of blood and spirits, as when she actuates the machine in its wakin, hours. The corporeal
union is slackened eno.tgh to give the mind more play




DEFINITION OF A FINE GENTLEMAN.    167
The soul seems gathered within herself, and recovers
that spring which is broke and weakened, when she
operates more m concert with the body.
The speculations I have here made, if they are not
argurnents, they are at least strong intimations, not
only of the excellency of a human soul, but of its mdependence on the body; and if they do not prove, do
at least confirm, these two great points, which are established by many other reasons that are altogether
unanswerable.                              0
DEFINITION OF
A FINE GENTLEMAN.
Omnis Aristippum decuit color, et status, et res.
110R. 1 Ep. xvii. 23.
All fortune fitted Aristippus well.
CREECII
THE generality (the fair sex especially) have very
false impressions of what should be intended when
they say a Fine Gentlemas. I have revolved this
subject in my thoughts, and settled, as it were, an
dea of that character in my own imagination.
No mall ought to have the esteem of the rest of the
world, for any actions which are disagreeable to those
maxims which prevail, as the standards of behaviour,
in the country wherein he lives. What is opposite to
the eternal rules of reason and good sense, must be
excluded from any place in the carriage of a well-bred
man. When a gentleman speaks coarsely, he has
dressed himself clean to no purpose. The clothing of
our minds certainly ought to be regarded before that
of our bodies. To betray in a man's talk a corrupt
imagination, is a much greater offence against the conversation of gentlemen, than any negligence of dress
Imaginable. But this sense of the matter is so far from
being received among people even of condition, that
Vocifer even passes for a fine gentleman. He is lots,,




168    DEFINITION OF A FINE GENTLE:MAN.
haughty, gentle, soft, lewd, and obsequious by turn;e
just as a little understanding and great impudence
prompt him at the present moment. He passes among
the silly part of our women for a man of wit, because
he is generally'n doubt. He ontradicts with a shrug,
and confutes with a certain sufficiency, in professing
such and such a thing is above his capacity. What
makes his character the pleasanter is, that he is a professed deluder of women; and because the empty coxcomb has no regard to any thing that is of itself sacred and inviolable. I have heard an unmarried lady
of fortune say, It is pity so fine a gentleman as Vocifer
is so great an atheist. The crowds of such inconsiderable creatures, that infest all places of assembling,
every reader will have in his eye from his own observation; but would it not be worth considering what
sort of figure a man who formed himself upon those
principles among us, which are agreeable to the dictates of honour and religion, would make in the familiar and ordinary occurrences of life?
I hardly have observed any one fill his several duties of life better than Ignotus. All the under parts of
his behaviour, and such as are exposed to common
observation, have their rise in him from great and
noble motives. A firm and unshaken expectation of
another life makes him become this; humanity and
good -nature, fortified by the sense of virtue, has the
same effect upon him, as the neglect of all goodness
has upon many others.-Being firmly established in
all matters of importance, that certain inattention
which makes men's actions look easy, appears in
him with greater beauty: by a thorough contempt
of little excellencies, he is perfectly master of them.
This temper of mind leaves him under no necessity
of studying his air, and he has this peculiar distinction,
that his negligence is unaffected.
He that canl work himself into a pleasure in considering this being as an uncertain one, and think to reap
an advantage by its discontinuance, is in a fair way
of doing all things with a graceful unconcern, ancda
gentleman-l.ke ease. Such a one does not behold h'i




REMARKS ON THE ENGLISH TONGUE.   169
life as a short, transient, perplexing state, made up of
trifling pleasures and great anxieties: but sees it in
quite another light: his griefs are momentary, and
his joys immortal. Reflection upon death is not a
gloomy and sad thought of resigning every thing that
he delights in, but it is a short night followed by an
endless day. What I would here contend for is, that
the more virtuous the man is, the nearer he will naturally be to the character of genteel and agreeable.
A man whose fortune is plentiful, shows an ease in
his countenance, and confidence in his behaviour,
which he that is under wants and difficulties cannot
assume. It is thus with the state of the mind; he that
governs his thoughts with the everlasting rules of
reason and sense, must have something so inexpressibly graceful in his words and actions, that every circumstance must become him. The change of persons
or things around him do not at all alter his situation,
but he looks disintereste I in the occurrences with
which others are distracted, because the greatest purpose of his life is to maintain an indifference both to it
and all its enjoyments. In a word, to be a Fine Gentleman, is to be a generous and a brave man. What
can make a man so much in constant good humour,
and shine, as we call it, than to be supported by what
can never fail him, and to believe that whatever happens to him was the best thing that could possibly
befall him, or else he on whom it depends, would not
have permitted it to have befallen him at all!
R.
REMARKS ON
THE ENGLISH TONGUE.
Est brevitate opus, ut currat sententiaHOR.
Express your sentiments with brevity.
I HAVE somewhere read of an eminent person, who
used in his private offices of devotion to give thanks
tn Heaven that be was born a Frenchman: for mv




170           REMARKS ON THE
awn part, I look upon it as a peculiar olessmng that I
was born an Englishman. Among many other reasons, I think myself very happy in my country, as,the language of it is w3ndertully adapted to a man
who is sparing of his words, and an enemy to
loquacity.
As I have frequently reflected on my good fortune
in this particular, I shall communicate to the public
my speculations upon the English tongue, not doubting but they will be acceptable to all my curious
readers.
The English delight in silence more than any other
European nation, if the remarks which are made on
us by foreigners are true. Our discourse is not kept
up in conversation, but falls into more pauses and intervals than in our neighbouring countries; as it is
observed, that the matter of our writings is thrown
much closer together, and lies in a narrower compass
than is usual in the works of foreign authors: for, to
favour our natural taciturnity, when we are obliged
to utter our thoughts, we do it in the shortest way we
gre able, and give as quick a birth to our conception
as possible.
This humour shows itself in several remarks that
we may make upon the English language. As first
of all by its abounding in monosyllables, which gives
us an opportunity of delivering our thoughts in few
sounds. This indeed takes off from the elegance of
our tongue, but at the same time expresses our ideas
in the readiest manner, and consequently answers
the first design of speech better than the multitude of
syllables, which make the words of other languages
more tunable and sonorous. The sounds of our English words are commonly like those of string music,
short and transient, which rise and perish upon a
single touch; those of other languages are like the
notes of wind instruments, sweet and sweJing, and
lengthened out into variety of modulation.
In the next place we may observe, that where the
words are not monosyllables, we often make them so,
as much as lies in our power, by zur rapidity of pro.




ENGLISH TONGUE.             17,
nunciation; as it generally happens in most of out.ong words which are derived from the Latin, where
we contract the length of the syllables that gives
them a grave and solemn air in their own language,
to make them more proper for despatch, and more
conformable to the genius of our tongue. This we
may find in a multitude of words, as liberty, conspiracy, theatre, orator, &c.
The same natural aversion to loquacity has of late
years made a very considerable alteration in our language, by closing in one syllable the termination of
our preterperfect tense, as in the words drown'd,
walk'd, arriv'd, for drowned, walked, arrived, which
has very much disfigured the tongue, and turned a
tenth part of our smoothest words into so many clusters of consonants. This is the nore remarkable,
because the want of vowels in our language has been
the general complaint of our politest authors, who
nevertheless are the men that have made these retrenchments, and, consequently, very much increased
our former scarcity.
This reflection on the words that end in ed, 1 have
heard in conversation from one of the greatest eniuses
this age has produced. I think we may aUL to the
foregoing observation, the change which has happened in our language, by the abbreviation of several
words that are terminated in eth, by substituting an s
in the room of the last syllable, as in drowns, walks,
arrives, and innumerable other words, which in the
pronunciation of our forefathers were drowneth,
walketh, arriveth. This has wonderfully multiplied
a letter which was before too frequent in the English
tongue, and added to that hissing in our language
which is taken so much notice of by foreigners; but
at the same time hurmours our taciturnity, and eases us
of many superfluous syllables.
I might here observe, that the same single letter on
many occasions does the office of a whole word, and
represents the his or her of our forefathers. There
is no doubt but the ear of a foreigner, which is the
beat judge n this case, would very much disapprove




172    REMARKS ON THE ENGLISH TONGUE.
of such innovations, which indeed we do ourselves in
some measure by retaining the old termination ir
writing, and in all the solemn offices of our religion,
As in the instance I have given we have epitomised
many of our particular words to the detriment of our
tongue, so on other occasions we have drawn two
words into one, which has likewise very much untuned our language, and clogged it with consonants, as
mayn't, can't, shan't, won't, and the like, for may not,
can not, shall not, will not, &c.
It is prehaps this humour of speaking no more than
we needs must, which has so miserably curtailed some
of our words that in familiar writings and conversations they often lose all but their first syllables, as in
mob. red. pos. incog. and the like; and as all ridiculous words make their first entry into a language by
familiar phrases, I dare not answer for these that they
will not in time be looked upon as a part of our tongue.
We see some of our poets have been so indiscreet as
to imitate Hudibras's doggrel expressions in their
serious compositions, by throwing out the signs of our
substantives, which are essential to the English language. Nay, this humour of shortening our language had once run so far, that some of our celebrated authors, among whom we may reckon Sir Roger
L' Estrange in particular, began to prune their words
of all superfluous letters, as they termed them, in
order to adjust the spelling to the pronunciation;
which would have confounded all our etymologies,
and have quite destroyed our tongue.
We may here likewise observe that our proper
names, when familiarized in English generally dwindle to monosyllables, whereas in other modern languages they receive a softer turn on this occasion, by
the addition of a new syllable. Nick in Italian is Nicolini, Jack in French Janot; and so of the rest.
There is another particular in our language which
is a great instance of our frugality of words, and
that is the suppressing of several particles which
must be produced in other tongues to make a sentence
intelligible. this often perplexes the best writers,




SUPPORTS OF PUBLIC CREDIT.        173
when they find the relatives whom, which, or they,
at their mercy, whether they may have admission or
not; and will never be decided until we have something like an academy, that by the best authorities
and rules drawn from the analogy of languages shall
settle all controversies between grammar and idiom.
I have only considered our language as it shows
the genius and natural temper of the English, which
is modest, thoughtful, and sincere, and which, perhaps, may recommend the people, though it has spoiled
the tongue. We might perhaps carry the same thought
into other languages,.and deduce a great part of what
is peculiar to them from the genius of the people who
speak them. It is certain, the talkative humour of
the French has not a little infected their tongue, which
might be shown by many instances; as the genius of
the Italians, which is so much addicted to music and
ceremony, has moulded all their words and phrases to
those particular uses. The stateliness and gravity of
the Spaniards shows itself to perfection in the solemnity of their language, and the blunt honest humour
of the German sounds better in the roughness of the
[ligh-Dutch, than it would in a politer tongue.
SUPPORTS OF PUBLIC CREDIT.
Quoi quisquefere studio devinctus adhaeret:
Aut quibis in rebuts multum sumus ante morati;
Atque in qua rationefuit contenta magis mens;
Int somnis eadema plerumque videmtur obire.
LUCH.
What studies please, what most delight
And fill men's thoughts they dream them o'er at night.
CREECI.
IN one of my late rambles, or rather speculations, I
looked into the great hall where the Bank is kept, and
was not a little pleased to see the directors, secretaries,
and clerks, with all the other members of that wealthy
rorporation, ranged in their several stations, according




174       8PPORTS O   PIUBLIC CREDIT.
to the parts they actin that just -and regular economy.
This revived in my memorythe many discourses which
I had both read and heard concerning the decay of public credit, with the methods of restoring it, and which,
in my opinion, have always been defective, because
they have always been made with an eye to separate
interests, and party principles.
The thoughts of the day gave my mind employment
for the whole night, so that I fell insensibly into a kind
of methodical dream, which disposed all my contemplations into a vision or alleg6ry, or what else the reader shall please to call it.
Methought I returned to the great hall where I had
been the morning before, but, to my surprise, instead
of the company that I left there, 1 saw toward the upper end of the hall, a beautiful virgin, seated on a
throne of gold. Her name (as they told me) was Public Credit. The walls, instead of being adorned with
pictures and maps, were hung with many acts of parliament written n golden letters. At the upper end
of the hall was the Magna Charta, with the act or
Uniformity on the right hand, and the Act of Toleration on the left. At the lower end of the hall was the
Act of Settlement, which was placed full in the eye
of the Virgin that sat upon the throne. Both the sides
of the hall were covered with such acts of parliament
as had been made for the establishment of Public
Funds. The lady seemed to set an unspeakable value upon these several pieces of furniture, insomuch
that she often refreshed her eye with them, and often
smiled with a secret pleasure, as she looked upon
them; but, at the same time, showed a very particular uneasiness, if she saw any thing approaching that
might hurt them. She appeared indeed infinitely timorous in all her behaviour; and, whether it was from
the delicacy of her constitution, or that she was troubled with vapours, as I was afterwards told by one
who 1 found was none of her well wishers, she changed colour, and startled at every thing she heard.
She was likewise (as I afterwards found) a greater
valetudinarian than any I had ever met witl, even is




SUPPORTS OF PUBLIC CREDIT.       175
her own sex, and subject to such m mentary ccnsump.
Lions, that in the twinkling of an eye, she would fall
away from the most florif complexion, and the most
healthful state of body, and wither into a skeleton. Hex
recoveries were often as sudden as her decays, insotmuch that she would revive in a moment out of a
wasting distemper, into a habit of the highest health
and vigour.
I had very soon an opportunity of observing these
quick turns and chances in her constitution. There
sat at her feet a coupfe of secretaries, who received
every hour letters from all parts of the world, which
the one or the other of them was perpetually reading
to her; and according to the news she heard, to which
she was exceedingly attentive, she changed colour,
and discovered many symptoms of health or sickness.
Behind the throne was a prodigous heap of bags
of money, which were piled upon one another so
high that they touched the ceiling The floor on
her right hand and on her left, was covered with
vast sums of gold, that rose up in pyramids on either
side of her. But this I did not so much wonder as,
when I heard, upon inquiry, that she had the same
virtue in her touch, which the poets tell us a Lydian king was formerly possessed of; and that she
could convert whatever she pleased into that precious
metal.
After a little dizziness, and confused hurry of
thought, which a man often meets with in a dream,
methought the hall was alarmed, the doors flew open,
and there entered half a dozen of the most hideous
phantoms that I had ever seen (even in a dream) before that time. They came in two by two, though
matched in the most dissociable,nanner, and mingled
together in a kind of dance. It would be tedious to
describe their habits and persons, for which reason I
shall only inform my reader that the first couple were
Tyranny and Anarchy, the second were Bigotry and
Atheism, the third the Genius of a common-wealth,
and a young man of about twenty-two years of age




176      SUPPORTS OF PUBLIC CREDIT.
whose name I could not learn. He had a sword in
his right hand, which in the dance he often brandished at the Act of Settlement; and a citizen, who stood
by me, whispered in my ear, that he saw a sponge in
his left hand. The dance of so many jarring natures,
put me in mind of the sun, moon, and earth, in The
Rehearsal, that danced together for no other end but
to eclipse one another.
The reader will easily suppose, by what has been
before said, that the lady on the throne would have
been almost frighted to distraction, had she seen but
any one of these spectres; what then must have been
her condition when she saw them all in a body? She
fainted and died away at the sight.
Et neque jam color est misto candore rubori;
Nec vigor, et rires, et quae modo visa placebani,
Nec corpus remanet —
OVID.
There was as great a change in the hill of money
bags, and the heaps of money, the former shrinking,
and falling into so many empty bags, that I now found
not above a tenth part of them had been filled with
money. The rest that took up the same space, and
made the same figure as the bags that were really
filled with money, had been blown up with air, and
called into my memory the bags full of wind, which
Homer tells us his hero received as a present from
Eolus. The great heaps of gold, on either side the
throne, now appeared to be only heaps of paper, or
little piles of notched sticks, bound up together in bundles, like Bath-faggots.
Whilst 1 was lamenting this sudden desolation that
had been made before me, the whole scene vanished;
in the room of the frightful spectres, there now entered a second dance of apparitions very agreeably
matched together, and made up of very amiable phantoms. The first pair was Liberty with Monarchy at
her right hand; the second was Moderation leading in
Religion; and the third a person whom I had never
seen, with the Genius of Great Britain. At their first




INFIDELITY C ONDEMINED.         177
entrance the lady revived, the bags swelled to their
former bulk, the piles of faggots and heaps of paper
changed into pyramids of guineas: and for my own
part 1 was so transported with joy, that I awaked,
though, I must confess, I would fain have fallen asleep
again to have closed my vision, if I could have done
it.                                        C.
INFIDELITY CONDEMNED.
Caelum ipsum petimus stultitia.
IfOR.
- Scarce the gods and heav'nly climes
Are safe from our audacious crimes.
DRYDEN.
A BELJEVER may be excused by the most hardened atheist, for endeavouring to make him a convert,
because he does it with an eye to both their interests.
The atheist is inexcusable who tries to gain over a believer, because he does not propose the doing himself
or the believer any good by such a conversion.
The prospect of a future state is the secret comfort
and refreshment of my soul; it is that which makes
nature look gay about me; it doubles all my pleasures,
and supports me under all my afflhtions. I can look
at disappointments and misfortunes, pain and sickness,
death itself, and, what is worse than death, the loss
of those who are dearest to me, with indifference, so
long as I keep in view the pleasures of eternity, and
the state of being in which there will be no fears nor
apprehensions, pains nor sorrows, sickness nor separation. Why will any man be so impeitinently officious as to tell me all this is only fancy and delusion?
Is there any merit in being the messenger of ill news'?
If it is' a dream, let me enjoy it, since it makes me both
the happier and better man.
I must confess 1 do not know how to trust a man
who believes neither heaven nor hell, or, in other
words, a future state of rewards and punishmenta
VOL. I.-12




!78        INF DELITY CONDEMNED.
Not only natural self-love, but reason directs us to pro.
mote our own interest above all things. It can never
be for the interest of a believer to To me a mischief,
because he is sure upon the balance of accounts to find
himself a loser by it. On the contrary, if he considers
his own welfare in his behaviour towards me, it will
lead him to do me all the good he can, and at the same
time restrain him from doing me an injury. An unbeliever does not act like a reasonable creature, if he
favours me contrary to his present interest, or does
not distress inm when it turns to his present advantage. Honour and good nature may indeed tie up his
hands: but as these would be very much strengthened by reasoa and principle, so without them they
are only instincts, or wavering unsettled notions, which
rest on no foundation.
Infidelity has been attacked with so good success of
late years, that it is driven out of all its outworks.
The atheist has not found his post tenable, and is therefore retired into deism, and a disbelief of revealed religion only. But the truth of it is, the greatest number of this set of men, are those who, for want of a
virtuous education, or examiing the grounds of religion, know so very little of the matter in question, that
their infidelity is but another term for their ignorance.
As folly and inconsiderateness are the foundations
of infidelity, the great pillars and supports of it are
either a vanity of appealring wiser than the rest of
mankind, or an ostentation of courage m despising the
terrors of another world, which have so great an influence on what they call weaker minds; or an aversion to a belief that must cut them off from many of
those pleasures they propose to themselves, and fill
the-n with remorse for many of those they have already tasted.
The great received articles of the Chri-idan Iteligion
have been so clearly proved, from the authority of that
divine revelation in which they are delivered, that it
is impossible for those who have ears to hear, and eyes
to see, not to be convinced of them. But were it possible for any thing in the Christian Faith to be errone



INFIDELITY CONDEMNED.           179
ous, I can find no ill consequences in adhering to it.
The great points of the incarnation and sufferings ot
our Saviour produce naturally such habits of virtue
in the mind of man, that I say, supposing it were possible for us to he mistaken in them, the infidel himself
must at least allow that no other system of religion
could so effectually contribute to the heightening of
morality. They give us great ideas of the dignity of
human nature, and of the love which the Supreme
Being hears to his creatures, and consequently engage
us in the highest acts of duty towards our Creator,
our neighbour, and ourselves. How many noble arguments has Saint Paul raised from the chief articles
of our religion, for the advancing of morality in its three
great branches? To give a single example in each
kind: what can be a stronger motive to a firm tnrust
and reliance on the mercies of our Maker, than the
giving his Son to suffer for us? What can make us
love and esteem even the most inconsiderable of mankind more than the thought that Christ died for him?
Or what dispose us to set a stricter guard upon the
purity of our own hearts, than our being members of
Christ, anda part of the society of which that immaculate person is the head? But these are only a specimen of those admirable enforcements of morality, which
the Apostle has drawn from the history of our blessed
Saviour.
If our modem infidels consiUerd these matters with
that candour and seriousness which they deserve, we
should not see them act with such a spirit of bitter:ness,
arrogance, and r.:1ce: ihey would not be raising
such insisnificant cavils, doubts, and scruples, as may
be started against every thing that is not capable of
mathematical demonstration, in order to unse tle the
minds of the ignorant, distusb the public peace, subvert morality, and throw all things into confusion and
disnr-er. if none of these reflections can have any
influence on them, there is one that perhaps may, hecause it is adapted to their vanity, by which they seem
to be guided much more than their reason. I would
therefore have theam consider; that.the wisest and beef




I8S)           PRIT ATE LIFE  Or
of men, in all ages of the world, have been those who
lived up to the religion of their country, and to the
best li hts they had of the divine nature. Pythagoras's  irsat rule directs usto worship the gods "as it is
ordained by law," for that is the most natural interpretation of the precept. Socrates, who was the most
renowned among the heathens, both for wisdom anG
virtue, in his last moments desires. his friends to offer
a cock to isculapius: doubtless out of a submissive
deference to the established worship of his country.
Xenophon tells us, that his prince (whom he sets
forth as a pattern of perfection) when he found his
death approaching, offered sacrifices on the mountains
to the Persian Jupiter, and the sun, according to the
custom of the Persians; for those are the wordes of the
historian. Nay, the Epicureans and atomical philosophers showed a very remarkable modesty in this particular; for though the beg of a God was entirely
repugnant to then schemes of natural philosophy, they
contented themselves with the denial of a providence,
asserting at the same time the existence of gods in
general; because they would not shock the common
belief of mankind, and the religion of their countr~
PRIVATE LIFE
OF
PHARAMOND OF FRANCE,
Ut tufortunam, sic nos te Cefse, fereS.s.
JIOR.
As you your fortune bear, we will bear you.
CREECIH.
THERE is nothing so common, as to find a man
whom, in the general observation of his carriage
you take to be of a uniform temper, subject to such
unaccountable starts of humour and passion, that
he is as much unlike himsef, and differs as much




PHARAMSOND OF FRANCE.           181
from thle man you first thought him, as any two distinct persons can differ from each other. This pro.
ceeds from the want of forming some law of life to
ourselves, or fixing some notions of things in general,
which may affect us in stch manner, as to create proper habits both in our millds and bodies. The negligence of this leaves us exposed not only to an unbecoming levity in our usual conversation, but also to
the same instability in our friendships, interests, and
alliances. A man who is but a mere spectator of what
passes around him, and not engaged m commerces of
any consideration, is but an ill Judge of the secret motions of the heart of man, and by what degrees it is
actuated to make such visible alterations in the same
person: but at the same time, when a man is noway
concerned in the effect of such inconsistencies in the
behaviour of men of the world, the speculation must
be in the utmost degree both diverting and instructive:
yet to enjoy such observations in the highest relish,
be ought to be placed in a post of direction, and have
the dealing of their fortunes to them. I have therefore been wonderfully diverted with some pieces of secret history, which an antiquary, my very good friend,
lent me as a curiosity. They are memoirs of the private life of Pharamiond of France. "Pharamond,"
says my author, "was a prince of infinite humanity
and generosity, and at the same time the most pleasant
and facetious comnanion of his time. He had a peculiar taste in him, which would have been unlucky
in any prince but himself; he thought there could be
no exquisite pleasure in conversation, but amopg
equals; and would pleasantly bewail himself that he
always lived in a crowd, but was the only man in
France that could never get into company. This turn
of mind made him delight in midnight rambles, attended only with one person of his bed-chamber. He
would in these excursions get acquainted with men,
(whose temper he had a mind to try) and recommend
them privately to the particular observation of his first
minister. He generally found hllmself neglected by
ins new acquaintance as soon as they had hopes of
10




182            PRIVATE LlFE ON
growing great; and used on such occasionsto remark,
that it was a gTeat injustice to tax princes of forgetting themselves in their high fortunes, when there
were so few that could with constancy bear the favour
of their very creatures." My author in these loose
hints has one passage that gives us a very lively idea
of the uncommon genius of Pharamond. He met
with one man whom he had put to all the usual proofs
he had made of those he had a mind to know thoroughly, and found him fo- this purpose. In discourse with
him one day; he gave him an opportunity of saying
how much would satisfy all his wishes. The prince
immediately revealed himself, doubled the sum, and
spoke to him in this manner: " Sir, you have twice
what you desired, by the favour of Pharamond; but
look to it, that you are satisfied with it, for it is the
last you shall ever receive. I from this moment consider you as mine; and to make you truly so, I give
you my royal word you shall never be greater or es;s
than you are at present. Answer me not, (concluded
the prince smiling,) but enjoy the fortune I have put
you in, which is above my own condition; for you
have hereafter nothing to hope or to fear."
His Majesty having thus well chosen and bought
a friend and companion, he en)oyed alternately all the
pleasures of an agreeable private man, and a great
and powerful monarch. He gave himself, with his
companion, the name of the merry tyrant; for he
punished his courtiers for their insolence and folly,
not by any act of public disfavour, but by humorously
practising upon their imaginations. If he observed a
man untractable to his inferiors, he would find an opportunity to take some favourable notice of him, and
render him insupportable. He knew all his own looks,
words, and actions had their interpretations; and his
friend Monsieur Eucrate (for so he was called) having
a great soul without ambition, he could communicate
all his thoughts to him, and fear no artful use would
be made of that freedom. It was no small delight
when they were in private, to;eflect upon all which
had passed in yublic.




PHARAMOND OF FRANCE.            183
Pharamond would often, to satisfy a vain fool of
power in I is country, talk to him in a full court, and
with one whisper make him despise all his old friends
and acquaintance. He was come to that knowledge
of men by long observation, that he would profess
altering the whole mass of blood in some tempers,
by thrice speaking to them. As fortune was in his
power, he gave himself constant entertainment in
managing the mere followers of it with the treatment they deserved. He would, by a skilful cast
of his eye, and half a smile, make two fellows who
hated, embrace, and fall upon each other's necks
with as much eagerness, as if they followed their
real inclinations, and intended to stifle one another.
When he was in high good humour, he would lay
the scene with Eucrate, and on a public night exercise the passions of his whole court. He was pleased
to see a haughty beauty watch the looks of the man
she had long despised, from observation of his being
taken notice of by Pharamond; and the lover conceive higher hopes, than to follow the woman he
was dying for the day before. In a court, where
men speak affection in the strongest terms, and dislike in the faintest, it was a comical mixture of incidents to see disguises thrown aside in one case, and
increased on the other, according as favour or disgrace attended the respective objects of men's approbation or disesteem. Pharamond, in his mirth
upon the meanness of mankind, used to say, "As
he could take away a man's five senses, he could
give him a hundred. The man in disgrace shall
immediately lose all his natural endowments, and
he that finds favour have the attributes of an angel."
He would carry it so far as to say, "It should not
be only so in the opinion of the lower part of his
court, but the men themselves'shall think thus
meanly or greatly of themselves as they are out, or
in the good graces of a court."
A monarch who had wit and humour like Phara.
mond, must have pleasures which no man else caa
ever lave opportunity of enjoying. He gave Go&




184           PRIVATE LIFE OF
tune to none but those whom he knew could receive
it without transport. He made a noble and generous use of his observations, and did not regard his
ministers as they were agreeable to himself, but as
they were useful to his kingdom. By these means,
the king appeared in every officer of state; and no
man had a participation of the power, who had not
a similitude of the virtue of Pharamond.
Pharamond, when he had a mind to retire for an
hour or two from the hurry of business, and fatigue
of ceremony, made a signal to Eucrate, by putting
his hand to his face, placing his arm negligently on
a window, or some such action as appeared indifferent to all the rest of the company. Upon such notice, unobserved by others (for their entire intimacy
was always a secret) Eucrate repaired to his own
apartment to receive the king. There was a secret
access to this part of the court, at which Eucrate
used to admit many whose mean appearance in the
eyes of the ordinary waiters and door-keepers made
them be repulsed from other parts of the palace.
Such as these were let in here by order of Eucrate,
and had audiences of Pharamond. This entrance
Pharamond called the gate of the unhappy, and the
tears of the afflicted who came before him, he would
say, were bribes received by Eucrate; for Eucrate
had the most compassionate spirit of all men living,
except his generous master, who was always kindled at the least affliction which was communicated
to him. In the regard for the miserable, Eucrate
took particular care, that the common forms of distress, and the idle pretenders to sorrow, about courts
who wanted only supplies to luxury, should never
obtain favour by his means: but the distresses
which arise from, the many inexplicable occurrences
that happen amnong men. the unaccountable alienation of parents fro}l their children, cruelty of husbands to wives, po, arty occasioned from shipwreck




PHAItAMOND OF FRANCE.          185
or fire, the falling out of friends, or such other terrible disasters, to which the life of man is exposed;
in cases of this nature, Eucrate was the patron;
and enjoyed this part of the royal favour so much
without being envied, that it was never inquired into
by whose means what no one else cared for doing,
was brought about.
One evening, when Pharamond came into the
apartment of Eucrate, he fouiid him extremely dejected; upon which he asked (with a smile which
was natural to him) "what, is there any one too
miserable to be relieved by Pharamond, that Eucrate is melancholy?" —"1 fear there is," answered
the favourite: "a person without, of a good air,
well dressed, and though a man in the strength of
his life, seems to faint under some inconsolable calamity. All his features seem suffused with agony
of mind; but I can observe in him, that it is more
inclined to break away in tears than rage. I asked
him what he would have. He said he would speak tc
Pharamond. I desired his business. He could hardly say to me, Eucrate, carry me to the king, my story
is not to be told twice; I fear I shall not be able to
speak it at all." Pharamond commanded Eucrate
to let him enter; he did so, and the gentleman approached the king with an air which spoke him under
the greatest concern in what manner to demean' him
self. The king, who had a quick discernment, relieved him from the oppression he was under: and
with the most beautiful complacency said to him, " Sir,
do not add to that load of sorrow I see in your countenance the awe of my presence. Think youl are
speaking to your friend. If the circumstances of your
distress will admit of it, you shall find me so." To
whom the stranger: "Oh, excellent Pharamond, name
not a friend to the unfortunate Spinamont. I had one,
but he is dead by my own hand; but, oh, Pharamond,
though it was by the hand of Spinamont, it was by
the guilt of Pharamond. I come not, oh excellent
prince, to implore your pardon; I come to relate my
sorrow, 9 sorroxw too great for human life to support




186          PRIVATE LIFE OF, &C.
from henceforth shallall occurrences appear dreams, or
short intervals of amusement, from this one affliction
which has seized my very being. Pardon me, oh
Pharamond, if my griefs give me leave, that I lay
before you, in the anguish of a wounded mind, that
you, good as you are, are guilty of the generous blood
spilt this day by this unhappy hand. Oh, that it had
perished before that instant!" Here the stranger
paused, and re-collecting his mind, after sonime little
meditation, he went on m a calmer tone and gesture,
as follows:
" There is an authority due to distress, and as none
of human race is above the reach of sorrow, none
should be above hearing the voice of it; I am sure
Pharamond is not. Know then, that I have this morning unfortunately killed in a duel the man whom, of
allmen living, I most loved. I command myself too
much in your royal presence, to say, Pharamond, give
me my friend! Pharamond has taken him from me!
I will not say, shall the merciful Pharamond destroy
his own subjects? Will the father of his country
murder his people. But the merciful Pharamond does
destroy his subjects, the father of his country does
murder his people. Fortune is so much the pursuit of
mankind, that all glory and honour is in the power of
a prince, because he has the distribution of their fortunes. It is therefore the inadvertency, negligence, or
guilt of princes to let any thing grow into custom
which is against their laws. A court can make fashion and duty walk together; it can never, without the
guilt of a court, happen, that it shall not be unfashlonable to do what is unlawful. But, alas! in the dominions of Pharamond, by the force of a tyrant custom,
which is misnamed a point of honour, the duellist
kills his friend whom he loves; and the judge condemns the duellist while he approves his behaviour
Shame is the greatest of all evils; wvhat avail laws,
when death only attends the breach of them, and
shame obedience to them? As for me, oh Pharamniond,
were it possible to describe the nameless kinds of comr
punctions and tedlerness I feel, when 1 reflect upon




FASHIONABLE AND COURTLY MOURNINGS. 187
the little accidents in our former familiarity, my mmd
swells into sorrow which cannot be resisted enough
to be silent in the presence of Pharamond.  (With
that he fell into a flood of tears, and wept aloud.)
Why should not Pharamond hear the anguish he only
can relieve others from in time to co.me. Let him hear
from me, what they feel wht have given death by
the false mercy of his administration, and form to
himself the vengeance called for by those whe have
perished by his negligence."*
FASHIONABLE AND COURTLY
MOURNINGS.
Hic vivimus ambitiosa
Paupertare omnesJUV. Sat. iii. 183.
"The face of wealth in poverty we wear."
THE most improper things we commit in the conduct of our lives, we are led into by the force of fashion. Instances might be given, in which a prevailing
custom makes us act against the rules of nature, law,
and common sense; but at present I shall confine my
consideration to the effect it has ups men's minds,
by looking into our behaviour when it is the fashion
to go into mourning. The custom of representing the
grief we have for the loss of the dead by our habits,
certainly had its rise from the real sorrow of such as
were too much distressed to take the proper care they
ought of their dress. By degrees it prevailed, that
such as had this inward oppression upon their minds,
made an apology for not joining with the rest of the
world in their ordinary diversions by a dress suited to
their condition. This therefore was at first assumed
* This essay is written by Stee e, who often wrote with
great ardour, and strong reasc Aing, against duelling.The reader will find an accounti of a duel of his own, and
of the anxiety which resulted to him from success, in
his Life, prefixed to this edition.




. 88           FASHIONABLE AND
by such only as were under real distress; to whom it
was a relief that they had nothing about them so light
and gay as to be irksome to the gloom and melancholy
of their inward reflections, or that might misrepresent
them to others. In process of time t~iis laudable distmction of the sorrowful was lost, and mourningl is
now worn by heirs and widows. You see nothing
but magnificence and solemnity in the equipage of the
relict, and an air of release from servitude in tuie pomp
of a son who has lost a wealthy father. This fashion of sorrow is now become a generous part of the
ceremonial between princes and sovereigns, who in
the language of all nations are styled brothers to each
other, and put on the purple* upon the death of any
potentate with whom they live in amity. Courtiers,
and all who wish themselves such, are immediately
seized with grief from head to foot upon this disaster
to their prince; so that one may know by the very
buckles of a gentleman-usher, what degree of friendship any deceased monarch maintained with the court
to which he belongs. A good courtier's habit and behaviour is hieroglyphical on these occasions. He deals
much in whispers, and you may see he dresses accordin to the best intelligence.
The general affectation among men, of appearing
greater than they are, makes the whole world run
into the habit of the court. You see that lady, who
the day before was as various as the rainbow, upon
the time appointed for beginning to mourn, as dark as
a cloud. This humour does not prevail only on those
whose fortunes can support any change in their equipage, nor on those only whose incomes demand the
wantonness of new appearances; but on such also who
have just enough to clothe them. An old acquaintance
of mine, of ninety pounds a year, who has naturally
the vanity of being a man ot fashion deep at his heart,
is very much put to it to bear the mortality of princes.
He made a new black suit upon the death of the King
of Spain, he turned it for the King of Portugal, and he
# Royal and princely moirners are clad in purple.




COURTLY MOMtNING.S             19
now keeps his chamber while it is scouring for the
Emperor. He is a good economist in his extravagance, and makes only a fresh black button upon his
iron-gray suit for any potentate of small territories;
he indeed adds his crape hat-band for a prince whose
exploits he has admired in the Gazette: but whatever compliments may be made on these occasions,
the true mourners are the mercers, silkmen, lacemen,
and milliners. A prince of a merciful and royal disposition would refect with great anxiety upon the
prospect of his death, if he considered what numbers
would be reduced to misery by that accident only. He
would think it of moment enough to direct, that in the
notification of his departure, the honour done to him
might be restrained to those of the household of the
prince to whom it should be signified. He'would think
a general mourning to be in a less degree the same
ceremony which is practised in barbarous nations, of
killing their slaves to attend the obsequies of their
kings.
I had been wonderfully at a loss for many months
together, to guess at the character of a man who came
now and then to our coffee-house. He ever ended a
news-paper with this reflection, " Well, 1 see all the
foreign princes are in good health." If you asked,
Pray, Sir, what says the Postman from Vienna?"
-He answered, "Make us thankful, the German
princes are all well."-" What does he say from Barcelona?"-" He does not speak but that the country
agrees very well with the new queen." After very
much inquiry, I found this man of universal loyalty
was a wholesale dealer in silks and ribands. His way
is, it seems, if he hires a weaver or workman, to have
it inserted in his articles, "that all this shall be wsell
and truly per.form.ed, provided no foreign potentate
shall depart this 1;.life within the time above-mentioned." It happens in all public mournings, that the
many trades which depend upon our habits, are du.
ring that folly either pinched with present want, or
terrified with the apparent approach of it. All the
atonement which men can make for wanton exper,




190 FASffONABLE AND COURTLY MOURNINGS
ses (which is a sort of insulting the scarcity under
which others labour) is, that the superfluities of the
wealthy give supplies to the necessities of the poor;
but instead of any other good arising from the affectation of being in courtly habits of mourning, all
order seems to be destroyed by it; and the true honour which one court does to another on that occasion, loses its force and efficacy. When a foreign
minister beholds the court of a nation (which flourishes in riches and plenty) lay aside, upon the loss
of his master, all marks of splendour and magnificence, though the head of such a joyful people, he
will conceive a greater idea of the honour done to
his master, than when he sees the generality of the
people in the same habit. When one is afraid to ask
the wife of a tradesman whom she has lost of her family, and after some preparation endeavours to know
whom she mourns for; how ridiculous is it to heaz
her explain herself, "That we have lost one of the
house of Austria!" Princes are elevated so highly
above the rest of mankind, that it is a presumptuous
distinction to take a part in honours done to their memories, except we have authority for it, by being re,
lated in a particular manner to the court which pays
the veneration to their friendship, and seems to express on such an occasion, the sense of the uncertainty
of human life in general, by assuming the habit of sorrow, though in the full poseesion of triumph and loy.
Alt                                        AL




TrE ENVlOVS X.             I93
when tne stroke of an envious eye Is most effectually
pernicious, and have observed that it has been when
the person envied has been in any circumstance of
glory and triumph. At such a time the mind of the
prosperous maln goes, as it were, abroad, among things
without him, and is more exposed to the malignity.
But I shall not dwell upon speculations so abstracted
as this, or repeat the many excellent things which one
might collect out of authors upon this miserable affection; but keeping in the road of common life, consider
the envious man with relation to these three heads;
his pains, his reliefs, and his happiness.
The envious man is in pain upon all occasions which
ought to give him pleasure. The relish of his life is
inverted; and the objects which administer the highest
satisfaction to those who are exempt from this passion,
give the quickest pangs to persons who are subject to
it. All the perfections of their fellow-creatures are
odious: youth, beauty, valour, and wisdom are provocations of their displeasure. What a wretched and
apostate state is this! To be offended with excellence,
and to hate a man because we approve him! The
condition of the envious man is the most emphatically
miserable; he is not only incapable of rejoicing in another's merit or success, but lives in a world wherein
all mankind are in a plot against his quiet, by studying
their own happiness and advantage. Will Prosper is
an honest tale-bearer; he makes it his business to
join in conversation with envious men. He points to
sucll a handsome young fellow, and whispers that he
is secretly married to a gicat fortune: when they doubt,
he adds circumstances to prove it; and never fails to
a'rgravate their distress, by assuring them that to his
knowuledcre he has an uncle will leave him some thousanlds.  WVill has many arts of this kind to torture this
sort of temper, and delights in it. When he finds them
change colour, and say faintly they wish such X piece
of news is true, he has the malice to speak some good
or other of every man of their acquaintance.
The reliefs of the envious man are those little blemishes and imperfections that discover themselves in
Vo.. I.-13




194           THE ENVIOUS MAN.
an lluetrious chara(ter. It is matter o'great consolra
tion to man envious person, when a man of known heo
nour does a thing-unworthy himself: o. when any ac
tion which was well executed, upon better information
appears so altered in its circumstances, that the fame
of it is divided among many, instead of being attri.
buted to one. This is a secret satisfaction to these
analignants; for the person whom they before could
not but admire, they fancy is nearer their own condition as soon as his merit is shared among others. I
remember some years ago there came out an excellent
poem without the name of the author. The little
wits, who were incapable of writing it, began to pull
an pieces the supposed writer.-When that would not
do, they took great pains to suppress the opinion that
it was his. That again failed. The next refuge was
to say it was overlooked by one man,.and many pages
wholly written by another. An honest fellow who sate
among a cluster of them in debate on this subject, cried
out, -'.Gentlemen, if you are sure none of you yourselves had a hand in it, you are but where you were,
whoever writ it." But the most usual succour to the
envioua, in cases of nameless merit in this kind, is to
keep the property, if possible, unfixed, and by that
means ito hinder the reputation of it from falling upon
any particular person. You see an envious man clear
up his countenance, if in the relation of any man's
-great happiness in one point, you mention his uneasi.
Bess in another. When he hears such a one is very
rich he turns pale, but recovers when you add that he
has many children. In a word, the only sure way to
an envious man's favour, is not to deserve it.
But if we consider the envious man in delight, it it
like reading the seat of a giant in a romance; the magmficence of his house consists in the many limbs of
men whom he has slain. If any vwho promised themselves success in anlly uncommon undertaking miscarry in the attempt, or he that aimed at what would have
been useful and lauda4le, meets with contempt and
derision, the envious man, under the colour of hating
vain-glory, can smile with an inward wantonness of




THE TRUE ART OF BEIN3 AGREEABLE.  195
heart at the ill effect it may have upon an honest am.
bition for the future.
R.
THE
TRUE ART OF BEING AGREEABLE.
Curn triasibus severe, curn remissis jucunde cure setn.
bus graviter, cum juventute comiter tivere.
TULL.
THE piece of Latin on the head of this paper is part
of a character extremely vicious, but I have set down
no more than may fall in with the rules of justice and
honour. Cicero spoke it of Catiline, "who," he said,
" lived with the sad severely, with the cheerful agreeably, with the old gravely, with the young pleasantly;" he added, "with the wicked boldly, with the
wanton lasciviously."  The two last instances of his
complaisance I forbear to consider, having it in my
thoughts at present only to speak of obsequious behaviour, as it sits upon a companion in pleasure, not a
man of design and intrigue. To vary with every humour in this manner, cannot be agreeable, except it
comes from a man's own temper and natural complexion; to do it out of an ambition to excel that way, is
the most fruitless and unbecoming prostitution imaginable. To put on an artful part, to obtain no other
end but an unjust praise from the undiscerning, is of
all endeavours the most despicable. A mar must be
sincerely pleased to become pleasure, or not to interrupt that of others: for this reason, it is a most calamitous circumstance, that many people who want to be
aione, or should be so, will come into conversation. It
is certain, that all men who are the least given to reflection, are seized with an inclination that way; when,
perhaps, they had rather be inclined to company but
indeed they'had better go home, and be tired with




196            THE TRUE ART Or
themselves, than force themselves upon others to re.
cover their good humour. In all thIis the cases of
communicating to a friend a sad thought or difficulty,
in order to relieve a heavy heart, stands excepted; but
what is here meant is, that a man should always go
with inclination to the turn of the company he is going
into, or not pretend to be of the party. It is certainly
a very happy temper to be able to live with all kinds
of dispositions, because it argues a mind that lies open
to receive what is pleasing to others, and not obsti.
nately bent on any particularity of its own.
This is it which makes me pleased with the chr -
racter of my good acquaintance Acasto. You meet him
at the tables and conversations of the wise, the impertinent, the grave, the frolicksome, and the witty; and
yet his own character has nothing in it that can make
him particularly agreeable to any one set of men; but
Acasto has natural good sense, good nature, and discretion, so that every man enjoys himself in his company; and though Acasto contributes nothing to the
entertainment, he never was at a place where he was
not welcome a second time. Without these subordinate good qualities of Acasto, a man of wit and learnilg would be painful to the generality of mankind, instead of being pleasing. Witty men are apt to imagine they are agreeabfe as such, and by that means
grow the werst companions imaginable; they deride
the absent or rally the present, in a wrong manner, not
knowing that if you pinch or tickle a man till he is
uneasy in his seat, or ungracefully distinguished from
the rest of the company, you equally hurt him.
I was going to say, the true art of being agreeable
in company, (but there can be no such thing as art in
it) is to appear well pleased with those you are engaged with, and rathertc seem well entertained, than to
bring entertainment to others. A man thus dispcsed is
not indeed what we ordinarily call a good companion,
but essentially is such, and in all the parts of his conversation has something friendly in his behaviour,
which conciliates men's minds more than the highest
sallies of wit or starts of humour can possibly do. The




BEING AGREEABLE.              197
feebleness of a e in a man of this turn, has somek.iing
which should be treated with respect even in a man
no otherwise venerable. The forwardness of youth,
when it proceeds from alacrity and not insolence, has
also its a lowances. The companion who is formed
for such bv nature, gives to every character of life its
due regards, and is ready to account for their imperfections, and receive their accomplishments as if they
were his own. It must appear that you receive law
from, and not give it to your company, to make you
agreeable.
I remember Tully, speaking I think of Antony, says,
that in cofacetixa erant quw nulla arte tradipossunt.
"He had a witty mirth which could be acquired by
no art." This quality must be of the kind of which
I am now speaking; for all sorts of behaviour which
depend upon observation and knowledge of life are to
oe acquired; but that which no one can describe, and
is apparently the act of nature, must be every where
prevalent; because every thing it meets is a fit occasion to exert it, for he who folfows nature can never
be linproper or unseasonable.
How iunaccountable then must their behaviour be,
who without any manner of consideration of what the
company they have just now entered are upon, give
themselves t' e air of a messenger, and make as distinct relations of the occurrences they last met with,
as if they had been despatched from those they talk to,
to be punctually exact in a report of those circumstances; it is unpardonable to those who are met to
enjoy one another, that a fresh man shall pop in, and
give us only the last part of his own life, and put a
stop to ours during the history. If such a man comes
fiom'Change, whether you will or not, you must hear
how the stocks go; and if you are ever so intensely
employed on a graver subject, a young fellow of the
other end of the town will take his place, and tell you,
Mrs. Such-a-one is charmingly handsome, because he
lust now saw her. But I think I need not dwell on
this subject, since 1 have acknowledged there can be,o rules made for excelling this way; and preceptm
to'




L98            A ORE &T GENIUS.
of this kind fare like rules for writing poetry, which,
it is said, may have prevented ill poets, but never made
good ones.
T.
A GREAT GENIUS.
--- Gui mens divinior atque os
AMagna sonaturum, des nominis hujus honorem.
IfOR.
-   tIe alcne can claim that name, who writes
With fancy high, and bold and daring flights.
CREECH.
THERE is no character more frequently given, than
that of being a genius. I have heard many a little
sonnetteer called a fine genius. There is not an heroic
scribbler in the nation that has not his admirers who
think him a great genius.
My design is to consider what is properly a great.
genius, and to throw some thoughts together on souncommon a subject.
Among great geniuses those few draw the admiration of all the world upon them, and stand up as the
prodigies of mankind, who by the mere strength of natural parts, and without any assistance of art or learrring, have produced works that were the delight of
their own times, and the wonder of posterity. There
appears something nobly wild and extravagant in
these great natural geniuses, that is infinitely more
beautiful than all the turn and polishing of what the
French call a bel-esprit, by which they would express
a genius refined by conversation, reflection, and the
reading of the most polite authors. The greatest genius
which runs through the arts and sciences takes a kind
of tincture from them, and falls unavoidably into imitation.
Many of these great natural geniuses t1at were
never disciplined and broken by rules of art, are to
be found among the ancients, and in particula: among
those of the moce eastern parts of the world. Homer




A GREAT GENIUS.               199
has innumerable flights that Virgil was not ab! to
reach, and in the Olu Testament we find several passages more elevated and sublime than any in Honler.
At the same time that we allow a greater and more
daring genius to the ancients, we must own that the
greatest of them very much failed in, or, if you will,
that they were much above the nicety and correctness
of the moderns. In their similitudes anlld allusions, pro.
vided there was a likeness, they did not much trouble
themselves about the decency of the comparison: thus
Solomon resembles the nose of -is beloved to the tower of Lebanon which looketh toward Damascus; as
the coming of a thief in the night, is a sinilitude of
the same kind in the New Testament. It would be
endless to make collections of this nature; Honmer illustrates one of his heroes encompni-ssed witl thle enemy, by an ass in a field of corn, that has hisfsides Lelaboured by all the boys of the village w-ithout stirring
a foot for it: and another tcssing to and fro in his bed
and burning with resentment, to a piece of flesh broiled on the coals. This particular failure in the ancients 
opens a large field of raillery to the little wits, who can
laugh at an Indecency, but not relish the sublime in
these sortsof writings. The present Emperor of Persia, conformable to this eastern way of thinking,
amidst a great many pnmpous titles, denominates himself the Sun of Glory and the Nutmeg of Delight.
In short, to cut off all cavilling against the a.cients,
and particularly those of the warmer climates, who
had most heat and life in their imaginations. we are
to consider that the rule of observing what the French
call the Bienseance in an allusion, has been found out
of late years, and in the colder regions of the world;
where we would make some amends lbr our want of
force and spirit, by a scrupulous nicety and exactness
in our compositions. Our countryman Shakspcare
was a remarkable instcace of this first kind of great
geniuses.
I cannot quit this head without observing that Pindar was a great genius of the' first class, who was
hurried on 4y a natural fire and impetuosity to vast




200             A GRXEAT OGENI'U.
conceptions of things and noble salliex of imagiun
tion. 4t the same time, can any thing be more ridioulous tian for men of a sober and moderate fancy to
imitate this poet's way of writing in those monstrous
compositions which go among us under the name of
Pindarics? When I see people copying works, which,
as Horace has represented them, are singular in their
kind, and inimitable; when I see men followiug irregularities by rule, and by the little tricks of art straining after the most unbounded flights of nature, I cannot but apply to them that passage in Terence.
-   Ineeta hae si tu pxsules
Ratiane eertafacere, nihilo plus ages,
^ Quam si dee ope7ar, u, e1,1s  rati.eat instanat.
S You may as well pretend to be mad and in your
senses at the saume time, as to think of reducing these
uncertain, things to any certainty by reason."
In short, a maoern Pindaric writer, compared wvith
Pindar, is like a sister amnug the Camisars compared
with Virgil's Sibyl: there is the distortion, grimace,
and outward figure, but nothing of that divine impulse
which raises the mind above itse1f, and makes the
sounds more than humanl.
There is another kind of great geniuses which I
shall place in a second class, not as I think them inferior to the first, but only for distinction's sake as'
they amof a different kind. This second class of great
geniuses are those that have formed themselves by
rules, and submitted the greatness of their natural
talents to the corrections and restraints of art. Such
among the Greeks were Plato and Aristotle; among.he Romans, Virgil and Tully; among the English,
Milton and Sir Francis Bacon.
The genius in both these classes of authors may
be equally great, but shows. itself after a different
manner. In the first it is like a rich soil in a happy
climate, that produces a whole wilderness of noble
plants rising in a thousand beautiful landscapes, with,out any certain order or regularity. In the other it in




DISSOLUTI0'y OF NATURE.        201
the same rich soil under the same happy climate, that
has been laid out in walks and parterres, and cut into
shape and beauty by the skill of the gardener.
The great danger in these latter kind of geniuses
is, lest they cramp their own abilities too much by imitation, and form themselves altogether upon models,
without giving the full play to their own natural parts.
An imitation of tl  best authors is not to compare
with a good original; and I believe we may observe
that very few writers make an extraordinary figure
in the world, who have not something in their way of
thinking or expressing themselves that Is peculiar to
them, and entirely their own.              C.
DISSOLUTION OF NATURE.
THE admirable writer of "The Theory of the
Earth," has communicated to us with the most striking eloquence, his thoughts on the dissolution of
nature. When this admirable author has reviewed
all that has passed or is to come which relates to
the habitable world, and run through the whole face
of it, how could a guardian angel that had attended
it through all its courses, orhanges, speak more
emphatically at the end of his charge, than does our
author when he makes, as it were, a funeral oration
over tnis globe, looking to the point where it once
stood?
"Let us only, if you please, to take leave of this
subject, reflect upon this occasion on the vanity and
transient glory of this habitable world. How by the
force of one element breaking loose upon the rest, all
the vanities of nature, all the works of art, all the
labours of men, are reduced to nothing! All that we
admired and adored before as great and magnificent,
is obliterated or vanished; and another form and face
of things, plain, simple, and every where the same,
overspreads the whole earth. Where are now the
great empires of the world, and their great imperial
11




802           POVERTY OF DRESS.
cities? Their pillars, trophies, and monuments of
of glory? Show me where they stood read the inscrll'tion, tell me the victor's name. What remains,
what impressions, what difference, or distinction, do
you see in this mass of fire? Rome itself, eternal
Rome, the great city, the empress of the world, whose
domination and superstition, ancient and modern,
make a great part oi the history of this earth, what
is become of her now? " She laid her foundations
deep, and her palaces were strong and sumptuous:""She glorified herself, and lived deliciously, and said
in her heart, I sit a queen, and shall see no sorrow:"
" but her hour is come, she is wiped away from the
face of the earth, and buried in everlasting oblivion.
But it is not cities only, and works of men's hands,
but the everlasting hills, the mountains and rocks of
the earth, are melted as wax before the sun, and their
place is nowhere found." "Here stood the Alps, the
load of the earth, that covered many countries, and
reached their arms from the ocean to the Black Sea:
this huge mass of stone is softened and dissolved as a
tender cloud into rain. Here stood the African mountains, and Atlas with his top above the clouds; there
was frozen Caucasus, and Taurus, and Imaus, and
the mountains of Asia; and yonder, towards the north,
stood the Riphaean hill4 clothed in ice and snow. All
these are vanished, dropped away as the snow upon
their heads. Great and marvellous are thy works,
just and true are thy ways, thou King of Saints t
Hallelujah."                               1.
POVERTY OF DRESS.
Nil habet infelix paupertas durius in se,
Quam quod ridiculos hominesfacit —JUV.
Want is the scorn of every wealthy fool,
And wit in rags is turn'd to ridicule. DRYDEN.
As I was walking in my chamber the morning befre I went last into the country, I heard the hawkers




POVERTY OF DRES              203
with great vehemence cryin  about a paper, entitled
" The ninety-nine Plagues of an empty Purse." I had
indeed some time before observed, that the orators of
Grub-street had dealt very much in plagues. They
have already publ.shed m the same month, " The
Plagues of Matrimony; the Plagues of a single Life;
the nineteen Plagues of a Chambermaid; the Plagues
of a Coachman; the Plagues of a Footman; an& the
Plague of Plagues."  The success these several
plagues met with, probably gave occasion to the abovementioned poem on an empty purse. However that
be, the same noise so frequently repeated under my
window, drew me insensibly to think on some of those
inconveniencies and mortifications which usually attend on poverty, and in short, gave birth to the present
speculation: for after my fancy had run over the most
obvious and common calamities which men of mean
fortunes are liable to, it descended to those little insults
and contempts, which though they may seem to dwindle into nothing when a man offers to describe them,
are perhaps in themselves more cutting and insupportable than the former. Juvenal, with a great deal of
reason and hutmour, tells us, that nothing bore harder
upon a poor man in his time, than the continual ridicule which his habit and dress afforded to the beaux
of Rome.
Quid, quod materiam preabet causasque jocorum
Omnibus hic idem; st feda et scissa lacerna,
Si toga sordidula est, et rupta calceus alter
Pelle patet, vel si consuto vulnere crassum
Atque recens linum ostendit non una cicatris.
JUV. Sat. iii. v. 147
"Add that the rich have still a gibe in store,
And will be monstrous witty on the poor;
For the torn sulrtout and the tatter'd vest,
The wretch and all his warbrobe are a jest;
The greasy gown sullied with often turning,
Gives a good hint to say the man's in mourning;
Or if the shoe be rint, or patch is put,
He's wounded. see the  asster on his foot.
DRYDEN.




204            POVERTY OF DRESS.
It must be confessed that few things make a man
appear more despicable, or more prejudice his hearers
against what he is going to offer, than an awkward
or pitiful dress; insomuch that I fancy, had Tully
nimself pronounced one of his orations with a blanket
about his shoulders, more people would have laughed
at his dress than have admired his eloquence. This
last reflection made me wonder at a set of men, who,
without being subjected to it by the unkindness of their
fortunes, are contented to draw upon themselves the
ridicule of the world in this particular; I mean such
as take it into their heads, that the first regular step
to be a wit is to commence a sloven. It is certain
nothing has so much debased that, which must have
been otherwise so great a character; and I know not
how to account for it, unless it may possibly be in complaisance to those narrow minds who can have no notion of the same person's possessing different accomplishments * or that it is a sort of sacrifice which some
men are contented to make to calumny, by allowing
it to fasten on one part of their character, while they
are endeavouring to establish another. Yet, however
unaccountable this foolish custom is, I am afraid it
could plead a long prescription; and probably give too
much occasion for the vulgar definition still remaining
among us of a heathen philosopher.
I have seen the speech of a Terrae-filius. spoken in
King Charles the Second's reign; in which he describes two very eminent men who were perhaps the
greatest scholars of their age; and after having mentioned the entire friendship between them, concludes,
" That they had but one mind, one purse, one chamber, and one hat."  The men of business were also
infected with a sort of singularity little better than
this. I have heard my father say, that a broadbrimmed hat, short hair, and unfolded handkerchief,
were ill his time absolutely necessary to denote a notable man; and that he had known two or three, who
aspired to the character of very notable, wear shoe.
strings with great success.
To the honour of our presen't age it must be allow



Pov0ErY OF DRESS.             206
ed, that some of our greatest geniuses for wit anQ
business have almost entirely broke the neck of these
absurdities.
Victor, after having despatched the most important
affairs of the commonwealth, has appeared at an assembly, where all the ladies have declared him the
genteelest man in the company; and in Atticus,
though every way one of the greatest geniuses the
age has produced, one sees nothing particular in his
dress or carriage to denote his pretensions to wit and
learning; so that at present a man may venture to
cock up his hat, and wear a fashionable wig, without
being taken for a rake or a fool.
The medium between a fop and a sloven is what
a man of sense would endeavour to keep: yet I remember Mr. Osborn advises his son to appear in his
habit rather above than below his fortune; and tells
him, that he will find a handsome suit of clothes always procure some additional respect.
I shall conclude this paper with an adventure which
1 was myself an eye-witness of very lately.
I happened the other day to call in at a celebrated
coffee-house near the temple. I had not been there long
when there came in an elderly man very meanly dressed, and sat down by me; he had a thread-bare loose
coat on, which it was plain he wore to keep himself
warm, and not to favour his under-suit; which seemed
to have been at least its contemporary: his short wig
and hat were both answerable to the rest of his ap,
parel. He was no sooner seated than he called for a
dish of tea: but as several gentlemen in the room
wanted other things, the boys of the house did not
think themselves at leisure to mind him. I could observe the old fellow was very uneasy at the affront,
and at his being obliged to repeat his commands several tunes to no purpose; until at last one of the lads
presented him with some stale tea in a broken dish,
accompanied with a plate of brown sugar; which so
raisedhis indignation, that after several obliging appellations of dog and rascal, he asked him aloud before the whole company, "why he must be used




206          ZEALOTS IN RELIGION
with less respect than that fop there?" - ointing to 4
well-dressed young gentleman who was drinking tea
at the opposite table. The boy of the house replied with
a great deal of pertness, that his master had two sorts
of customers, and that the gentleman at the other
table had given him many a sixpence for wiping his
shoes. By this time the young Templar, who found
nis honour concerned in the dispute, and that the eyes
of the whole coffee-house were upon him, hact thrown
aside a paper he had in his hand, and was coming
towards us, while we at the table made what haste
we could to get away from the impending quarrel, but
were all of us surprised to see him as he approached
nearer put on an air of deferenceand respect. To whom
the old man said, "Hark you, sirrah, I will pay off
your extravagant bills once more; but will take effectual care for the future, that your prodigality shall
not spirit up a parcel of rascals to insult your father."
Though I by no means approve either the impudence of the servants or the extravagance of the son,
I cannot but think the old gentleman was in some'asure justly served for walking in masquerade, 1
i appearing in a dress so much beneath his quality
anti.t.ate.
X.
ZEALOTS IN RELIGION AND ATHEISM.
Tantcane animis cailestibus irms?
VIRG.
And dwells such fury in celestial breasts?
THERE is nothing in which men more deceive themselves than in what the world calls zeal. There are
so many passions which hide themselves under it, and
so many mischiefs arising from it, that some have
gone so far as to say it would have been for the benefit of mankind if it had never been reckoned in the
catalogue of virtues. It is certain, where it is once
laudable and prudential, it is an hundred times crirmi




AND ATHEiSM.               207
nal and erroneous; nor can it be otherwise, if we con.
sider that it operates with equal violence in all religions
however opposite they may be to one another, and in
all the subdivisions of each religion in particular.
We are told by some of the Jewish Rabbins, that
the first murder was occasioned by a religious controversy; and if we had the whole history of zeal from
the days of Cain to our own times, we should see it filled with so many scenes of slaughter and bloodshed, as
would make a wise man very careful how he suffers
himself to be actuated by such a principle, when it
only regards matters of opinion and speculation.
I would have every zealous man examine his heart
thoroughly, and, 1 believe, he will often find that what
he calls a zeal for his religion is either pride, interest,
or ill nature. A man, who differs from another in
opinion, sets himself above him in his own judgment,
and in several particulars pretends to be the wiser person. This is a great provocation to the proud man,
and gives a very keen edge to what he calls his zeal.
And that this is the case very often, we may observe
from the behaviour of some of the most zealous for
orthodoxy, who have often great friendships and intimacies with vicious immoral men, provided they do
but agree with them in the same scheme of belief.
The reason is, because the vicious believer gives the
precedency to the virtuous man, and allows the good
Christian to be the worthier person, at the same time
that he cannot come up to his perfections. This we
find exemplified in that trite passage which we see
quoted in almost every system of ethics, though upoi
another occasior:
-      Video meliora proboque,
Deteriora sequor -              OVIL.
I see the right, and I approve it too;
Condemn the wrong and yet the wrong pursue.
TATE.
On the contrary, It is certain, if our zeal were true and
genuine, we should be much more angry with a sin



208           ZEALOTS IN RELIGION
ner than a heretic; since there are several cases which
may excuse the latter before his great Judge, but none
which can excuse the former.
Interest is likewise a great inflamer, and sets a man
on persecution under the colour of zeal. For this
reason we find none are so forward to promote the
true worship by fire and sword, as those who find their
present account in it. But I shall extend the word
Interest to a larger meaning than what is generally
given it, as it relates to our spiritual safety and welfare, as well as to our temporal. A man is glad to
gain numbers on his side, as they serve to strengthen
him to his private opinions. Every proselyte is like
a new argument for the establishment of his faith.
It makes him believe that his principles carry conviction with them, and are the more likely to be true,
when he finds they are conformable to the reason of
others, as well as to his own. And that this temper
of mind deludes a man very often into an opinion of
his zeal, may appear from the common behaviour of
the atheist, who maintains and spreads his opinions
with as much heat as those who believe they do it
only out of a passion for God's glory.
ll nature is another dreadful imitator of zeal. Many
a good man may have a natural rancour and malice
in his heart, which has been in some measure quelled
and subdued by religion; but if it finds any pretence
of breaking out, which does not seem to him inconsistent with the duties of a Christian, it throws off all
restraint, and rages in its full fury. Zeal is therefore
a great ease to a malicious man by making him believe he does God service, whilst he is gratifying the
bent of a perverse revengeful temper.  or this reason
we find. that most of the massacres and devastations
which have been in the world, have taken their rise
from a furious pretended zeal.
I love to see a man zealous in a good matter, and
especially when his zeal shows itself for advancing
morality, and promoting the happiness of mankind;
but when I find the instruments he works with racks
and gibbets, gallies and dungeons; when he imprisons




AND ATHEISdM               209
men's persons, confiscates their estates, ruins their
families, and burns the body to save the soul, I cannot
stick to pronounce of such a one that (whatever he
may think of his faith and religion), his faith is vain,
an  his religion unprofitable.
After having treated of these false zealots in religion,
I cannot forbear mentioning a monstrous species of
men, who one would not think had any existence in
nature, were they not to be met with in ordinary con.
versation.m   mean the zealots in Atheism. One would
fancy that these men, though they fall short, in every
other respect, of those who make a profession of religion, would at least outshine them in this particular,
and be exempt from that singie fault which seems to
grow out of the imprudent fervours of religion: but so
it is, that infidelity is propagated with as much fierceness and contention, wrath and indignation, as if the
safety of mankind depended upon it. There is something so ridiculous and perverse in this kind of zealots,
that one does not know how to set them out in their
proper colours. They are asort of gamesters, who are
eternally upon the fret, though they play for nothing.
They are perpetually teasing their friends to come
over to them, though at the same time they allow that
neither of them shall get any thing by the bargain.
In short, the zeal of spreading atheism is, if possible,
more absurd than atheism iaself
Since I have mentioned this -unaccountable zeal
which appears in atheists and infidels, I must further
observe that they are likewise in a most particular
manner possessed with the spirit of bigotry. They
are wedded to opinions full of contradiction and impossibility, and at the same time look upon the smallest difficulty in an article of faith as a suffic ent reason
for rejecting it. Notions that fall in with the cornmon
reason of mankind, that are conformable to the sense
of al ages and all nations, not to mention their tendency for promoting the happiness of societies, of partiular persons, are exploded as errors and prejudices:
ai d schemes erected in their stead that are altogether
taollstrous and irrationa4.and require the most extram
VOL L-t4




210            vision or NIMRZA.
vagans credulity to embrace them:l. I would fain ast
one of these bigoted infidels, suiposing all the great
points of atheism, as the casual or eternal formation
of the world, the materiality of a thinking substance
the mortality of the soul, the fortuitous organization
of the body, the motions and gravitation of matte}
with the like particulars, were laid together and form
ed into a kind of creed, according to the opinions o
the most celebrated atheists; I say, supposing such a
creed as this were formed, and imposed upon any ont
people in the world, whether it would not require an
infinitely greater measure of faith, than any set of articles which they so violently oppose? Let me therefore advise this generation of wranglers, for their own
and for the public good, to act at least so consistently
with themselves, as not to burn with zeal for Irreligio,
and with bigotry for nonsense.
C.
THE VISION OF MIRZA.
-   Omnem, qua nune obducta tWents
Mortales habetal risus tibi, et humida eircas
Caligat, nuber eripiam
VIRG.
The cloud, wlich, intercepting the clear light.
Hangs o'er the eyes, and blunts thy mortal signt,
I will remove -
Wi:EN I was at Grand Cairo, 1 picked up sev&ral oriental manuscripts, which I have still by me.
Among others I met with one entitled, The Vision
of Mirza, which I have read over with great pleasul e;
and which I have translated word for word as follows:
" On the fifth day of the moon, which, according
to the custom of my forefathers, I always kept holy
after having washed myself and offered up my morning devotions, I ascended the high hills of Bagdat,
in order to pass the rest 3f;he day in meditation




VISION OF MIRZA.            21'
and prayer. As I was here airing myself on the tops
of the mountain, I fell into a profound contemplation
on the vanity of h iman life; and, passing form one
Thought to another, Surely, said I, mail is but a shadow, and life a dream. Whilst I was thus musing,
I cast my eyes toward the summit of a'rock that
was not far from me, where I discovered one in the
habit of a shepherd, with a little musical instrument
in his hand. As I looked upon him he applied it to
his lips, and began to play upon it. The sound of
it was exceeding sweet, and wrought into a variety
of tunes that were inexpressibly melodious, and altogether different from any thing I had ever heard:
they put me in mind of those heavenly airs that are
played to the departed souls of good men upon their
first arrival in!Paradise, to wear out the impressions of the last agonies, and qualify them for the
pleasures of that happy place. My heart melted
away in secret raptures.
" I had been often told that the rock before me was
the haunt of a Genius; and that several had been entertained with music who had passed by it, but never
heard that the musician had before made himself visible. When he had raised my thoughts by those transnorting airs which he played, to taste the pleasures
of his conversation, as I looked upon him like one
astonished, he beckoned to me, and by the waving of
his hand directed me to approach the place where he
sat. I drew near with that reverence which is due to
a superior nature; and as my heart was entirely subdued by the captivating strains I had heard, 1 fell
down at his feet and wept. The Genius smiled upon
me with a look of compassion and affability that familiarized him to my imagination, and at once dispelled
all the f.ars and apprehensionswith whichI approached him. He liftedme from the ground, and taking
me by the hand, Mirza, said he, 1 have heard thee in
thy soliloquies; follow me.
"He then led me to the highest pinnacle of the rock,
and placing me on the top of it, Cast thy eyes eastward, said he, and tell me what thou seest. I sees




212            VISION OF mIRZA.
said 1, a huge valley, and a prodigious tidle of water
rolling through it. The valley that tho.i seest is part
of the great tide of eternity. What is the reason, said
I, that the tide I see rises out of a thick mist at one
end, and again loses itself in a thick mist at the other?
What thou seest, said he, is that portion of eternity
which is called time, measured out by the sun, and
reaching from the beginning of the world to its consummation. Examine now, said he, this sea that is
thus bounded with darkness at both ends, and tell me
what thou discoverest in it. I see a bridge, said 1,
standing in the midst of the tide. The bridge thou sees;
said he, is human life, consider it attentively. Upon
a more leisurely survey of it, I found that it consisted
of threescore and ten entire arches, with several broken
arches, which, added to those that were entire, made
up the number about a hundred. As 1 was counting
the arches, the genius told me that this bridge consisted at first of a thousand arches: but that a great flood
swept away the rest, and left the bridge in the ruinous
condition I now beheld it: but tell me further, said he,
what thou discoverest on it. 1 see multitudes of people passing over it, said 1, and a black cloud hanging
on each end of it. As I looked more attentively, I saw
several of the passengers dropping through the bridge,
into the great tide that flowed underneath it; and upon
further examination, perceived there were innumerable trap-doors that lay concealed in the bridge, which
the passengers no sooner trod upon, but they fell
through them into the tide, ar I immediately disappeared. These hidden pitfalls were set very thick at
the entrance of the bridge, so that throngs of people
no sooner broke through the cloud, but many of them
fell into them. They grew thinner towardsthe middle,
but multiplied and lay closer together toward the end
of the arches that were entire.
"There were indeed some persons, lut their number was very small, that continued a kind of hobbling
march on the broken arches, but fell through one after another, being quite tired and spent with so long a
walk.




VISiON OF MIRZA.             213
"I passed some time in the contemplation of this
oonderfal structure, and the great variety of objects
which it presented. My heart was filled with a deep
melancholy to see several dropping unexpectedly in the
midst of mirth and jollity, and catching at every thing
that stood by them to save themselves. Some were
looking up towards the heavenls in a thoughtful posture, and in the midst of a speculation stumbled and
fell out of sight. mIultitudes were very busy ill the
pursuit of bubbles that glittered in their eyes and
danced before them; but often when they thought
themselves within th reach of them, their footing failed anll down they sunk. In this confusion of objects,
I observed soine with scimitars in their hands, and
others with urinals, who ran to and fro upon the bridge,
thrusting several persons on trap-doors which did not
seem to lie in their way, and which they might have
escaped had they not been thus forced upon them.
" Tlne Genius seeing me indulge myself in this melancholy prospect, told me I had dwelt long enough
upon it; take thine eyes off the bridge, said he, and
tell me if thou yet seest any thing thou dost not comprehend. Upon looking up, what mean, said I, those
great flights of birds that are perpetually hovering
about the bridge, and settling upon it from time to timed
I see vultures, harpies, ravens, cormorants, and,
among many other feathered creatures, several little
winged boys, that perch in great numbers upon the
middle arches. These, said the Genius, are envy,
avarice, superstition, despair, love, with the like cares
and passions that infest human life.
"1 here fetched a deep sigh. Alas, said I, man
was made i vain! How is Se given away to misery and mortality! tortured in life and swallowen up
in death! The Genius being moved with compassion
toward me, bid me quit so uncomfortable a prospect.
Look no more, said he, on man in the first stage of
his existence, in his setting out for eternity; but cast
thine eye oin that thick mist into which the tide bears
the several generations of mortals that fall iwno it. I
directed my sight as I was ordered, and whether or




~14            VISION OF MIRZA.
no the g JodGenius strengthened it with any supernatu
ral force, or dissipated part of the mist that was before
too thick for the eye to penetrate, I saw the valley
opening at the further end, and spreading forth into
an immense ocean, that had a huge rock of adamant
running through the midst of it, and dividing it into
two equal parts. The clouds still rested on one half
of it, insomuch that I could discover nothing in it; but
the other appeared to me a vast ocean, planted with
innumerable islands, that were covered with fruits and
flowers, and interwoven with a thousand little shining
seas that ran among them. I could see persons dressed in glorious habits, with garlands upon their heads,
passing among the trees, lying down by the sides of
fountains, or resting on beds of flowers; and could hear
a confused harmony of singing birds, falling waters,
human voices, and musical instruments. Gladness
grew in me upon the discovery of so delightful a scene.
wished for the wings of an eagle, that I might fly
away to those happy seats; but the Genius told me
there was no passage to them, except through the
gates of death that I saw opening every moment upon
the bridge. The islands, said he, that lie so fresh and
green before thee, and with which the whole face of
the ocean appears spotted as far as thou canst see, are
more in number than the sands of the sea-shore; there
are myriads of islands behind those which thou here
discoverest, reaching further than thine eye, or even
thy imagination can extend itself. These are the mansions of good men after death, who, according to the
degree and kinds of virtue in which they excelled, are
distributed among these several islands, which aboursli
with pleasures of different kinds and degrees, suitable
to the relishes and perfections of those who are set.
tiled in them  every island is a paradise accommodeted to its respective inhabitants. Are not these, 0
Mirza, habltations worth contending for? Does life,
appear miserable, that gives thee opportunities of earning such a reward  Is death to be feared, that will
convey thee to so happy an existence? Think not man
was made in vain, who has such an eternity reserved




SROSTS RIDICULED.           215
for him. I gazed with inexpressible pleasure or. these
happy islands. At length, said I, show me now, I beseech thee, the secrets that lie hid under those dark
clouds which cover the ocean on the other side of
the rock of adamant. The Genius making me no an.
swer, I turned about to address myself to him a second time, but I found that he had left me; I then
turned again to the vision which I had been so long
contemplating: but instead of the rolling tide, the arched bridge, and the happy islands, I saw nothing but
the long hollow valley of Bagdat, with oxen, sheep
and camels grazing nron the sides of it."
C.
GHOSTS RIDICULED.
Veteres arias tibi de pulmone revello.
PER SEUS
I root th' old woman from my trembling heart.
I nTEMEMEt last winter there were several young
girls of the neighbourhond sitting about the fire
with my landlady's daughters, and telling stories of
spirits and apparitions. Upon my opening the door
the young women broke off their discourse, but my
landlady's daughters telling them that it was nobody but the gentleman (for that is the name which
1 go by in the neighbourhood as well as in the family) they went on without minding me. I seated myself by the candle that stood on a table at one end of
the room; and pretending to read a book that I took
out of my pocket, heard several dreadful stories of
ghosts as pale as ashes that had stood at the feet of
a bed, or walked over a churchyard by moonlight:
and of others that had been conjured into the Red
Sea, for disturbing people's rest, and drawing their
curtains at midnight; with many other old women's
fables of the like nature. As one spirit raised another, I observed that at the end of every story the
whole company closed their ranks, and crowded




16           GHOSTS RIDICULEb.
about the fire: I took notice in particular of a litte
boy, who was so attentive to every story, that I am
mistaken if he ventures to go to bed by himself this
twelvemonth. IdIeed they talked so long, that the
imaginations of the whole assembly were manifestly
crazed, and I am sure will be the worse for it as long
as they live. I heard one of the girls, that had looked upon me over her shoulder, asking the company
how ing I had been in the room, and whether I did
not look paler than I used to do. This put me under some apprehensions that I should be forced to explain myself if I did not retire; for which reason I
took the candle in my hand, and went up into my
chamber, not without wondering at this unaccountable weakness in reasonable creatures, that they
should love to astonish and terrify one another. Were
I a father, I should take a particular care to preserve
my children from these little horrors of imagination,
which they are apt to contract when they are young,
and are not able to shake off when they are in years.
I have known a soldier that has entered a breach, affrighted at his own shadow, and look pale upon a
little scratching at his door, who the day before had
marched up against a battery of cannon. There are
instances of persons, who have been terrified, even to
distraction, at the figure of a tree, or the shaking of a
bullrush. The truth of it is, I look upon a sound
imagination as the greatest blessing of life, next to a
clear judgment and a good conscience. In the meantime, since there are very few whose minds are not
more or less subject to these dreadful thoughts and
ipprehensions, we ought to arm ourselves against!hem by the dictates of reason and religon,'to pull
Ite old woman out of our hearts,' (as Perseus expresses it in the motto of my paper) and extinguish
tnose impertinent notions which we imbibed at a
time that we were not able to judge of their absurdity.
Or if we believe, as many wise and good men have
done, that there are such phantoms and apparitions
as these I have been speaking of, let us endeavour
to establish to ourselves an:nterest in Him who




GI0OSa'8 RIDICULED.          217
he.ds the reins of the whole creation in his hamt, and
moderates them after sucai a manner, that it is im.
possible for one being to break loose upon another
without his knowledge and permission.
For my own. part, I am apt to join in opinion with
those who believe that all the regions of nature swarm
with spirits: and that we have multitudes of spectators
on all our actions, when we think ourselves most
alone; but instead of terrifying myself with such a
notion, I am wonderfully pleased to think that I am
always engaged with such an innumerable society,
in searching out the wonders of the creation, and
joining in the same comfort of praise and adoration.
Milton has finely described this mixed communion
of men and spirits in paradise: and had doubtless
his eye upon a verse in old Hesiod, which is almost
word for word the same with his third line in the
following passage:
Nor think, though men were none,
That IIeav'n would want spectators, God want praise ~
Millions of spiritual creatures walk the earth
Unseen, both when we wake and when we sleep;
All these with ceaseless praise his works behold
Both day and night. How often from the steep
Of echoing hill or thicket, have we heard
Celestial voices to the midnight air,
Sole, or responsive each to other's note,
Kinging their great Creator! Oft in bands
While they keep watch, or nightly rounding walk,
With heav'nly touch of instrumental sounds,
In fu. harmonic number j fin'd, their songs
Divide the night, ani lift cur thoughts to Heav'n.
11'.




218           ENGLISH COMMERCE.
ENGLISH COMMERCE.
Hi usgetes, illic veniuntJetwzus uvaes:
Arboreifetus alibi atque inljussa virescunt
Gramina. Nonane vides, croceos ut T7molus odore,
India mittit.ebub, molles sua thura Sabtai 1
At chaalybes nudt ferrurn virosaque Pontus
Castorea, Eliadu:m palmas Epirus equarumr 
Continuo has leges eternaquefMedera certis
Imposuit natura locis —-- 
VIlOG.
This ground with Bacchus, that with Ceres suits;
That other loads the trees with happy fruits; 
A fourth with grass unbidden decks the ground:
Thus Tmolus is with yellow saffron crowtu'd;
India black ebon and white iv'ry bears;
And soft Idame weeps her od'rous team I
Thus Pontuls sends her bever stones from far
And naked Spaniards temper steel for war;
Epirus for th' Elean chariot breeds
(In hopes of palms) a race of running steeds.
This is th' original contract; these the laws
Imposed by nature, and by nature's cause.
DR1YDS.
THERE is no place in town which I so much'.ase
to frequent as the Royal Exchange. It gives vre. a
secret satisfaction, and, in some measure, gratifies any
vanity, as I am an Englishman, to see so rich an.ssembly of countrymen and foreigners consulting o —
gether upon the private business of mankind, end
making this metropolis a kind of emporium for t~ae
whole earth. I must confess that I look upon HighChange to be a great council in which all consideral4e
nations have their representative. Factors in the trading world are what ambassadors are in the Folitic
wor;d; they negotiate affairs, conclude treaties, and
maintain a good correspondence between those wealthy
societies of men that are divided from one another by
seas and oceans, or live on the different extremities of
a continent. I have often been pleased to hear disputes
adjusted between an inhabitant of Japan and an alderman of London, or to see a subject of the Great Mogul entering into a league with one of the Czar of




ENGLISH COMMERCE.             219
Muscovy. I am infinitely delighted in mixing with
bhese several ministers o commerce, as they are distilguished by their different walks and different languages. Sometimes I am jostled among a body of
Armenians; sometimes I am lost in a crowd of Jews;
and sometimes make one in a groupe of Dutchmen. I
am a Dane, Swede, or Frenchman, at different times;
or rathe- fancy myself like the old philosopher, who
tpon being asked what countryman he was, replied,
that he was a citizen of the world.
This grand scene of business gives me an infinite
variety of solid and substantial entertainments. As I
am a great lover of mankind, my heart naturally
overflows with pleasure at the sight of a prosperous
and happy multitude, insomuch that at many public
solemnities I cannot forbear expressing my joy with
tears that have stolen down my cheeks. For this reason I am wonderfully delighted to see such a body of
men thriving in their own private fortunes, and at the
same time promoting the public stock; or, in other
words, raising estates for their own families, by bringing into their country whatever is wanting, and carrymg out of it whatever is superfluous.
Nature seems to have taken a particular care to
disseminate her blessings among the different regions
of the world, with an eye to this mutual intercourse
and traffic among mankind, that the natives of the
several parts of the globe might have'a kind of dependence upon one another, and be united together by
their common interest. Almost every degree produces something peculiar to it. The food often grows in
one country, and the sauce in another. The fruits of
Portugal are corrected by the products of Barbadoes,
and the infusion of a China pfant is sweetened with
the pith of an Indian cane. The Philippic islands
give a flavour to our European bowls. The single
dress of a woman of quality is often the product of a
hundred climates. The muff and the fan come together from the different ends of the earth. The scarf
is sent from the torrid zone, and the tippet from beneath the pole. The brocade petticoat rises out of the




220          ENGLISH COMMERCB.
mines of Peru, and the diamond necklace out of the
bowels of Indostan.
If we consider our own country in its natural pros.
peet, without any of the benefits and advantages of
commerce, what a barren uncomfortable spot ofearth
falls to our share! Natural historians tell us, that
no fruit grows originally among us, besides hips and
haws, acorns and pig-nuts, with other delicacies of
the like nature: that our climate of itself, and with.
out the assistance of art, can make no further advances towards a plum than to a sloe, and carries
an apple to no greater a perfection than a crab: that
our melons, our peaches, our figs, our apricots, and
cherries, are strangers among us, imported in different ages, and naturalized in our English gardens;
and that they would all degenerate and fall away
into the trash of our own country, if they were
wholly neglected by the planter, and left to the mercy
of our sun and soil. Nor has traffic more enriched
our vegetable world, than it has improved the whole
face of nature among us. Our ships are laden with
the harvest of every climate. Our tables are stored
with spices, and oils, and wines. Our rooms are
filled with pyramids of China, and adorned with
the workmanship of Japan. Our morning's draught
comes to us from the remotest corners of the earth.
We repair our bodies by the drugs of America, and
repose ourselves under Indian canopies. The vineyards of France are our gardens; the spice-islands
our hot-beds; the Persians our silk-weavers, and the
Chinese our potters. Nature indeed furnishes us
with the bare necessaries of life, but traffic gives us
a great variety of what is useful, and at the same
time supplies us with every thing that is convenient
and ornamental. Nor is it the least part of this our
happiness, that whilst we enjoy the remotest products of the north and south, we are free from those
extremities of weather which give them birth; that
our eyes are refreshed with the green fields of Britain, at the same time that our palates are feasted
with fruik& that rise between the tropics.




INGLISH CQMMERCE.            221
Por these reasons there are not more useful memr
bers in a commonwealth than merchants. They knit
mankind together in a mutual intercourse of good
offices, distribute the gifts of nature, find work for the
poor, add wealth to the rich, and magnificence to the
great. Our English merchant converts the tin of his
own country into gold, and exchanges its wool for
rubies. The Mahometans are clothed in our British.
manufacture, and the inhabitants of the frozen zone
warmed with the fleeces of our sheep.
When I have been upon the'Change, I have often
fancied one of oar old kings standing in person,
where he is represented in effigy, and looking down
upon the wealthy concourse of people with which
that place is every day filled. In this case, hlow would
he be surprised to hear all the languages of Europe
spoken in this little spot of his former dominions, and
to see so many private men, who in his time would
have been the vassals of some powerfurbaron, negotiating like princes for greater sums of money than
were lormerly to be met with in the royal treasury 
Trade, without enlarging the British territories, has
given us a kind of additional empire. It has multiplied the number of the rich, made our landed estates infinitely more valuable than they were formerly. and added to them an a cession of other em
sates as valuable as the lands themselves.
12                             C.




222        THE CAVE OF TROPHONIXS.
THE CAVE OF'TIOPHONIUS.*
-Uique
Lucius, Ubique pavlor-                  IRG.
VIRO.
All Darts resound with tumults, plaints, and fears.
DRYDEN.
IT has been my custom, as I grow old, to allow myself some little indulgences, which I never took m
my youth. Among others is that of an afternoon's
nap, which I fell into in the fifty-fifth year of my age,
and have continued for the three last years past. By
this means I enjoy a double morning, and rise twice
a day fresh to my speculations. It happens very luckily for me, that some of my dreams have proved instructive to my countrymen, so that I may be said to
sleep, as well as to wake, for the good of the public.
I was yesterday meditating on the Cave of Trophonius. I was no sooner fallen into my usual slumber,
but I dreamed that this cave was put into my possession, and that 1 gave public notice of its virtue, inviting every one to it who had a mind to be a serious
man for the remaining part of his life. Great multitudes immediately resorted to me. The first who
made the experiment was a merry-andrew, who was
put into my hands by a neighbouring justice of peace,
in order to reclaim him from that profligate kind of
life. Poor pickle-herring had not taken above one
* Palsanias nas given a very particular description of
this cave: he tells us, that it was made in the form of a
huge oven, and had many particular circumstances,
which disposed the person who was in it to be more
pensive and thoughtful than ordinary. It waas usbal in
these times, when any one carried more than common
gloominess in his features, to tell him that he looks like
one just cora out of Trophonius's cave.
Plutarch mentions, that prophecies of evil events were
uttered from the cave of Trophonius; but the allegorical
story, that whoever entered this cavern were never again
seen to smile, seems to have been designed to warn the
contemplative from considering too much the dark sile
of nature.




THE CAVS 0. TROPHONIUS.           223
turn in it, when he came out of the cave like a hermit
from his cell, with a penitential look, and a most rueful countenance. 1 then put in a young laughing fop,
and watchino for his return, asked him, with a smile,
how he likedithe place? he replied, Prithee, friend,
be not imnpertinent; and stalked by me as grave as a
judge. A citizen then desired me to give free ingress
and egress to his wife, who >as dressed in the gayest Zoloured ribands I had ever seen. She went in
with a flirt of her fan and a smirking countenance, but
came out with the severity of a vestal, and throwing
from her several female gewgaws, told me with a
sigh, that she resolved to go into deep mourning, and
to wear black all the rest of her life. As I had many
coquettes recommended to me by their parents, their
husbands, and their lovers, I let them in all at once,
desiring them to divert themselves together as well as
they could. Upon their emerging again into daylight,
you would have fancied my cave to have been a nunnery, and that you had seen a solemn procession of
religious marching out, one behind another, in the
most profound silence and the most exemplary decency. As 1 was very much delighted with so edifying
a sight, there came toward me a great company of
males and females laughing, singing, and dancing, in
such a manner, that I could hear them a great while
before I saw them. Upon my asking their leader,
what brought them thither? they told me all at once,
that they were French protestants lately arrived in
Great Britain, and that finding themselves of too gay
a humour for my country, they applied themselves to
me in order to compose them for British conversation.
I told them that to oblige them I would soon spoil
their mirth; upon which I admitted a whole shoal of
them, who, after having taken a sarvey of the place,
game out in very good order, and with looks entirely
English. I aftervgard put in a Dutohman, who had
a great fancy to see the kelder, as he called it, but I
could not observe that I had made any alteration in
him.
A comedian, who had gained great reputation in




224        THE CAVE OF TROPHONIUS.
parts of humour, told me that he had a mighty
mind to act Alexander the Great, and fancied that he
should succeed very well in it, if he could strike two
or three laughing features out of his face: he tried
the experiment, tut contracted so very solid a look
by it, that I am afraid he will be fit for no part hereafter but a Timon of Athens, or a mute in the Funeral.
I then clapped up an empty fantastic citizen, in
order to qualify him for an alderman. He was succeeded by a young rake of the Middle Temple, who
was brought to me by his grandmother; but to het
great sorrow and surprise, he came out a Quaker.
Seeing myself surrounded with a body of free-thinkers, and scoffers at religion, who were making themselves merry at the sober looks and thoughtful brows
of those who had been in the cave, I thrust them all
in, one after another, and locked the door upon them.
Upon my opening it, they all looked as if they had
been frighted out of their wits, and were marching
away with ropes in their hands to a wood that was
within sight of the place. I found they were not able
to bear themselves in their first serious thoughts;
but knowing these would quickly bring them to a
better frame of mind, I gave them into the custody
of their friends until that happy change was wrought
in them.
The last that was brought to me was a young woman, who at the first sighit of my short face feTI into
an immoderate fit of laughter, and was forced to
hold her sides all the while her mother was speaking to me. Upon this I interrupted the old lady,
and taking her daughter by the hand, Madam, said
I, be pleased to retire into my closet, while your
mother tells me your case. I then put her into the
mouth of the cave, when the mother, after having
begged pardon for the girl's rudeness, told me, that
she often treated her father and the gravest of her
relations in the same manner; that she would sit
giggling and laughing wi;h her companions from
one end of a tragedy to the other; nav, that she would




THI CAVE OF TROPHONIUr.'2
uomatimes burst out in the middle of a sermcn and
set the whole congregation a staring at her. The
mother was going on, when the young lady came
out of the cave to us with a composed countenance;
and a low courtesy. She was a girl of such exuberant mirth, that her visit to Trophonius only reduced
her to a more than ordinary decency of behaviour,
and made a very pretty prude of her. After having
performed innumerable cures, I looked about me
with great satisfaction, and saw all my patients
walking by themselves in a very pensive and mu*
sing posture, so that the whole place seemed covered
with philosophers. I was at length resolved to go
into the cave myself, and see what it was that produced such wonderful effects upon the company; but
as I was stooping at the entrance, the door being
somethinag low, I gave such a nod in my chair, that
I awaked. After having recovered myself from the
first startle, I was very well pleased at the accident
which had befallen me, as not knowing but a little
stay in the place might have spoiled my Spectator.a
VOL. I.-15




t26   THE MOTHER SHOULD BE THE NURSL.
THE
MOTHER SHOULD BE THE NURSE *
-    Ovu apa eo. yo irarI p jlv Lrtora IItevs,
Ov& OertS pyrlrp y    dAavKl dr a'cSrtrt OaAaaao,
ls'opat r'Acrqaarot, Art rot voo; eartv arnlrrtr;.
IIOM. Iliad. xvi. v. 33.
No, amorous hero ever gave thee birth,
Nor ever tender goddess brought the forth:
Some rugged rock's hard entrails gave thee form,
And raging seas produced thee in a storm:
A soul well suiting thy tempestuous kind,
So rough thy manners, so untamed thy mind.'
POPE.
OF all the abuses that moralists should endeavout
to reform, certainly not one wants so much their assistance as the abuse in nursing children. It is unl
merciful to see, that a woman endowed with all the
perfections and blessings of nature, can, as soon as
she is delivered, turn off her innocent, tender, and
helpless infant, and give it up to a woman that is, ten
thousand to one, neither in health nor good condition,
* The following anecdote rccorded of Blanche of Castile, shows strong maternal feelings, and has a tendency
to recommend the duty enforced in this essay. Blanche
of Castile performed for Lewis, her son, in his infancy,
with peculiar attention, the duties of a nurse. A lady of
the court who, in imitation of her royal mistress, nursed
her own child, took upon her, during a severe indisposi.
tion of the queen, to relieve the wants of the prince, who
languished for his accustomed nourishment. Blanche,
on reviving, having called for her son, put him to the
breast, when the child, already satisfied, refused the
feverish milk. The queen suspecting what had passed,
affected a desire to see and thank the person who had
performed for the young Lewis this maternal office. The
lady, summoned to the chamber of her mistress, confessed the fact, alleging, that she had been moved by the
cries of the infant prince. Blanche, without speaking,
darted a scornful glance towards the officious proxy, and
compelled the child to throw back the milk he had swallowed, declaring, "that no other woman should dare to
lisDute with her the title of moother to her son.'




IHE MOTHER SHOULD BE THR NURSE    22'tetther &aund in mind nor body, that has neither ho.
sour nor reputation, neither love nor pity for the poor
babe, but more regard for the money than for the child,
and never will take further care of it than what by
all the encouragement of money and presents she is
forced to; like. sop's earth, which would not nurse
the plant of another ground, although never so much
improved, by reason that plant was not of its own
production. And since another's child is no more natural to a nurse than a plant to a strange and different
ground, how can it be supposed that the child should
thrive? and if it thrives, must it not imbibe the gross
humours and qualities of the nurse, like a plant in a
different ground, or like a graft upon a different stock?
Do notwe observe that alamb sucking a goat changes
very much its nature, nay, even its skin and wool into
the goat kind? The power of a, nurse over a child by
infusing into it, with her milk, her qualities and disposition, is sufficiently. and daily observed: hence
came that old saying concerning an ill-natured and malicious fellow, that he had imbibed his malice with his
nurse's milk, or that some brute or other had teen his
nurse. Hence Romulus and Remus were said to have
seen nursed by a wolf, Telephus the son of Hercules
by a hind, Pelias the son of Neptune by a mare, and
Eggisthus by a goat; not that they had actually suck
ed such creatures, as some simpletons have imagined,
but that their nurses had been of such a nature and
tenper, and infused such into them.
Many instances may be produced from good authorities and daily experience, that children actually suck
in the several passions and depraved inclinations of
their nurses, as anger, malice, fear, melancholy, sadness, desire, and aversion. This Diodorus, lib. 2, witnesses, when he speaks, saying, That Nero the Emperor's nurse had been very much addicted to drinkmg; which habit Nero received from his nurse, and
was so very particular in this, that the'people took
so much notice of it, as instead of Tiberius Nero, they
called him Biberius Nero. The same Diodorus also
relates of Caligula, predecessor to Nero, that his nurse




228   -tHE  OCrHEt SHOUVLD BE THE nusO,.
used to moisten the nipples of her breast frequently
with'blood, to make Caligula take the better hold of
them: which, says Diodot. us, was the cause that made
him so blood-thirsty and cruel all his life time after,
that he not only committed frequent murder by h.is
own hand, but likewise wished that all human kind
wore but one neck, that he might have the pleasure
to cut it off. Such like degeneracies astonish the
parents, who, not knowing after whom the child can
take, see one incline to stealing, another to drinking,
cruelty, stupidity; yet all these are not minded. Nay,
it is easy to demonstrate, that a child, although it be
born from the best of parents, may be corrupted by an
ill-tempered nurse. flow many children do we see
daily brought into fits, consunmptions, rickets, &c.
merely by sucking their nurses when in a passion or
fury? But indeed almost any disorder of the nurse is
a disorder to the child, and -few nurses can be found
in this town but what labour under some distenmper or
other. The first question that is generally asked a
young woman that wants to be, a nurse, Why she
should be a nurse to other people's children; is answered by her having an ill husband and that she
must make shift to live. I think now this very answer is enough to give any body a shock, if duly considered; for an ill husband may, or ten to one if he does
not, bring home to his wife an ill distemper, or at least
vexation and disturbance. Besides, as she takes the
child out of mere necessity, her food will be accordingly; or else very coarse at best; whence proceeds an
ill-concocted and coarse food for the child; for as the
blood, so is the milk; and hence 1 am very well assured proceeds the scurvy, the evil. mid many other
distempers. I beg of you, for, the sake of the many
poor infants that may and will be saved by weighing
this case seriously, to exhort the people with the utmost vehemence to let the children suck their own
mothers, both for the benefit of mother and chi'd. For
the general argument, that a mother is weakened by
giving suck to her children, is vain and simple; 1 will
maintain that the mother grows stronger by it, and




THE MOTHER SHOULD BE THE N'RSE.    229
will have her health better than she. would have other.
wise; she will find it the greatest cure and preservative
for the vapours and future miscarriages, much beyond
any other remedy. whatsoever. Her children will be
like giants, whereas otherwise they are but living
shadows, and like unripe fruit; and certainly if a
woman is strong enough to bring forth a child, she is
beyond all doubt strong enough to nurse it afterward.
It grieves me to observe and consider how many poor
children are daily ruined by careless nurses; and yet
how tender ought they to be of a poor infant, since
the least hurt or blow, especially upon the head, may
make it senseless, stupid, or otherwise miserable for
ever!
But I cannot well leave this subject as yet; for it
seems to me vwry unnatural, that a woman that has
fed a child as part of herself for nine months, should
have no desire to nurse it farther, when brought to light
and before her eyes, and when by its cry it implores
her assistance and the office of a mother. Do not the
very cruellest of brutes tend their young ones with all
the care and delight imaginable? For how can she be
called a mother that will not nurse her young ones?
The earth is called the mother of all things, not beamuse she produces, but, because she maintains and
nurses what she produces. The generation of the infant is the effect of desire, but the care of it argues
virtue and choice. I am not ignorant but that there
are some cases of necessity where a mother cannot
give suck, and then out of two evils the least must be
chosen; but these are so very few, that I am sure in
a thousand there is hardly one real instance; for if a
woman does but know that her husband can spare
about three or six shillings a week extraordinary, although this is but seldom considered, she certainly,
with the assistance of her gossips, will soon persuade
the good -man to send the child to nurse, and easily
impose upon him by pretended indisposition. Thus
cruelty is supported by fashion, and natlre gives place
to custom.




230                WI.LLIAM  1X1.
WILLIAM 1II.
Immnortale odium et nusnquam sanabile rutolsu
Indefuw or vulgo, quod numina vicanorumr
Odit ut.rquelozus; quum solos credit labtidos
Esse deos, quos ipse Coatt —--
JUY.
-A  grutch, time out of mind, begun,
Anti mutually bequeathed from sire to son:
Rteligious spite and pious spleen br# J first
Tile quarrel, which so long the bigots nurse:
Each calls the others god a senseless stock:
IHis own divine
TATE.
OF all the monstrous passions and crpinions which
l.ave crept into the world, there is none so won(ierft'
as that those who profeiss the common name of Christlans, should pursue each other with rancoutr andl ha.
tred for differences in their way of foUlowin, the example of their Saviour. It seems so naturi that all
who pursue the steps of any leader should form themelves after his manners, that it is impos ible to a-.
count for effects so different from what we might expect from those who profess themselves fo'lowers of
the highest pattern of meekness and charily, but by
ascribing such effects to the ambition and corruption
of those xho are so audacious, with souls fu.l of fury,
to serve at the altars of the God of Peace.
The massacres to which the Church of ilome has
anirnmated the ordinary people, are dreadful instances
of the truth of this observation; and whoever reads
the history of the Irish rebellion, and the cruelties
which ensued thereupon, will be sufficiently:onvinced
to what rage poor ignorants may be worked up by
those who profess holiness, and become incendiaries,
and, under the dispensation of grace, promote evils,
abhorrent to nature.
This subject and catastrophe, which deserves so
well to be remarked by the Protestant wo'ld, I will
eranscribe out of a little tract, called The Christian
Hero, piublished in 1701, whlat I find there in honout
of the renowne~l h'tero W\illie;ti ltII. who resculled thai




WILLIAM IIL                231
nation trom the repetition of the same disasters.
His late Majesty, of glorious memory, and the most
Christian Kirng, are considered at the conclusion of
that treatise as heads of the Protestant, and Roman
Catholic wor l, in the following manner:
" There were not ever before the entrance of the
Christian name into the world, men who have maintained a more renowned carriage, than the two great
rivals who possess the full fame of the present age,
and will be the theme and examinatioin of the future.
They are exactly forneedl by nature for those ends
to which tHeaven seems to have sent them amongst
us: both animated with a restless desire of glory,
but pursue it by clifftrent means and with diferent
motives. To one It consists in an extensive undlsputed'empire over iis siibjects, to the other in their
rational and volltllary obedience; one's happiness
is founded in their want of power, the other's in
their want of desire to oppose him. The one elljoyy
the summit of fortune with the luxury of a Persian,
the other with thie moderation of a Spartan: one is
made to oppress, the other to relieve the oppressed:
the one is satisfied with the pomp and ostentation
of power to prefer and debase his inferiors, the other
delighted only with the cause and foundation of it to
cherish and protect them. To one therefore religion
is but a convenient disguise, to the other a vigorous
motive of action.
" For without such ties of real and solid honour,
there is no way of forming a monarch, but after the
Machiavelian scheme, by which a prince must ever
seem to have all virtues, but really to be master of
none; he is to be liberal, merciful, and just, only as
they serve his interests; while, with the noble art
of hypocrisy, empire would be to be extended, and
new conquests be made by new devicebs by which
prompt address his creatures might insensibly give
law in the business of life, by leading men in the
entertainment of it.
" Thus when words and show are apt to pass for
the substantial things they are only to express, there
would need no more to enslave a country but to adlorn




2L3.2             WILLIAM III.
a court: for while every man's vanity atakes him believe himself capable of becoming luxury, enjoyments
are a ready bait for sufferings, and the hopes of preferment invitations to servitude, which slavery would
be coloured with all the agreements, as they call -it,
imaginable.  The noblest arts and artists, the finest
pens and most elegant minds jointly employed to set
it off; with the various embellishments of sumptuous
entertainments, charming assemblies, and polished
discourses; and those apostate abilities of men, the
adored monarch  migh. profusely and skiifully encourage, while they flatter his virtue, and gild his vice at
so high a rate, that he, without scorn of the one, or
love of the other, would alternately and occasionally
use both: so that his bounty should support him in
his rapines, his mercy in his cruelties.
"Nor is it to give things a more severe look than is
natural, to suppose such must be the consequences
of a prince's having no other pursuit than that of his
own glory; for if we consider an infant born into the
world, and beholding itself the mightiest thing in it,
itself the present admiration and future prospect of a
fawning people, who profess themselves great or mean,
according to the figure he is to make amongst them,
what fancy would not be debauched to believe they
were but what they professed themselves, his mere
creatures, and use them as such by purchasing with
their lives a boundless renown, which he, for want of
a more just prospect, would place in the number of
his slaves, and the extent of his territories? Such undoubtedly would be the tragical effects of a prince's
living with no religion, which are not to be surpassed,
but by his having a false one.
"If ambition were spirited with zeal, what would
follow, but that his people should be converted into an
army, whose swords can make right in power, and
solve controversy in belief? And if men should be
stiff-necked to the doctrine of that visible church, let
them  be contented with an oar and a chain, in the
midst of stripes and anguish, to contemplate him
whose yoke is mass; and whose burden is light.'




WILLIAM trt.              233.
"With a tyranny begun on his own subjects, and,
Indignation that others draw their breath independent
of his frown or smile, why should he not proceed to
the seizure of the world? And if nothing but the
thirst of sway were the motive of his actions, why
should treaties be other than mere words, or solemn
national compacts be any thing else but a halt in the
mai:h of that army, who are never to lay down their
armrs till all men are reduced to the necessity of hangmg their lives on his wayward will; who mighlt supinely, and at leisure, expiate his own sins by other
men's sufferings, while he daily meditates new slaughter, and new conquests'
"For mere man, when giddy with u ibridled power, is an insatiate idol, not to be appeased with myriads offered to his pride, which may be puffed up by
the adulation of a base and prostrate wonrld, into an
opinion that he is something more than human, by being something less: And, alas, what is there that mortal man will not believe of himself, when complimented with the attributes of God? He can then conceive
thoughts of a power as omnipresent as his. But,
should there be such a foe of mankind now upon earth,
have our sins so far provoked Heaven, that we are
left utterly naked to his fury? Is there no power, no
leader, no genius, that can conduct and animate us to
our death or our defence? Yes; our great God never
gave one to reign by his permission, but he gave to
anotiter also to reign by his grace.
" All the circumstances of the illustrious life of our
prince, seem to have conspired to make him the check
and bridle of tyranny; for his mind has been strengthened and confirmed by one continual struggle, and
Heaven has educated him by adversity to a quick
sense of the distresses and miseries of mankind, which
he was born to redress. In just scorn of the trivial
glories and light ostentations of power, that glorious
instrument of Providence moves, like that, in a steady,
calrr, and silent course, independent either of applause
or calumny; which renders him, if not in a political,
yet in a moral, a philosophic, an heroic, and a ch.stiwa




234              WILLIAM 11a.
sense, an absolute monarch; who satisfied with this
unchangeable, just, and ample glory, must needs turn
all his regards from himself to the service of others;
for he begins his. enterprises with his own share in the
success of them; for integrity bears in itself its reward, nor can that which depends not on event ever
know disappointment.
" With the undoubted character of a glorious captain
and (what he much more values than the most splendid titles) that of a sincere and honest man, he is the
nope and stay of Euror. a universal good not to be
engrossed by us only, fo} distant potentates implore
his friendship, and injured empires court his assistance. He rules the world, not by an invasion of the
people.of the earth, but the address of its princes:
and if that world should be again roused from the repose which his prevailing arms had given it, why
should we not hope that there is an Almighty, by whose
influence the terrible enemy that thinks himself prepared for battle, may find he is but ripe for destruction? and that there may be in the womb of time great
incidents, which may make the catastrophe of a prosperous life as unfortunate as the particular scenes of
it were successful? For there does not want a skilful eye and resolute arm to observe and grasp the
occasion: a prince, who from —
--— uit um  t ingens
Gloria —
Troy is no more, and Ilium was a town.
1'.                            DRYDEN.'




A HUMANE MASTER, &SC.           23&
A HUMANE MASTER AND AFFECTIONATE SERVANT.
8sopo ingentum statuam po3suere Attic,
Servzumque collocarsunt wterna in basi,
Peatere honoris scirtent cutnct is siam.
PH2EDR. Epilog. 1. 2
"The Athenians erected a large statue to MEsop, and
placed him, though a slave, on a lasting pedestal;
to show that the way to honour lies open indiffcer
ently to all.'
THE reception, manner of attendance, undisturbed
freedom and quiet. which I meet with here in the country has confirmed me in the opinion I always had, that
the general corruption of manners in servants, is owing
to the conduct of masters. The aspect of every one in
the family carries so much satisfaction, that it appears
he knows the happy lot which has befallen him in be.
ing a member of it. There is one particular which I
have seldom seen but at Si.'s; it is usual in
all other places, that servants fly from the parts of the
house through which their master is passing; on the
contrary, here they industriously place themselves in
his way; and it is on both sides, as it were, understood
as a visit, when the servants appear without calling.
This proceeds from the humane and equal temper of
the man of the house, who also perfectly well knows
how to enjoy a great estate, with such economy as ever
to be much beforehand. This makes his own mind
untroubled, and consequently unapt to vent peevish
expressions, or give passionate or inconsistent orders
to those about him. Thus respect and love go together;
and a certain cheerfulness in the performance of their
duty is the particular distinction of the lower part of'his family. When a servant is called before his master, he does not come with an expectation to hear himself rated for some trivial fault, threatened to be stripped, or used with any other unbecoming language,
which mean masters often give to worthy servants;
but it is often to know, what road he took that he came
so readily back according to order; whether he pass




236         A HUMANE MASTER AND
by such a ground; if tle old man who rents it is in
good health; or whether he gave Sir ----—'s love to
him, or the like.
A man who preserves a respect founded on his be.
nevolence to his dependants, lives rather like a prince
than a master in his family; his orders are- received
as favours rather than duties; and the distinction of
approaching him is part of the reward for executing
what is commanded by him.
There is another circumstance in which my friend
excels in his management which is the manner of
rewarding his servants lie has ever been of opinion,
that giving his cast off clothes to be worn by valets
has a very ill effect upon little minds, and creates a
silly sense of equality between the parties, in persons
affected only with outward things. I have heardl him.
often pleasant on this occasion, and describe a ysung
gentleman abusing his man in that coat, whivh a
month or two before was the most pleasing distum tion
he was conscious of in himself. He would turn his
discourse still more pleasantly upon the bounties of the
ladies in this kind; and 1 have heard him say he krnew
a fine woman, who distributed rewards and punishments in giving becoming or unbecoming dresses to
her maids.
But my good friend is above these little instances
of good-will, in bestowing only trifles on his servants;
a good servant to him is sure of having it in his choice
very soon of being no servant at all. As I before
observed, he is so good a husband, and knows so thoroughly that the skill of the purse is the cardinal virtue of this life; I say, he knows so well that frugality
is the support of generosity, that he can often spare a
large fine when a tenement falls, and give that settlement to a good servant who has a mind to go into the
world, or make a stranger pay the fine to that servart,
for his more comfortable maintenance, if he stays in
his service.
A man of honour and generosity considers it would
be miserable to himself to have no will but that of
another, thought it were of the best person breathing




.AFFZCTI )NATE SRBVANT.         2
and for that reason goes on as fast as he is able to
put his servants into independent livelihoods. Tihe
greatest part of Sir -—'s estate is tenanted by
persons who have served himself or his ancestors
It was to me extremely pleasant to observe the
visitants from several parts to welcome his arrival
into the country: and all the difference that I could
take notice of between the late servants who came
to see him, and those who staid in the family, was,
that these latter were looked upon as finer gentlemen
and better courtiers.
This manumission, and placing them in a way of
livelihood, I look upon as only what is due to a good
servant; which encouragement will make his successor be as diligent, as humble, and as ready as he
was. There is something wonderful in the narrowness of these minds, which can be pleased, and be
barren of bounty to those who please them.
One night, on this occasion, recount- the sense
that great persons in all ages have had of the merit
of their dependants, and the heroic services which
men have donie their masters in the extremity of their
fortunes: and shown to their undone patrons, that
fortune was tll the difference between them; but as
I design this rnmy speculation oniy as a gentle admonition to thankless masters, I shall not go out of the
occurrences of common life, but assert it as a general
observation, that I never saw, hut in Sir  -'s
family and one or two more, good servants treated
as they ought to be. Sir -—'s kindness extends
to their children's children, and this very morning
he sent his coachman's grandson to prentice. I
shall conclude this essay with an account of a picture in his gallery, where there are many which will
deserve my future observation.
At the very upper end of this handsome structure
I saw the portraiture of two young men standing
in a river, the one naked, the other in a livery. The
person supported seemed half dead, but still so Inuch
alive as to show in his face exquisite joy and love
towards the other. I thought the fainting figure
resembled my friend Sir --—;, nd locking at the




238              THE TOMBS OF
butler who stood by me, for an account of it, he in
formed me that the person in the livery was a servant of Sir —--'a, who stood on the shore while his
master was swimming, and observing him taken
with some sudden illness, and sink under water,
jumped in and saved him. He told me Sir
took off the dress he was in as soon as he came home,
and by a great bounty at that time, followed by his
favour ever since, had made him master of that
pretty seat which we saw at a distance as we came
to this house. I remembered indeed Sir - -said
there lived a very worthy gentleman, to whom he
was highly obliged, without mentioning any thing
further. Upon my looking a little dissatisfied at
some part of the picture, my attendant informed me
that it was against Sir —-'s will, and at the earnest request of the gentleman himself, that he was
drawn in the habit in which he had saved his master.                                       R.
THE
TOMBS OF WESTMINSTER ABBEY.
Pallida mors equo pulsat pede pauperum tabernae
Ref.umque turres, 0 beate Sexti.
Vita summa brevis spem nos vetat inchoare longan.
Jam te premit nox,fabuleque manes,
Et domus exils Plutonia
1IOR.
With equal foot, rich friend, impartial fate,
Knocks at the cottage, and the palace gate:
Life's span forbids thee to extend thy cares,
And stretch thy hopes beyond thy destin'd years:
Night will soon seize, and you must quickly go
To story'd ghosts, and Pluto's house below.
Tre lanemn restat, Nrums qua devenit, et Ancus.
HOR.
With Ancus, and with Numa, kings of Rome,
We must descend into the silent tomb.
My friend Sir Roger told me t'other night that he
should be glad to go and see the tombs of Westmin



WESTMINSTER ABBEY.           239
Hter Abbey with me, not having visited them since
he had read history. I could not at first imagine
how this came in.o the knight's head, till 1 recollected that he had been very busy all last summer upon
Baker's Chronicle, which he has quoted several
times in his disputes with Sir Andrew Freeport,
since his last coming to town. Accordingly I promised to call upon him the next morning, that we
might go together to the Abbey.
I found the knight under his butler's hands, who
always shaves him. He'was no sooner dressed, than
he bid one of his servants, who stood behind him, to
call a hackney-coach, and take care it was an elderly
man that drove it.
His man returned soon, telling him he had called
a coach. Upon our going to it, after having cast his
eye upon the wheels, he asked the coachman if his
axle-tree was good; upon the fellow's telling him he
would warrant it, the knight turned to me, told me
he looked like an honest man, and went in without
further ceremony. Nothing material happened in
our journey, till we were set down at the west end of
the Abbey.
As we went up the body of the church, the knight
pointed at the trophies upon one of the new monuments,
and cried out, A brave man, I warrant him! Passing
afterward by Sir Cloudesly Shovel, he flung his hand
that way, and cried, Sir Cloudesly Shovel! a very
gallant man! As we stood before Busby's tomb, the
knight uttered himself again after the same manner,
Dr. Busby! a great man! he whipped my grandfather; a very great man! I should have gone to him
myself> if I had not been a blockhead; a very great
man!
We were immediately conducted into the little chapel
on the right hand. Sir Roger planting himself at our
historian's elbow, was very attentive to every thing
he said, particularly to the account he gave us of the
lord who cut off the king of Morocco's head. Among
several otlher figures, he was well pleased to see the
statesman Cecil upon his knees; and concluding them




a4on            THE TOMITS OF
all to be great men, was conducted to the figure which
represents that martyr to good housewifery, who died
-by the prick of a needle. Upon our interpreter's telling us, that she was a maid of honour to Queen Eli.
zabeth, the knight was very inquisitive into her name
and family; and after having regarded her finger for
some time, I wonder, says he, that Sir Richard Baker
hlas said nothing of her in his Chronicle.
We were then conveyed to the two coronation chairs,
where my old friend, after having heard that the stone
underneath the most ancient of them, which was
brought from Scotland, was called Jacob's Pillar,
sat himself down in the chair; and, looking like the
figure of an old Gothic king, asked our interpreter
what authority they had to say, that Jacob h:ld ever
been in Scotland? The fellow, instead.f returning
him an answer, told him, that he hoped his honour
would pay his forfeit. I could observe Sir Roger
a little ruffled upon being thus trepanned; but our
guide not insisting upon his demand, the krlight soon
recovered his good humour.
Sir Roger, in the next place, laid his hand upon
Edward the Third's sword, and leaning upon the
pommel of it, gave us the whole history of the Black
Prince; concluding, that in Sir Richard Baker's
opinion, Edward the Third was one of the greatest
princes that ever sat upon the English throne.
We were then shown Edward the Confessor's
tomb; upon which Sir Roger acquainted us, that he
was the first who touched for the evil; and after
ward Henry the Fourth's, upon which he shook
his head, and told us there was fine reading in the
casualties of that reign.
Our conductor then pointed to that monument
where there is the figure of one of our English kings
without a head: and upon giving us to know, that
the head, which was of beaten silver, had been stolen
away several years since; Some whig, I'll warrant
you, says Sir Roger; you ought to lock up your
kings better; they will carry off the body too, if you
dorn t take care.




WESTMINSTER ABBEY.            241
The glorious names of Henry the Fift a and Queen
Elizabeth gave the knight great opportunities of shining, and of doing justice to Sir Ric)ijard Baker, who,
as our knight observed with some surprise, had a
great many kings in him, whose monuments he had
not seen in the Abbey.
For my own part, I could not but be pleased to
see the knight show such an honest passion for the
glory of his country, and siuch a respectful gratitude
to the memory of its princes.
I parted with my friend, and passed the whole
afternoon in the churchyard, the cloisters, and the
church, amusing myself with the tombstones and
inscriptions that I met with in those several regions
of the dead. Most of them recorded nothing else of
the buried person, but that he was born upon one
day and died upon another: the whole history of
his life being comprehended in those two circumstances, that are common to all mankind. I could
not but look upon these registers of existence,
whether of brass or marble, as a kind of satire upon
the departed persons; who had left no other memorial of them, but that they were born, and that they
died. They put me in mind of several persons mentioned in the battles of heroic poems, who have
sounding names given them, for no other reason but
that they may be killed, and are celebrated for nothing but beig knocked on the head.
I'AavKov re Mseovra re, OepEotoXovrE.
HOM.
Glaucumnue, Medontaque, Thersilocomque.
VIRG.
The life of these men is finely described in Holy
Writ by the path of an arrow, which is immediate
y closed up and lost.
Upon my going into the church, I entertained myVOL. 1. —16   13




242             THE TOMBS oP
self with the digging of a grave; and sa  in m every
shovel-full of it that was thrown up, the fragment
of a bone or skull intermixt with a kind of fresh
motuldering earth that some time or other had a place
in the composition of a human body. Upon this, I
began to consider with myself what innumerable
multitudes of people lay confused together under the
pavement of that ancient cathedral; how men and women, friends and enemies, priests and soldiers, monks
and prebendaries, were crumbled amongst one another,
and blended together in the same common mass; how
beauty, strength, and youth, with old age, weakness,
and deformity, lay undistinguished in the same pro.
miscuous he.ap of matter.
After having thus surveyed this great magazine of
mortality, as it were, in the lumnp;  examined it more
particularly by the accounts which I found on several
of the monuments which are raised in every quarter
of that ancient fabric. Some of them were covered
with such extravagant epitaphs, that, if it were possible for the dead person to be acquainted with them, ilie
would blush at the praises which his friends have bestowed upon him. There are others so excessively
modest, that they deliver the character of the person
departed in Greek or Hebrew, and by that means aro
not understood once in a twelvemonth. In the poetical
quarter, 1 found there were poets who had no monu.
ments. and monuments which had no poets. I observed indeed that the present war had filled the church
with many of these uninhabited monuments, which
had been erected to the memory of persons whose bodies were perhaps buried in the plains of Blenheim, or
in the bosom of the ocean.
1 could not but be very much delighted with several
modern epitaphs, which are written with great elegance
of expression and justness of thought, and therefore do
honour to the living as well as to the dead. As a foreigner is very apt to conceive an idea of the ignorance
or politeness of a nation from the turn of their public monuments and inscriptions, they should be submittea
to the pe usal of men of learning a.u. genius before they




WESTMINSTER ABS EY.            243
are pt in execution. Sir Cloudesly Shovel's manument has very often given me great offince: instead
of the brave rough English Admiral, which was the
distinguishing character of that plain gallant manI he
is represented on his tomb by the figure of a ceau,
dressed in a long periwig, and repoAing himself suon
velvet cushions undera car. py of state. The inscription is answerable to the monument; for instead of
celebrating the many remarkable actions he had performed in the service of his country, it acquaints us
only with the manner of his death, in which it was
impossible for him to reap any honour. The Dutch,
whom we are apt to despise for want of genius, show
an infinitely greater taste of antmuity and politeness
in their buildings and works of this nature, than what
we meet with in those of our own country. The monuments of their admirals, which have been erected at
the public expense, represent them like themselves;
and are adorned with rostral crowns and naval ornamerits, with beautiful festoons of sea-weed, shells, and
coral.
The contemplations of this nature are apt to raise
dark and dismal thoughts in timorous minds, and
gloomy imaginations: but for my own part, though I
am always serious, I do not know what it is to be
melancholy; and can therefore take a view of nature
in her deep and solemn scenes, with the same pleasure as in her most gay and delightful ones. By this
means I can improve myself with those objects, which
others consider with terror. When I look upon the
trnbs of the great, every emotion of envy dies in me;
when I read the epitaphs of the beautiful, every inordinate desire goes out; when I meet with the grief of
parents upon a tomb-stone, my heart melts with compassion; when 1 see the tomb of the parents themselves, I consider the v-aity of grieving for those whom
we must quickly follow: When I see kings lying by
those who deposed them, when I consider rival wits
placed side by side, or the holy men tI at divided the
world with their contests and disputes, I reflect with
arrow and astonishment on the little competition%




Z44      TRANSFOP'MATlOu  C  FIDELO.
factions, and debates Mf mankind. When 1 read the
several dates of the tombs, of some that died yesterday, anMl some six hundred years ago, 1 consider that
great day when we shall all of us be cotemporaries,
and make (ur appearance together.          C.
THE TRANSFORMATION OF FIDELIO
INTO A LOOKING-GLASS.
Per ambages et ministeria dorum
Pracipit teduB est liber spiritus.
PET RCN.
By fable's aid ungovern'd fancy soars,
Anrd claims the ministry of heavenly pow'rs.
I WAS lately at a tea-table, were some young ladies
entertained the company with a relation of a coquette
in the nei-hbourhood, who nad been discovered practising before her glass. To turn the discourse, which,
from bling witty, grew to be malicious, the matron of
the family took occasion, from the subject, to wish
that there were to be found amongst men such faithful
monitors to dress the mind by, as we consult to adorn
the body. She added, that if a sincere friend were
miraculously changed into a looking-glass, she should
not be ashamed to ask its advice very often. This
whimsical thoughlt worked so much upon my fancy
the whole evening, that it produced avery odd dream.
Methought, that as 1 stood before my glass, the image of youth, of an open and ingenuous aspect, appeared in it, who with a small shrill voice spoke in
the following manner:
"The looking-glass, you see, was heretofore a
man, even I, the unfortunate Fidelio. I had two brothers, whose deformity in shape was made out by
the clarness of their understanding: it must be
owned, however, that (as it generally happens) they
hai each a perverseness of humour suitable to their
distortion of body  The eldest- whose belly sunk is




TRANSFORMATION OF FIL)ELIO.       245
monstrously, was a great coward: and though his
splenetic contracted temper made him take-fire immediately, he made objects that beset him appear
greater then they were. The second, whose breast
swelled i lto a bold relievo, on the contrary, took
great pleasure in lessening every thing, and was
perfectly the reverse of his brother. These oddnesses pleased company once or twice, but disgusted
when ofttcn seen; for which reason the young gentlemen were sent from court to study mathematics at
the univtrsity.
"1 need not acquaint you, that I was very well
made, an l reckoned a bright polite gentleman. I was
the cofiluent and darling of all the fair; and if the
old and Lgly spoke ill of me, all the world knew i:
was because I scorned toflatter them. No ball, no
assembly, was atended till I had been consulted.
Flavia coloured her hair before me, Celia showed me
her teeth. Panthea heaved her bosom. Cleora brandished her diamonds; I have seen Cloe's foot and
tied artifi ially the garters of Rhodope.
"'Tis a general maxim, that those who doat upon
themselves, can have no violent affection for another; but on the contrary, I found that the women's
passion for me rose in proportion to the love they
bore to the.mselves. This was verified in my amour
with Narcissa, who was so constant to me, that it
was pleasantly said, had I been little enough, she
would have hung me at her girdle. The most dangerous rital I had, was a gay empty fellow, who by
the strength of a long intercourse, with Narcissa,
joined to is natural endowments had formed himself into a perfect resemblance with her. I had been
discarded, had she not observed that he frequently
asked mv opinion about matters of the last consequence: t:his made me still more considerable in her
eye.
" Thou gh I was eternally caressed by the ladies,
such wes their opinion of ri'y honour that I was
never envied by the men. A jealous lover of Narcissa one day thought he had caught ner inl an ama



246      TRANSFORMLATION OF FIDELIO.
rous conversation; for though he was at such a cdis.
tance that he could hear nothing, he imagined
strange things from her airs and gestures. Sometimes with a serene look she stepped back in a listening posture, and brightened into an innocent smile.
Quickly after she swelled into an air of majesty and
disdain, then kept her eyes half shut after a lan
Fuishing manner, then covered her blushes with hbe
hand, breathed a sigh, and seemed ready to sinli
down. In rushed the furious lover; but how great
was his surprise to see no one there but the innocent
Fidelio, with his back against the wall betwixt two
windows!
" It were endless to recount all my adventures. Let
me hasten to that which cost me my I fe, and Narcissa her happiness..     "She had the misfortune to have the smallpox
upon which I was expressly forbid her sight, it being
appreh ended that it would increase her distemper, and
that I should infallibly catch it at the first look. As
soon as she was suffered to leave her bed, she stole out
of her chamber, and found me all alone in an adjoining apartment. She ran with transport to her dar.
ling, and without mixture of fear, lest I should dislike
her. But oh me! what was her fury when she heard
me say, I was afraid and shocked at so loathsome a
spectacle. She stepped back, swollen with rage, to
see if 1 had the insolence to repeat it. I did, with this
addidion, that her ill-timed passion had increased her
ugliness. Enraged, inflamed, distracted, she snatch4P a bodkin, and with all her forne stabbed me to the.,eart. Dying, I preserved my sincerity, and expres.
sed the truth, though in broken words; and by reproachful grimaces to the last I mimicked the deformity of my murderess.
" Cupid, who always attends the fair, arsl pitied the
fate of so useful a servant as I was, obtained of the
Destinies, that my body should be made incorruptible,
and retain the qualities my mind had possessed. I
immediately lost the figure of a man, and became
smooth, polished, and bright, and to this day am the
firs: favourite of the ladies."           T.




MARRIAGE EITHER, &C.           247
MARRIAGE
EITHER INSIPID, VE XATIOUS, OR HAPPY.
Cui tn manu sit quem esse dementem aelit,
Qu.em sapere, quem sanari, quem in marbium injic,
Quen:, contra amari, quemn accersiri, quem expetz?
CXECIL.
Who has it in her power to make any man niad, or in
his senses; sick or in health; and who can choose the
object of her affection at pleasure 1
THE marriage life is always an insipid, a vexatious,
or a happy condition. The first is, when two people
of no genius or taste for themselves meet together,
upon such a settlement as has been thought reasonable by parents and conveyancers from an exact valuation of the land and cash of both parties: in this cage
the young lady's person is no more regarded, than the
house and improvements in purchase of an estate;
but she goes with her fortune, rather than her fortune
with her. These make up the crowd or vulgar of the
rich, and fill up the lumber of human race without beneficence toward those below them, or respect toward
those above them; and lead a despicable, independent,
and useless life, without sense of the laws of kindness,
good-nature, mutual offices, and the elegant satisfaclion which flows from reason and virtue.
The vexatious life arises from a conjunction of two
people of quick taste and resentment, put together for
reasons well known to their friends, in which especial
care is taken to avoid, what they think the chief of
evils, poverty, and ensure to them riches, with every
evil besides. These good people live in a constant constraint before company, and too great familiarity
alone; when they are within observation they fret at
each other's carriage and behaviour; when alone they
revile each other's person and conduct: in company
the  are in a purgatory, when only together in a hell.
1he happy marriage is, where two persons meet and
voluntarily make choice of each other, without pri.cipally regarding or neglecting the circumstances of




248       CLERGYMEN, LAWYERS, AND
fortune or beauty. These may still love in spite of
adversity or sickness: the former we may in some
measure defend ourselves from, the other is the portion
of our very make.                         7'
CLERGYMEN, LAWYERS, AND PHYSICIANS, TOO NUMEROUS.
Locus est et pluribus umbris.
"lOR.
There's room enough, and each may bring his friend.
CREECIL
I AM sometimes very much troubled, when I reflect
Upon the three great professions of divinity, law, and
physic; how they are each of them overburdened with
practitioners, and filled with multitudes of ingenious
gentlemen that starve one another.
We may divide the clergy into generals, field-officers, and subalterns. Among the first we may reckon
bishops, deans, and a:,chdeacons. Among the second
are doctors of divinity, prebendaries, and all that wear
scarfs. The rest are comprehended under the subalterns. As for the first class, our constitution preserves
it from any redundancy of incumbents, notwithstanding competitors are numberless. Upon a strict calculatlon, it is found that there has been a great exceeding
of late years in the second division, several brevets
having been granted for the converting of subalterns
into scarf-officers; insomuch that withm my memory
the price of lutestring is raised above two-pence in a
yard. As for the subalterns, they are not to be numbered. Should our clergy once enter into the corrupt
practice of the laity, by the splitting of their freeholds,
they would be able to carry most of the elections in
England.
The body of the law is no less encumbered with
superfluous members, that. are like Virgil's army,
which he tells us was so c;wxvded, many of them had
not room to use their weapons. This prodig-ous soci



PHYSICIANS, TOO NUMEROUS.         249
ety of men may be divided into the litigious and peaceable. Under the first are comprehended all those who
are carried down in coachfuls to Westmlinster-hall,
every morning in term-time. Martial's description of
this species of lawyers is full of humour:
lras et verba locant.
Men that hire out their words and anger; that are
more or less passionate according as they are paid for
it, and allow their client a quantityof wrath proportionable to the fee which they receive from him. I must
however observe to the reader, that above three parts
of those whom I reclkon among the litigious, are such
as are only quarrelsol e in their hearts, and have no
opportunity of showil g their passion at the bar. Nevertheless, as they do not know what strifes may arise,
they appear at the hall every day, that they may show
themselves in readiness to enter the lists, whenever
there shall be occasion for them.
The peaceable lawyers are, in the first place, many
of the benchers of the several Inns of Court, who
seem to be the dignitaries of the law, and are endowed
with those qualifications of mind that accomplish a
man rather for a ruler, than a pleader. These men
live peaceably in their habitations, eating once a day,
and dancing once a year, for the honour of their respective societies.
Another numberless branch of peaceable lawyers,
are those young men who, being placed at the Inns of
Court in order to study the laws of their country, frequent the playhouse more than Westminster-hall, and
arc seen in all public assemblies, except in a court of
justice. I shall say nothing of those silent and busy
multitudes that are employed within doors, in the drawing up of writings and conveyances; nor of those
greater numbers that palliate their want of business
with a pretence to slch chamber practice.
If, in the third place, we look into the profession of
physic, we shall find a most formidable body of men:
the sight of them is enough to make a man serious, for
we may lay it down as a maxim, that when a nation




250        CLERGYMEN, LAWYERS &dIC.
abounds in physicians it grows thin of people. Sir
William Temple is very much puzzled to find out a
reason why the northern hive, as he calls it, does not
send out such prodigious swarms, and overrun the
world with Goths and Vandals, as it did formerly; but
had that excellent author observed that there were no
students in physic among the subjects of Thor and
Woden, and that this science very much flourishes in
the North at present, he might have found a better
solution for this diffict.lty, than any of those he has
made use of. This body of men, in our own country,
may be described like the British army in Cesar's
time; some of them slay in chariots, and some on
foot. If the infantry do less execution than the charioteers, it is because they cannot be carried so soon
into all quarters of the town, and despatch so much
business in so short a time. Besides this body of regular troops, there are stragglers, who without being
duly listed and enrolled, do infinite mischief to those
who are so unlucky as to fall into their hands.
There are, besides the above-mentioned, innumerable retainers to physic, who, for want of other patients,
amuse themselves with the stifling of cats in an air
pump, cutting up dogs alive, or impaling of insects
upon the point of a needle for microscopical observations; besides those that are employed m the gathering of weeds, and the chase of butterflies; not to mention the cockleshell merchants and spider-catchers.
When 1 consider how each of these professions are
crowded with multitudes that seek their livelihood in
them, and how many men of merit there are in each
of them, who may be rather said to be of the science
than the profession; I very much wonder at the humour of parents, who will not rather chioose to place
their sons in a way of life where an honest industry
cannot but thrive, than in stations where the greatest
probity, learning, and good sense may miscarry. How
many men are country-curates, that might have made
themselves aldermen of London, by a right improvement of a smaller sum of money than what is usually
laid out upon a learn!' aducaton 1 A sober, frugal




FEMALE GAYETY.               25
prson,'of slender parts and a slow apprehension, might
nave thrived m trade, though he starves upon physic;
as a man would be well enough pleased to buy silks
of one, whom he would not venture to feel his pulse.
Vagellius is careful, studious, and obliging, but withal
a little thick-skulled; he has not a single client, but
might have had abundance of customers. TIle misfor
tune is, that parents take a liking to a particular profession, and therefore desire their sons may Le of it.
Whereas, in so great an affair of life, they should consider the genius and abilities of their childreiin, more
than their own inclinations..
It is the great advantage of a trading nation. that
there are very few in it so dull and heavy, who may
not be placed in stations of life which may give them
an opportunity of making their fortunes. A weli-regulated commerce is not, like law, physic, or divinity,
to be over-stocked with hands; but, on the contrary,
flourishes by multitudes, and gives employment to all
its professors. Fleets of nierchantmen are so many
squadrons of floating shops, that vend our wares and
manufactures in all the markets of the world, and find
out chapmen under both the tropics.
FE MALE GAYETY.
Concoirdia discors.
LUCAN.
Harmonious discord.
WoM.EN in their nature are much more gay and
joyous than men; whether it be that their blood is
more refined, their fibres more delicate, and theit
animal spirits more light and volatile; or whether, as
some have imagined, there may not be a kind of sex
in the very soul, I shall not pretend to determine
As vivacity is the gift of women, gravity is that
of men. They should each of them therefore keep
a watch upon the particular bias which nature 1: s fixed in their minds, that it may not draw too much, and




252            FEMALE GAYETY.
lead themout of the paths of reason. This will certainly
happen, if the one in every word and action affects the
character of being rioid and severe, and the other of being brisk and airy.'ken should beware of being capivated by a kind of savage philosophy, women by a
Thoughtless gallaotry. Where these precautions are
not observed, the man often degenerates into a cynic,
the woman into a coquette; the man grows sullen and
morose, the woman impertinent and fantastical.
By what I have said, we may conclude, men and
women are made as counterparts to one another, that
the pains and anxieties of the husband might be relieved by the sprightliness and good humour of the
wife. When these are rightly tempered, care and
cheerfulness go hand in hand; and the family, like a
ship that is duly trimmed, wants neither sail nor ballaff.
Natural historians observe, that only the male birds
have voices; that their songs begin a little before breeding time, and end a little after; that whilst the hen is
covering her eggs, the male generally takes his stand
upon a neighbouring bough within her hearing; and
by that means amuses and diverts her with his songs
during the whole time of her sitting.
This contract among birds lasts no longer than till
a brood of young ones arises from it; so that in the
feathered kind, the cares and fatigues of the married
state, if I mafy so call it, le principally upon the female.
On the contrary, as in our species the man and the
woman are joined together for life, and as the main
burden rests upon the former, nature has given all the
little arts of soothing and blandishment to the female,
that she may cheer and animate her companion in a
constant and assiduous application to the making a
provision for his family, and the educating of theit
common children. This however is not to be taker.
so strictly, as if the same duties were not often reciprocal, and incumbent on both parties; but only to
set forth what seems to have been the general inten.
tion of nature, in the different inclinations and endow.
wents which are bestowed ran the different sexes.




FEMALE GAYETY.                23
Balt whatever was the reason that man and woman
were made with this variety of temper, if we observe
the conduct of the fair sex, we find that they cloose
rather to associate themselves with a person who resembles them in that light and volatile humour which
is natural to them, than to such as are qualified to moderate and counterbalance it. It has been an old complaint, that the coxcomb carries it with them before.
the man of sense. When we see a fellow loud and
talkative, full of insipid life and laughter, we may ven*ure to pronouonce him a female favourite: noise and
hutter are such accomplishments as they cannot withstand. To be short, the passion of an ordinary woman
for a man is nothing else but self-love diverted upon
another object: she would have the lover a woman
in every thing but the sex. I do reot know a finer
piece of satire on this part of womankind, than those
lines of Mr. Dryden.
" Our thoughtless sex is caught by outward form
And empty noise, and loves itself in man."
This is a source of infinite calamities to the sex, as
it frequently joins them to men, who in their own
thoughts are as fine creatures as themselves: or if
they chance to be good-humoured, serve only to dissipate their fortunes, inflame their follies, and aggravate
their indiscretions.
The same female levity is no less fatal to them aftei
marriage than before: it represents to their iinagina
tions the faithful prudent husband as an honest, tractable, and domestic animal; and turns their thoughts
upon the fine gay gentleman that laughs, sings, and
dresses so much more agreeably.
As this irregular vivacity of temper leads astray
the hearts of ordinary women in the choice of then
lovers and the treatment of their husbands, it operates
with the same pernicious influence towards their children, who are taught to accomplish themselves in all
those sublime perfections that appear captivating in;he eye of their mother  She, admires in her sot




254            FEMALE GAYETY.
what she loved in her gallant: and by that means contributes all that she can to perpetuate herself in a
worthless progeny.
The younger F austina was a lively instance of this
sort of women. Notwithstanding she was married to
Marcus Aurelius, one of the greatest, wisest, and best
of the Roman emperors, she thought a common gladiator much the prettier gentleman; and had taken
such care to accomplish tier son Commodus according to her own notions of a fine man, that when he
ascended the throne of his father, he became the most
foolish and abandoned tyrant that was ever placed at
the head of the Roman empire, signalizing himself
in nothing but the fighting of prizes, and knocking out
men's brains. As he had no taste of true glory, we
see him in several medals and statues which are still
extant of him, equipped like a Hercules with a club
and a lion's skin.
I have been led into this speculation by the characters 1 have heard of a country gentleman and his lady,
who do not live many miles from Sir Roger. The
wife is an old coquette, that is always hankering after
the diversions of the town; the husband a morose
rustic, that frowns and frets at the name of it. The
wife is overrun with affectation, the husband sunk
into brutality: the lady cannot bear the noise of the
larks and nightingales, hates your tedious summer
days. and is sick at the sight of shady woods and
purling streams; the husband wonders how any one
can he pleased with the fooleries of plays and operas,
and rails from morning to night at essenced fops and
tawdry courtiers. The children are educated in these
different notions of their parents. The sons follow the
father about his grounds, while the daughters read
volumes of love-letters and romances to their mother.
By this means it corn-es to pass, that the girls look
upon their father as a clown, and the boys think their
mother no better than she should be.
How different are the lives of Aristus and Aspa.
se'?  The innocent vivacity of the one is tempered
and composed by the cheerful gravity of the other..




EULOGY ON THE, &c.           265
The wife grows wise by the discourses of the husband, and the husband good-humoured by the conversations of the wife. Aristus would not be so
amiable were it not for his Aspasia, nor Aspasia so
much esteemed were it not for her Aristus. Their
virtues are blended in their children, and diffuse
through the whole family a perpetual spirit of benevolence, complacency, and satisfaction.
C.
EULOGY
ON THE BRITISH CONSTITUTION.
I1 Ltyrarrl yX pirrep, i aEryov adorsp' e:
Tosil V1Y (Xul Kcr.a;MENAND.
Dear native land, how do the good and wise
Thy rhappy clime and countless blessings prize!
I LOOK upon it as a peculiar happiness, that were
I to choose of what religion I would be, and under
what government 1 would live, 1 should most certamly give the preference to that form of religion
and government which is established in my own
country. In this point I think I am determined by
reason and conviction; but if I shall be told that 
am actuated by prejudice, I am sure it is an honest
prejudice, it is a prejudice that arises from the love of
my country, and therefore such a one as I will always
indulge. Idesign this as an essay upon the civil part
of our constitution, having often entertained myself
with reflections on this subject, which I have not met
with in other writers.
That form of government appears to me the most
reasonable, which is most conformable to the equality
that we find in human nature, provided it be consistent with public peace and tranquillity. This is
what may properly be called Liberty, which exempts
one man from subjection to another so far as the
order and economy of government will permit.




256            EULOGY ON THE
Liberty should reach every individual of a people,
as they all share one common nature; if it only
spreads among particular branches, there had better
be none at all, since such a liberty only aggravates
the misfortune of those who are deprived of it, by
setting before them a disagreeable subject of comnparisos.
This liberty is best preserved, where the legislative power is lodged in several persons, especially if
those persons are of dif'erent ranks and interests;
for where they are of the same rank, and consequently have an interest to manage peculiar to that
rank, it differs but little from a despotical government in a single person. But the greatest security
a people can have for their liberty, is when th e legislative power is in the hands of' persons so happily
distinguished, that by providing for the particular
interests of their several ranks, they are providing for
the whole body of the people; or in other words,
when there is no part of the people that has not a
common interest with at least one part of the legislators.
If there be but one body of legislators, it is no better than a tyranny; if there are only two, there will
want a casting voice, and one of them must at length
be swallowed up by disputes and contentions that
will necessarily arise between them. Four would
have the same inconvenience as two, and a greater
number would cause too much confusion. I could
never read a passage in Polybius, and another in
Cicero, to this purpose, without a secret pleasure in
applying it to the British constitution, which it suits
much better than the Roman. Both these great authors give the pre-eminence to a mixed government,
consisting ot three branches, the regal, the noble, and
the popular. They had doubtless in their thoughts
the constitution of the Roman commonwealth, in
which the consul represented the king, the senate,
the notles, and the tribunes the people. This division of the three powers in the Roman constitution
was by no means so distinct and natural, as it is in




BRITISH CONST1T OTION.         257
the English form of government. Among several
objections that might be made to it, I think the chief
are those that affect the consular power, which had
only the ornaments without the force of the regal
authority. Their number had not a casting voice in
it; for which reason, if one did not chance to be
employed abroad, while the other sat at home, the
public business was sometimes at a stand, while the
consuls pulled two different ways in it. Besides, 1
do not find that the consuls had ever a negative voice
in the passing of a law, or decree of senate, so that
indeed they were rather the chief body of the nobility,
or the first ministers of state, than a distinct branch
of the sovereignty, in which none can be looked upon
as a part, who are not a part of the legislature. IHad
the consuls been invested with the regal authority to
as great a degree as our monarchs, there would never
have been-any occasions for a dictatorship, which
had in it the power of all the three orders, and ended
in the subversion of the whole constitution.
Such a history as that of Suetonius, which gives
us a succession of absolute princes, is to me an,unanswerable argu.nent against despotic power. Where
the prince is a man of wisdom and virtue, it is indeed
happy for his people that he is absolute; but since in
the common run of mankind, for one that is wise and
good you find ten of a contrary character, it is very
dangerous for a nation to stand to its chance, or to
have its public happiness or misery depend on the
virtues or vices of a single person. Look into the history I have mentioned, or into any series of absoklte
princes, how many tyrants must you read through,
efore you some to an emperor that is supportable.
But this is not all; an honest private man often
grows cruel and abandoned, when converted into an
absolute.prince. Give a man power of doing what
he pleases with impunity, you extinguish his fear,
and consequently overturn in him one of the greatest%
pillars of morality. This too we find confirmed by
matter of fact. How many hopeful heirs apparent
to great empires, when in the possession of them,
VOL. I. —17   13"




25S9             ULOGY OR T7H
have become such monsters of lust and cruelty as
are a reproach to human nature?
Some tell us we ought to make our governments on
earth like that in Heaven, which, say they, is altogther monarchical and unlimited. Was man like his
Creator in goodness and justice, I should be for following this great model; but where goodness and justice.re not essential to the ruler, I would by no means put
mnyself into his hands to be disposed of according to
h'is particular will and pleasure.
It is odd to consider the connexion between despotic
government and barbarity, and how the making of one
jperson more than man, makes the rest less. About
sine parts of the world in ten are in the lowest state
of slavery, and consequently sunk in the most gross
and brutal ignorance. European slavery is indeed a
state of liberty, if compared with that which prevails
in the other three divisions of the world; and therefore
it is no wonder that those who grovel under it have
many tracks of light among them, of which the others
are wholly destitute.
Riches and plenty are the natural fruits of liberty,
and where these abound, learning and all the liberal
arts will immediately lift up their heads and flourish.
As a man must have no slavish fears and apprehensions hanging upon his mind, who will indulge the
flights of fancy or speculation, and pus! his researches
into all the abstruse corners of truth, so it is necessary
for him to have about him a competency of all the
conveniencies of life.
The first thing every one looks after, is to provide
himself with necessaries. This point will engross our
thoughts till it be satisfied. If this is taken care of to
our hands, we look out for pleasures and amusements;
and among a great number of idle people, there will
be many whose pleasures will lie in reading and contemplatlon. These are the two great sources of know-,ledge, and as men grow wise they naturally love to
communicate their discoveries; and others seeing the
happiness of such a learned life, and improving by
their conversation, emulate, imitate, and surpass one




BRITISH CONSTITJTION. 
another, till a nation is filled with races of wise and
understanding persons. Ease and plenty are therefore
the great cherishers of knowledge; and as most of the
despotic governments of the world have neither of them,
they are naturally overrun with ignorance and barbarity. In Europe, indeed, notwithstanding several
of its princes are absolute, there are men famous for
knowledge and learning, but the reason is because the
subjects are many of them rich and wealthy, the prince
not thinking fit to exert himself in his full tyranny like
the princes of the eastern nations, lest his subjects
should be invited to new-mould their constitution, having so many prospects of liberty within their view.
But in all despotic governments, though a particular
prince may favour arts and letters, there is a natural
degeneracy of mankind as you may observe from Au.
gustus's reign, how the Romans lost themselves by
degrees till tiey fell to an equality with the most barbarous nations that surrounded them. Look upon
Greece under its free states, and you would think its
inhabitants lived in different climates, and under different heavens from those at present; so different are
the geniuses which are formed under Turkish slavery,
and Grecian liberty.
Besides poverty and want, there are other reasons
that debase the minds of men, who live under slavery,
though I look on this as the principal. This natural
tendency of despotic power to ignorance and barbarity, though not insisted upon by others, is, I think,
an unanswerable argument against that form of government, as it shows how repugnant it is to the good
of mankind, and the perfection af human nature,
which ought to be the great ends of all civil insitutions
L.




260               PIN rMONEY.
PIN MONEY.
Prodiga aon sentit pereuntern Jfamina cen usn:
At velut exhausta redivivus puliulet arca
Nummlus, 4' e pleno semper tollatur acervo
Non unquain rei,,tat, qua nti sibi gaudia conisten!
JUV.
But woman kind, that never knows a mean.
Down to the dregs their sinking fortunes drain,
Hourly they give, and spend, and waste and wear
And think no pleasure can be bought too dear.
DRYDEN.
As there is no man living who is a more professed
advocate for the fair sex than myself, so there is none
that would be more unwilling to invade any of their
ancient rights and privileges; but as the doctrine of
Pin money is of a very late date, unknown to our
great-grandmothers, and not yet received by many of
our modern ladies, I think it is for the interest of both
sexes to keep it from spreading.
The supplying a man's wife with Pin money, is
furnishing her with arms against himself, and in a
mannerbecoming accessary to his own dishonour. We
may indeed, generally observe; that in proportion as
a woman is more or less beautifll, and her husband
advanced in years, slh stands in need of a greater or
less number of Pins, and upon a treaty of marriage,
rises or falls in her demands accordingly. It must
likewise be owned, that high quality m a mistress
does very much inflame this article Jn the marriage
reckoning.
But where the age and circumstances of both parties are pretty much upon a level, I cannot but think
the insisting upon Pin money is very extraordinary;
and yet we find several matches broken off upon this
very head. What would a foreigner, or one who is a
stranger to this practice, think of a lover that forsakes
his mistress, because he is not willing to keep her in
Pins; but what would he think of the mistress, should
he be informed that she asks five or six hundred
pounds a year for this use? Should a mran unacquaint.




PIN MONEY.               261
ed with our customs be told the sums which are
allowed in Great Britain under the title of Pin money,
what a prodigious consumption of pins would he think
there was in this island!
I am not ignorant that the British ladies allege they
comprehend under this general term several other conveniences of life; I couild therefore wish, for the honour of my country-women, that they had rather called it Needle money, which might have implied something of good-housewifery, and not have given the
malicious world occasion to think, that dress and trifle
have always the uppermost place in a woman's
thoughts.
I know several of my fair readers urge, in defence
of this practice, that it is but a necessary provision
they make for themselves, in case their husband
proves a churl or a miser; so that they consider this
allowance as a kind of alimony, which they may lay
their claim to without actually separating from their
husbands. But with submission, I think a woman
who will give up herself to a man in marriage, where
there is the least room for such an apprehension, and
trust her person to one whom she will not rely on for
the common necessaries of life, may very properly be
accused (in the phrase af a homely proverb) of being
" penny wise and pound foolish."
It is observed of over-cautious generals, that they
never engage in a battle without securing a retreat,
in case the event should not answer their expectations;
on the other hand, the greatest conquerors have burnt
their ships, or broke down the bridges behind kthea,
as being determined either to succeed or die in the engagement. In the same manner I should very much
suspect a woman who takes such precautions for her
retreat, and contrives methods how she may live happily, without the affection of one to whom she joins
nerself for life. Separate purses between man and
wife are, in my opinion, as unnatural as separate beds.
A marriage cannot be happy, where the pleasures,
inclinations, and interests of both parties are not the
same  There is no greater incitement to love in the




262      SURPRISING STORY TELLERS.
mind of man, than the sense of a person's depending
upon him for her ease and happiness; as a woman
uses all her endeavours to please the person whom
she looks upon as her honour, her comfort, and her
support.
Ftsor this reason I am not very much surprised at
the behaviour of a rough country squire, who being
not a little shocked at the proceeding of a young widow that would not recede from her demands of Pin
money, was so enraged at her mercenary temper, that
he told her in great wrath, " As much as she thought
him her slave, he would show all the world he did not
care a pin for her." Upon which he flew out of ths
room, and never saw her more.
Socrates, in Plato's Alcibiades, says, he was inform.
ed by one who had travelled through Persia, that as
he passed over a great tract of land, and inquired
what the name of the place was, they told him it was
the Queen's Girdle: to which he adds, that another
wide field which lay by it, was called the Queen's
Veil; and that in the same manner there was a large
portion of ground set aside for every part of her majesty's dress. These lands might not be improperly
called the Queen of Persia's Pin money,   L.
SURPRISING STORY TELLERS.
Ultra
itnem tendere opus.
HOR.
To launch beyond all bounds.
SURPRISE is so much the life of stories, that every
one aims at it, who endeavours to please by telling
them. Smooth delivery, an elegant choice of words,
and a sweet arrangement, are all beautifying graces,
but not the particulars in this point of conversation,
which either long command the attention, or strike
with the violence of a sudden passion, or occasion the
blurst of laughter which accompanies humour. I have




SURPRISING STORB  TELLERS.       263
sometimes fancied that the mind is in this case like a
traveller who sees a fine seat in haste; he acknow(edges the delightfulness of a walk set with regularity, but would be uneasy if he were obliged to pace it
over, when the first view had let him into all its beau.
ties from one end to the other.
However a knowledge of the success which stories will have when they are attended with a turn
of surprise, as it has happily made the characters
of some, so has it also been the ru in of the characters
of others. There is a set of men who outrage truth,
instead of affecting us with a manner in telling it;
who overleap the line of probability, that they may
be seen to move out of to;e common road, and endear
your only to make their hearers stare by imposing
upon them with a kind of nonsense against the philosophy of nature, or such a heap of wonders told upon
their own knowledge, as it is not likely one man
should ever have met withL
I have been led to this observation by a company
into which I fell accidentally. The subject of' An
tipathies was a proper field wherein such false surprisers might expatiate, and there were those present who appeared very fond to show it in its full
extent of traditional history. Some of them, in a
learned manner, offeredtoour consideration the miraculous powers which the effluviums of cheese have
over bodies whose pores are disposed to receive them
in a noxious manner; others gave an accountof such
who could indeed bear the sight of cheese, but not the
taste; for which they brought a reason from the milk
of their nurses. Others again discoursed without
endeavouring at reasons, concerning an unconquerable aversion which some stomachs have against a
joint of meat when it is whole, and the eager inclination they have for it, when by its being cut up the
shape which affected them is altered. From hence
they passed to eels, then to parsnips, and so from one
aversion to another: till we had worked up ourselves
to.Pua a pitch of complaisance, that when the diiaer was to come in, we inquired the name of every




264       SURPRISING STORY TELLERS.
dish, and hoped it would be no offence to any in conspany, before it was admitted. When we had sat
down, this civility among us turned the discourse
from eatables to other sorts of aversions; and the,eternal cat, which plagues every conversation of this
nature, began then to engross the subject. One had
sweated at the sight' of it, another had smelled it out
as it lay concealed in a very distant cupboard; and
he who crowned th. whole set of these stories, reck
oned up the number of times in which it had occasioned him to swoon away. At last, says he, that you
may all be satisfied of my invincible aversion to a
cat, I shall give an unanswerable instance; as I was
going through a street of London, where I never
had been till then, I felt a general damp and faintness all over me, which I could not tell how to account for, till 1 chanced to cast my eyes upwards
and found that I was passing under a segn-post on
which the picture of a cat was hung.
The extravagance of this turn in the way of surprise, gave a stop to the talk we had been carrying
on:; some were silent because they doubted, and othl'ers because they were conquered in their own way
so that the gentleman had opportnuity to press the
belief of it upon us, and let us see that he was rather
exposing himself than ridiculing others.
I must freely own, that I did not all this while d s.
believe every thing that was said; but yet I thought
some in the company had been endeavouring whQ
should pitch the bar farthest; that it had for some
time been a measuring cast, andt at last my friend
of the cat and sign-post had thrown beyond them all.
I then considered the manner in which this story
had been received, and the possibility that it might have
passed for a jest upon othei,% if he had not laboured
against himself  From hence, thought L there are
two ways which the wel.-bred world generally takes
to contradict such a practice, when they do not think
fit to contradict it flatly.
The first of these is a general silence, which I would
not advise any one to interpret in his awn behalf. It




SURPRISING STORY TELLERS.         265
is often the effect of prudence in avoiding a quarrel,
when they see another drive so fast that there is no
stopping him without being run against; and but very
seldom the effect of weakness in believing suddenly.
The generality of mankind are not so grossly ignorant
as some overbearing spirits would persuade themselves; and if the authori;y of a character or a caution
against danger made us suppress our opinions, yet
neither of these are of force enough to suppress our
thoughts of them. If a man who has endeavoured to
amuse his company with improbabilities could but look
into their minds, he would find that they imagine he
lightly esteems of their sense when he thinks to impose upon them, and that he is less esteemed by them
for his attempt in doing so. His endeavour to glory
at their expense becomes a ground of quarrel, and the
scorn and indifference with which they entertain it begins the immediate punishment: and indeed (if we
should even go no further) silence, or a negligent mdifference, has a deeper way of wounding than opposition, because opposition proceeds from an anger that
has a sort of generous sentiment for the adversary
mingling along with it, while it shows that there is
some esteem in your mind for him; in short, that you
think him worth while to contest with: but silence,
or a negligent indifference, proceeds from anger, mixed
with a scorn that shows another he is thought by you
too contemptible to be regarded.
The other method which the world has taken for
eorrecting this practice of false surprise, is to overshoot
such talkers in their own bow, or to raise the story
with further degrees of impossibility, and set up for a
voucher to them in such a manner as must let them
see they stand detected. Thus I have heard a discourse
was once managed upon the effects of fear. One of
the company had given an account how it had turned
his friends' hair gray in a night, while the terrors of
a shipwreck encompassed him. Another taking the
lint from hence, began upon his own knowledge, to
enlarge his instances of the like nature to such a number, that it was not probable he could ever have met




266       SURPRISING STORY TE LLER$.
witl. them; and as he still grounded those upon differ
ent causes, for the sake of variety, it might seem at
last, from his share of the conversation, almost impossible that any one who can feel the passion of fear
should all his life escape so common an effect of it.
By this time some of the company grew negligent,
or desirous to contradict him: but one rebuked the
rest with an appearance of severity, and with the
known old story in his head, assured them they need
not scruple to believe that the fear of any thing can
make a man's hair gray, since he knew one whose
periwig had suffered so by it. Thus he stopped the
talk, and made them easy. Thus is the same method
taken to bring us to shame, which we fondly take to
increase our character. It is indeed a kind of mimickry, by which another puts on our air of conversation to show us to ourselves: he seems to look ridiculous before )ou, that you may remember how near
a resemblance you bear to him, or that you may know
that he will not lie under the imputation of believing
you. Then it is that you are struck dumb immediately
with a conscientious shame for what you have been
saying. Then it is that you are inwardly grieved at
the sentiments which you cannot but perceive others
entertain concerning you. an short, you are against
yourself; the laugh of the company runs against you;
the censuring world is obliged to you for that triumph
which you have allowed them at your own expense;
and truth, which you have injured, has a near way
of being revenged on you, when by the bare repetition
of your story you become a fiequent diversion for th
pubi61




THOUGHTS IN SICKNESS.          267
THOUGHTS IN SICKNESS.
--— A.lata est numine quando,
Jam propria Dei-                     VIRG
When all the God came rushing on her soul.
DIRYDEN.
AMONG all the reflections which usually rise in the
mind of a sick man, who has time and inclination to
consider his approaching end, there is none more natural than that of his going to appear naked and unbodied before him who made him. When a man considers, that as soon as the vital union is dissolved, he
shall see that Supreme Being, whom he now contemplates at a distance, and only in his works; or, to
speak more philosophically, when by some faculty in
the soul he shall apprehend the Divine Being, and be
more sensible of his presence, than we are now of
the presence of any object which the eye beholds, a
man must be lost in carelessness and stupidity who
is not alarmed at such a thought. Dr. Sherlock, in
his excellent Treatise upon Death, has represented, in
very strong and lively colours, the state of the soul in
its first separation from the body, with regard to that
invisible world which every where surrounds us,
though we are not able to discover it through this
grosser world of mater, which is accommodated to
our senses in this life. His words are as follows:
"That death, which is our leaving this world, is
nothing else but our putting off these bodies, teaches
us, that it is only our union to these bodies, which intercepts the sight of the other world: The other world
is not at such a distance from us, as we may imagine:
the Throne of God indeed is at a great remove from
this earth, above the third Heavens, where he displays
his glory to those blessed spirits which encompass his
Throne; but as soon as we step out of these bodies,
we step into the other world; which is not so properly
another world, (for there is the same heaven and earth
still) as a new state of life. To live in these bodies
is to live in this world; to live out of them is to rt



268          THOUGHTS IN SICKNESS.
move into the next: For while our souls are confined
to these bodies, and can look only through these material casements, nothing but what is material can affect us; nay, nothing but what is so gross, that it can
reflect light, and convey the shapes and colours of
things with it to the eye  So that though within this
visible world, there be a more glorious scene of things
than what appears to us, we perceive nothing at all of
it; for this veil of flesh parts the visible and invisible
world: But when we put off these bodies, there are
new and surprising wonders present themselves to our
views; when these material spectacles are taken off,
the soul, with its own naked eyes, sees what was invisible before: And then we are in the other world,
when we can see it, and converse with it. Thus St.
Paul tells us, that' when we are at home in the body,
we are absent from the Lord; but when we are ab
sent from the body, we are present with the Lord.'
2 Cor. v. 6, 8. And methinks this is enough to cure
ius of our fondness for these bodies, unless we think it
more desirable to be confined to a prison, and to look
through a grate all our lives, which gives us but a
very narrow prospect, and that none of the best neither, than to be set at liberty to view all the glories of
the world. What would we give now for the least
glimpse of that invisible world, which the first step
we take out of these bodies tvill present us with?
There are such things as'eye hath not seen, nor ear
heard, neither hath it entered into the heart of man to
conceive:' Death opens our eyes, enlarges our pros.
pect, psesentAis with a new and more glorious world,
which we can never see while we are shut up in flesh;
which should make us as willing to part with this
veil, as to take the film off our eyes, which hinders
our sight.
"As a thinking man cannot but be very much affected with the idea of his appearing in the presence ot
that Being'whom none can see and live;' he must be
much more effected when he considers that this Being
whom he appears before, will examine all the actions
of his past life, and reward or punish him accordingly.




THOUGHTS IN SICKNESS.           269
I must confess that I think there is no scheme of religion, besides that of Christianity, which can possibly
support the most virtuous person under this thought.
Let a man's innocence- be what it will, let his virtues
rise to the highest pitch of perfection attainable in this
life, there will be still in him so many secret sins, so
many human frailties, so many offences of ignorance,
passion, and prejudice, so many unguarded words and
thoughts, and, in short, so many defects in his best actions, that, without the advantages of such an expiation and atonement as Christianity has revealed to us,
it is impossible that he should be cleared before his
Sovereign Judge, or that he should be able to'stand
in his sight.' Our holy religion suggests to us the
only means whereby our guilt may be taken away, and
our imperfect obedience accepted."
it is this series of thought that 1 have endeavoured
to express in the following hymn, which I have cor-.
posed during this my sickness:
When rising from the bed of death,
O'erwhelm'd with guilt and fear,
I see my Maker face to face,
O how shall I appear!
If yet, while pardon may be found,
And mercy may be sought,
My heart with inward horror shrinks,
Arid trembles at the thought;
When thou, 0 Lord, shalt stand disclos'd
In Majesty severe,
And sit in judgment on my soul,
O how shall I appear!
But thou hast told the troubled mind,
Who does her sins lament,
The timely tribute of her tears
Shall endless wo prevent.
Then see the sorrow of my heart,
Ere yet it be too late;
And hear my Saviour's dying groans,
To give those sorrows- weight.




270        SOCRATES TO HIS JUDGES.
For never shall my soul despair
Her pardon to procure,
Who knows thy only Son has died
To make her pardon sure.
There is a noble hymn ii, Freach, which Monsieur
Bayle has celebrated for a very fine one, and which
the famous author of the Art of Speaking calls an admirable one that turns upon a thought of the same
nature. If I could have done it justice in English, I
would have sent it to you translated: it was written
by Monsieur, Des Barreaux, who had teen one of the
greatest wits and libertines in France, but in his last
years was as remarkable a penitent.
Grand Dieu, tes jugemens sont remplis d'equite;
7'ouours tu prens plaisir a nous etre propzce.
Mais j' ai tantfait de mal, que jamais ta bonte
Ne me pardonnere, sans choquer ta justice.
Oui, mon Dieu, la grandeur de mon impiete
Ne laisse a ton pouvoir que le choix du suplice:
Ton intlerest s' oppose a ma felicite;
Et ta clemence meme attend que je perrisse.
Conteme ton desir, puis qu' il t' est glorieux;
Offense toi des pleurs qui coulent de mes yeux;
Tonne, jfappe, il est tems, rens moi guerre pour guerre:
J' adore en perissant la raison qui i' aigrit
Mais dessus quel endroit tombera ton tonnere,
Qui ne soil tout couvert du sang de Jesus Christ.
SOCRATES TO HIS JUDGES.
Nemo vir magnus sine aliquo afflatu divino unquam
fuit.                             TULL.
All great men are in some degree inspired.
WE know the highest pleasure our minds are capable of enjoying with composure, when we read
sublime thoughts communicated to us by men of great
genius and eloquence. Such is the entertainment we
meet with in the philosophic part of Cicero's writings.
Truth and good sense have there so charming a dress,
that they could hardly be more agreeably represented




SOCRATES TO HIS JUDGES,          27
-with the addition of poetical fiction, and the power of
lumbers. This ancient author has fallen into my hands
within these few days, and left upon me strong impressions. If I had a mind to it, I could not at present talk of any thing else; therefore I shall translate
a passage of Cicero for the speculation of this day.
He tells us, that Plato reports Socrates, upon receiving his sentence, to have spoken to his judges in the
following manner:
"I have great hopes, 0 my judges, that it is infinitely to my advantage that I am sent to death: for
it must of necessity be, that one of these two things
must be the consequence. Death must take away all
these senses, or convey me to another life. If all sense
is to be taken away, and death is no more than that
profound sleep, without dreams, in which we are sometimes buried, O Heavens, how desirable it is to die I!
how many days do we know in life preferable to such
a state? But if it be true that death is but a passage
to places which they who lived before us do now inhabit, how much still happier is it to go from those
who call themselves judges, to appear before those that
really are such; before Minos, Rhadamanthus. NEacus,
and Triptolemus, and to meet men who have lived
with justice and truth? Is this, do you think, no happy journey  Do you think it nothing to speak with
Orpheus, Musseus, Homer, and Hesiod?  I would,
indeed, suffer many deaths to enjoy these things.
With what particular delight should I talk to Palamedes, Ajax, and others, who like me have suffered by
the iniquity of their judges! I should examine the
wisdom of that great prince, who carried such mighty
forces against Troy; and argue w.th Ulysses and
Sisyphus, upon difficult points, as I have in conversation here, without being m danger of being condemned. But let not those among you who have pronounced
me an innocent man be afraid of death. No harm
can arrive at a good man whether dead or living; his
affairs are always under the direction of the Gods;
nor will I believe the fate which is allotted to me my.
self this day to have arrived by chance; nor have I




272          EULOGY ON MODESTY.
aught to say either against my judges or accusers but
that they thought they did me an injury. —- Iutl
detain you too long, it is time that I retire to death,
and you to your afibirs of life; which of us has the
better, is known to the Gods, but to no mortal man."
The divine Socrates is here represented in a figure
worthy his great wisdom and philosophy; worthy the
greatest mere man that ever breathed. 0 how glorious
is the old age of that great man, who has spent his time
insuch contemplations as have made this being, what
only it should be, an education for Heaven 
EULOGY ON MODESTY.
Quanlo quisque sibi plura negaTerit.
A Diis pluraferet-                   HOR,
They that do much themselves deny,
Receive more blessings from the sky. CREECH.
THERE is a call upon mankind to value and esteem
those who set a moderate price upon their own merit;
and self-denial is frequently attended with unexpected
blessings, which in the end abundantly recompense
such losses as the modest seem to suffer in the ordinary occurrences of lifer The curious tell us, a determination in our favour or to our disadvantage is
made upon our first appearance, even before they know
any thing of our characters, but from the intimations
men gather from our aspect. A man, they say, wears
the picture of his mind in his countenance; and one
man's eyes are spectacles to his who looks at him to
read his heart. But though that way of raising an
opinion of those We behold in public is very fallacious,
certain it is, that those, who by their words and ac
tions, take as much upon themselves, as they can but
barely demand in the strict scrutiny of their deserts,
will find their account lessen every day. A modest
man preserves his character, as a frugal man does
his fortune; if either of them live to the height of




EULOGY C, MODESTY.             273
either, one will find losses, the other errors, which he
has not stock by him to make up. It were therefore a
just rule, to keep your desires, your words, and actions,
Within the regard you observe your friends have for
you; and never, if it were m a man's power, to take as
much as he possibly miglt either in preferment or reputation. My walks have lately been among the
mnercantile part of the world; and one gets praises
naturally from those with whom onr converses: I say
then, he that in his air, his treatment of others, or an
habitual arrogance to himself gives himself credit for
the least article of more wit. wisdom, goodness, or
sralour than he can possibly produce if he is called
upon, will find the world break in upon him, and consider hilr as one who has cheated them of all the esteem they had before allowed hirm  This brings a
commission of bankruptcy upon him; and he that
might have gone on to his life's end in a prosperous
way, by aiming at more than he should, is no longer
proprietor of what he really had before, but his pretensions fare as' all tings do which are tarn instead of
being divided.
There is no one living would deley C.inna the ap~plause of an agreeable and facetious wit; or could possibly pretend that there as not something inimitably
_unforced and diverting in his manner of &livering all
his sentiments in his conversation, if he were abae to
conceal the strong desire of applause which he betrays
mn every syllable he utters. But they who converse
with hitm, see that allthe civilities they could do to him,
or the kind things they could say to hinm, would fall
short Of what he expects,; and therefore instead of
showing him the esteem they have for his merit, their
reflections turn only upon that they observe he has of
it himself.
If you go among the womren, and behold Gloriana
trip into a room with that theatrical ostentation of her
charms, Mirtilla with that soft regularity in her motion.
Chloe with such an indifferent familiarity, Corinna
with sulch a fond approach, and Roxana with such a
ternand of respect in the greet gravity of her entrance:
VPA  L-18




4e74         EULOGY ON MODESTY.
yOU find all t.a sex, who understand themselves and
act naturally, wait only for their absence, to tell you
that all these ladies would-impose themselves upon
you; and each of them carry in their behaviour a
consciousness of so much more than they should pretend to, that they lose what would otherwise be given
them.
1 remember the last time I saw Macbeth, I was
wonderfully taken with the skill of the poet, in making
the murderer form fears to himself from the moderation
of the prince whose life he was going to take away.
lie says of the King, " he bore his faculties so meekly;" and justly inferred from thence, that all divine
and human power would join to avenge his death, who
had made such an abstinent use of dominion. All that
is in a man's power to do to advance his own pomp
and glory, and forbears, is so much laid up against
the day of distress; and pity will always be his portion in adversity, who acted with gentleness in prosperity.
The great officer who foregoes the advantages he
might take to himself, and renounces all prudential
regards to his own person in danger, has so far the
merit of a volunteer; and all his honours and glories
are unenvied for sharing the common fate with the
same frankness as they do who have no such endearing circumstances to part with. But if there were no
such considerations as the good effect which self-denial
has upon the sense of other men towards us, it is of
all qualities the most desirable for the agreeable disposition in which it places our own minds. I cannot
tell what better to say of it, than that it is the very
contrary of ambition; and that modesty allays all those
passions and inquietudes to which that vice exposes
us. He that is moderate in his wishes from reason
and choice, and not resigned from sourness, distaste,
or disappointment, doubles all the pleasures of his life.
Thie air, the season, a sun-shiny day, or a fair prospect, are instances of happiness, and that which he
enjoys in common with all the world, (by his exemption from the enchantments by which all the world are




& BEAU'S HEAD ANAT3MIZED.        275
bewitc ted) are to him uncommon benefits and new
acquisitions. Health is not eaten up with care, nor
pleasure interrupted by envy. It is not to him of any
consequence what this man is famed for, or for what
the other is preferred. He knows there is in such a
place an uninterrupted walk; he can meet in such a
company an agreeable conversation; he has no emulation, he is no man's rival, but every man's well-wisher; canl look at a prosperous man, with a pleasure in
reflecting that he hopes he is as happy as himself;
and hashis mind and his fortune, as far as prudence
will allow, open to the unhappy, and to the stranger.
Lucceius has learning, wit, humour, eloquence, but
no ambitious prospects to pursue with these advantages, therefore to the ordinary world he is perhaps
thought to want spirit, but known among his friends
to have a mind of the most consummate greatness.
He wants no man's admiration, is in no need of pomp.
His clothes please hini if they are fashionable and
warm; his companions are agreeable if they are civil
and well natured. There is with him no occasion for
superfluity at meals, for jollity in company, in a word,
for any thing extraordinary to administer delight to
him. Want of prejudice and command of appetite are
the companions which make his journey of life so
easy, that he in all places meets with more wit, more
good cheer, and more good-humour, than is necessary
to make him enjoy himself with pleasure and satisfaction.                                  T.
A BEAU'S HEAD ANATOMIZED.
-tribue Anticyris caput insanabile. -
JUVA head no hellebore can cure.
I WAs yesterday engaged in an assembly of virtuosos, where one of them produced many curious ob.
eervations which he had lately made in the anatomy




276      A BEAU'S HEAD ANATOMIZED.
of a human body. Another of the company commu.
nicated to us several wonderful discoveries, which he
had also made on the same subject, by the help of very
fine glasses. This gave birth to a great variety of
uncommon remarks, and furnished discourse for the
remaining part of the day.
The different opinions which were started on this
occasion, presented to my imagination so many new
ideas, that by mixingc with those which were already
there, they employed my fancy all the last night, and
composed a very wild extravagant dream.
I was invited, methought, to the dissection of a
beau's head, which was laid on a table before us. An
imaginary operator opened it with a great deal of
nicety, which upon a cursory and superfcial views
appeared like the head of another man; but upon ap
plying oair glasses to it, we made a very odd discovery,
namely, that what we looked upon as brains, were
not such in reality, but a heap of strange materials
wound up in that shape and texture, and packed together with wonderful art in the several cavities of
the skull. For, as Homer tells us, that the blood of
the gods is not real blood, but only something like it:
so we found that the brain of a beau is not real brain,
but only something like it.
The pineal gland, which many of our modern philosophers suppose to be the seat of the soul, smelt
very strong of essence and orange-flower water, and
was encompassed with a kind of horny substance, cut
into a thousand little faces or mirrors, which were
imperceptible to the naked eye, insomuch that the soul,
if there had been any here, must have been always
taken up in contemplating her own beauties.
We observed a large antrum or cavity in the sinciput, that was filled with ribands, lace, and embroidery,
wrought together in a most curious piece of network,
the parts of which were likewise imperceptible to the
naked eye. Another of these antrums or cavities was
stuffed with invisible billet-doux, love-letters, pricked
dances, and other trumpery of the same nature. In
another we found a kind of powder, which set the




A BEAU'S 3FEAD ANATOMIZED.        277
whole company a sneezing, and by the scent discovered itself to be right Spanish. The several other cells
were stored with commotlities of the same kind, of
which it would be tedious to give the reader an exact
inventory.
There was a large cavity on each side of the head,
which I must not omit. That on the right side was
filled with fictions, flatteries, and falsehoods, vows, promises, and protestations; that on the left with oaths
and imprecations. There issued out a duct from each
of these cells, which ran into the root of the tongue,
where both joined together, and passed forward in one
common duct to the tip of it. We discovered several
little roads or canals running from the ear into the
brain, and took particular care to trace them out
through their several passages. One of them extended itself to a bundle of sonnets and little musical instruments. Others ended in several bladders, which were
filled either with wind or froth. But the large canal
entered into a great cavity of the, skull, from whence
there wvent another canal into the tongue. This great
cavity was filled with a kind of spongy substance,
which the French anatomists call galimalias, and the
Eng-lish nonsense.
ihe sklins of the forehead were extremely tough
and thick, and what very much surprised us, had not
in them any single blood-vessel that we were able to
discover, either with or without our glasses; from
whence we concluded, that the party when alive must
have been entirely deprived of the faculty of blushing.
The os cribriforme was exceedingly stuffed, and in
some places damaged with snuff. We could not but
take notice in particular of that small muscle which
is not often discovered in dissections, and draws the
nose upwards, when it expresses the contempt which
the owner of it has, upon seeing any thing he does not
like, or hearing any thing he does not understand. I
need not tell my learned reader, this is that muscle
which performs the motion so often mentioned by the
Latin poets, when they talk of a man's cocking his.ose, or playing the rhinoceros.
14*




278       A BEAU'S HEAD ANATOMIZED.
We did not find any thing very remarkable in the
eye, saving only, that the musculi at latorii, or as we
may translate it into English, the ogling musckes,
were very much worn and decayed with use; whereas on the contrary, the elevator, or the muscle which
turns the eye towards Heaven, did not appear to have
been used at all.
I have only mentioned in this dissection such new
discoveries as we were able to make, and have not
taken any notice of those parts which are to be met
with in common heads. As for the skull, the face,
and indeed the whole outward shape and figure of the
head, we could not discover any difference from what
we observe in the heads of other men. We were informed, that the person to whom this head belonged,
had passed for a man above five and thirty years;
during which time he ate and drank like other people,
dressed well, talked loud, laughed frequently, and on
particular occasions had acquitted himself tolerably at
a ball or an assembly; to which one of the company
added, that a certain knot of ladies took him for a wit.
He was cut off in the flo;er of his age by the blow of
a paring-shovel, having been surprised by an eminent
citizen, as he was tendering some civilities to his wife.
When we had thoroughly examined this head with
all its apartments, and its several kinds of furniture,
we put up the brain, such as it was, into its proper
place, and laid it aside under a broad piece of scarlet
cloth, in order to be prepared, and kept in a great repository of dissections; our operator telling us that the
Epreparation would not be so difficult as that of another
brain, for that he had observed several of the little
pipes and tubes which ran thraough the brain were
already filled with a kh' d of mercurial substance,
Which we looked upon to e -tnrue quicksilver.




IDLENESS.                275
IDLENESS.
Libcrla3; que asera tamen reepexit inertem.
VIRGC
Freedom, which came at length, tho' slow to come.
DRYDEN,
IDLENESS is SO general a distemper, that I cannot
btat imagine a speculation on this subject will be of
universal use. There is hardly any one person without some allay of it; and thousands besides myself
spend more time in an idle uncertainty which to begin
first of two affairs, than would have been sufficient to
have ended them both. The occasion of this seems to
be the want of some necessary employment, to put the
spirits in motion, and awaken them out of their lethargy. If I had less leisure, I should have more;
for I should then find my time distinguished into portions, some for busihess, and others for the indulging
of pleasures: but now one face of indolence overspreads the whole, and I have no land-mark to direct
myself by. Were one's time a little straitened by business, like water enclosed in its banks, it would have
some determined course; but unless it be put into
some ch-.anel it has no current, but becomes a deluge
without  ither use or motion.
When Scanderbeg, prince of Epirus, was dead, the
Turks, who had but too often felt the force of his arm
in the battles he had won from them, imagined that by
wearing a piece of his bones near their heart, they
should be animated with a vigour and force like to
that which inspired him when living. As I am like
to be but of little use whilst I live, I am resolved to (lo
what good I can after my decease; and have acoordingly ordered my bones to be disposed of in this manner for the good of my countrymen, who are troubled
with too exorbitant a degree of fire. All fox-hunters,
upon wearing me, would in a short time be brought
to endure their beds in a morning, and perhaps even
quit them with regret at ten: instead of hurrying
away to tease a poor animal, and run away from their
Swn thoughts, a chair or a chariot would be thougl-h




28Q                IDLENESS.
the most aesirable means of performir.g a remove from
one place to another. I should be a cure for the unnatural desire of John Trott for dancing, and a specific to lessen the inclinationa Mrs. Fidget has to motion,
and cause her always to give her approbation to the
present place she is in. In fine, no Egyptian mummy
was ever half so useful in physic as I should be to
these feverisl: constitutions, to repress the violent sallies of youth, and give each action its proper weight
and repose.
I can stifle any violent inclination, and oppose a torrent
of anger, or the solicitations of revenge, with success.
But indolence is a stream which flows slowly on, but
yet undermines the foundation of every virtue. A vice
of a more lively nature were a more desirable tyrant
than this rust of the mind, which gives a tincture of
its nature to every action of one's life. It. were as
little hazard to be lost in a storm, as to liethus perpetually becalmed: and it is to no purpose to have
within one the seeds of a thonsand good qualities, if
we want the vigour and resolution necessary for the
exerting them. Death brings all persons back to an
equality; and this image of it, this slumber of the
mind, leaves no difference between the greatest genius
and the meanest understanding; a faculty of doing
things remarkably praiseworthy thus concealed, is of
no more use to the owner, than a heap of gold to the
man who dares not use it.
To-morrow is still the fatal time when all is to be
rectified; to-morrow comes, it goes, and still I please
myself with the shadow, whilst 1 lose the reality; unmindful that the present time alone is ours, the future
is yet unborn, and the past is dead, and can only live
(as parents in their children) in the actions it had pro
duced.
The tim3 we live ought not to be computed by the
number of years, but by the use that hlas been made
of it: thus it is not the extent of ground, but the
yearly rent which gives the value to the estate.
Wretched and thoughtless creatures, in the only place
where covetousness were a virtue we turn prodigals!




IDLENESS.                281
nothing lies upon our hands with slck. uneasiness, nor
has there been so many devices for any one thing, as
to make it slide away imperceptibly and to no purpose. A shilling shall be hoarded up with care, whilst
that which is above the price of an estate, is flung
away with disregard and contempt. There is nothing now-a-days so much avoided, as a solicitous improveinent of every part of time;'tis a report must be
shunhed as one tenders the name of a wit and a fine
genius, and as one fears the dreadful character of a
laborious plodder: but notwithstanding this, the greatest wits any age has produced thought far otherwise:
for who can think either Socrates or Demosthenes
lost any reputation, by their continual pains both in
overcoming the defects and improving the gifts of
nature. All are acquainted with the labour and assiduity with which Tully acquired his eloquence. Seneca in l* letters to Lucelius assures him, there was
not a day in which he diad not either write something,
or read and epitomise some good author; and I remember'Pliny in one of' his letters, where he gives
an account of the various methods he used to fill up
every vacancy of time, after several employments
which he enumerates; sometimes, says he, I hunt;
but even then I carry with me a pocket-book, that
whilst my servants are busied in disposing of the nets
and other matters, 1 may be employed in something
that may be useful to me in my studies, and that if I
miss of my gamne, I may at the least bring home some
of my own thoughts with me, and not have the mortification of having caught nothing all day.
I am afraid it is no ordinary persuasion that will
be of service to cure mankind of that malady of idleness. Fol' there is no hopes of amendment where men
are pleased with their ruin, and whilst they think laziness is a desirable character: whether it be that th-ey
like the state itself,; or that they think it gives them a
new lustre when they do exert themselves, seemingly
%o be able to do tmat without labour and application,
which others attain to but with tke greatest diligence,
].5




282         COMF ORTS Or THE BELIEF
COMFORTS OF THE BELIEF IN A PROVE
DENCE
Si fractus iilabatur orbzs
Impavidurn ferie nt ruinav.
IIOR.
Should the whole ftamo, of nature round hin: break,
Inl ruin and confusion hurl'd,
(Ie, unconcern'd, would hear the mighty crack,
And stand secure amidst a falling world.
MAN, considered in himsel.f, is a very helpless and
a very wretched being. He is subject every moment
to the greatest calannties and misfortunes. He is beset with dangers on all sides, and may become unhappy by numberless casualties, which he could not foresee, nor have prevented, had he foreseen them.
It is our comfort, while we are obnoxious to so many accidents, that we are under the care Of one who
_irects contingencies, and has in his hands the management of every thing that is capable of annoying or
offending us; who knows the assistance we stand in
need of, and is always ready to bestow it on those
who ask it of him.
The natural homage, which such a creature bears
to so infinitely wise alld good a being, is a firm reliance on him for the blessings and conveniencies of life,
and an habitual trust in him for deliverance cut of all
such dangers and difficulties as may befall us.
Tie man who always lives in this disposition of
mind, has not the same dark and melancholy views
of human nature, as he who considers himself abstractedly from this relation to the Supreme Being.
At the same time that he reflects uponi his own weak
ness and imperfection, he comforts himself with the
contemplation of those divine attributes, which are employed for his safety and his welfare. He finds his want
of foresight made up by the omniscience of him who is
his support. He is not sensible of his own want of
strength, when he knows that his helper is Almighty.
In short, the person who has a firm trust on the Supre re' Being is powerful in his p wer, wise by hi




IN A PROVIDENCE.              283
wisdom, happy by his happiness. He reaps the bene.
fit of every divine attribute, and loses his own insuffi.
ciency in the fulness of infinite perfection.
To make our lives more easy to us, we are comrnmnanded to put our trust in him, who is thus able to
relieve and succour us; the divine goodness having
made such a reliance a duty, notwithstanding we
should have been m;qerable had it been forbidden us.
Among several motives which might be made use
of to recommend this duty to us, I shall only take notice of those that follow.
The first and strongest is, that we are promised, ha
will not fail thuse who put their trust in hin.
But without considering the supernatural blessig which accompanies this duty, we may observe that
it has a natural tendency to its own reward, or in other
words, that this firm trust and confidence in the great
Disposer of all things, contributes very much to the
getting clear of any affliction, or to the bearing it manfully. A person who believes he has his succour at
hand, and that he acts in the sight of his friend, often
exerts himself beyond his abilities, and does wonders
that are not to be matched by one who is not animated
with such a confidence of success. I could produce
instances from history, of generals, who out of a belief that they were under the protection of some invisible assistantA, did not only encourage their soldiers to
do their utmost, but have acted themselves beyond
what they could have done, had they not been inspired by such a belief. I might in the salne manrler show how such a trust in the assistance of an
Almighty Being, naturally produces patience, hope,
cheerfulness, and all other dispositions of mind that
alleviate those calamities which we are not able to remove.
The practice of this virtue administers great comfort
to the mind of man in times of poverty and affliction,
but most of all in the hour of death. When the soul
is hovering in the last moments of its separation, when
it is just entering on another state of exlstence, to converse with scenes, and objects, and companions that




284       COMFORTS IN THE BELIEF, &C.
are altogether new, what can support her under such
tremblings of thought, such fear, such anxiety, such
apprehensions, but the casting of all her cares upon
him who first gave her being, who has conducted her
through one stage of it, and will be always with her
to guide and comfort her in her progress through eter*
nity 
David has very beautifully represented this steady
reliance on God Almighty in his twenty-third psalrm
which is a kind of pastora hymn, and filled wikh those
allusions which are usual in that kind of writing. As
the poetry is very exquisite, I shall present my readers with the following translation of it.
The Lord my pasture shall prepare,
And feed me with a shepherd's care:
His presence shall my wants supply,
And guard me with a watchful eye;
My noon-day walks he shall attend,
Aind all my midnight hours defend.
When in the sultry glebe 1 faint,
Or on the thirsty mountain pant;
To fertile vales and dewy meads,
My weary wand'ring steps he leads;
Where peaceful rivers soft and slow,
Amid the verdant landscape flow.
Though in the paths of death I tread,
With gloomy horrors overspread;
My steadfast heart shall fear no ill,
For thou, O Lord, art with nme still;
Thy friendly crook shall give me aid,
And guide me through the dreadful shade.
Though in a bare and rugged way,
Through devious lonely wilds I stray,
Thy bounty shall my pains beguile:
The barren wilderness shall smile
With sudden greens and herbage crofwt
And sxreails shall murmur all around.




VERNAL DELIGHTS.              2 3
VERNAL DELIGHTS.
Nescin qua prveer solitum dulcedine laeti.
VIRO.
Unusual sweetness purer joys inspires.
IN the opening of the spring, when all nature begins
to recover herself, the same animal pleasure which
makes the birds sing, and the whole brute creation rejoice, rises very sensibly in the heart of man. I know
none of the poets who have observed so well as Milton
those secret overflowings of gladness which diffuse
themselves through the mind of the beholder, upon
surveying the gay scenes of nature: he has touched
upon it twice or thrice ill his Paradise Lost, and describes it very beautifully under the name of vernal
delight, in that passage where he represents the devil
himself as almost sensible to it.
Blossoms and fruits at once of golden hue
Appear'd, with gay enamnel'd colours mix'd:
On which the sun Inore glad inmpress'd his beams
Than in fair evening cloud, or humid bow,
When God has shower'd the earth; so lovely seem'd,
That landscape: and of pure now purer air
Meets his approach,:nd to the heart inspires
Vernal delight, and j,y able to drive
All sadness but despair, &c.
Many authors have written on the vanity of the
creature, and represented the barrenness of every thing
in this world, and its incapacity of producing any solid
or substantial happiness. As discourses of this nature
are very useful to the sensual and voluptuous; those
speculations which show the bright side of things, and
lay forth those innocent entertainments which are to
be met with among the several objects that encompass
us, are no less beneficial to men of dark and melancholy tempt s. It was for this reason that I will endeavour to recommend a cheerfulness of mind, and to
inculcate it, not only from the consideration of ourselves, and of that Being on whom we depend, nor
from the general survey of thatuniver;s in which we




2836           VERNAL DELIGHTS.
are placed at present, but from reflections on the parh
ticular season m which this paper is written.* The
creation is a perpetual feast to the mind of a good man,
every thing, he sees cheers and delights him; Providence has Imprinted so many smiles on nature, that it
is impossible for a mind which is not sunk in more
gross and sensual delights, to take a survey of them
without several secret sensations of pleasure. Ihe
psalmist has, in several of his divine poems, celebrated
those beautifull and agreeable scenes which make the
heart glad, and produce in it that vernal delight which
I have before taken notice of.
Natural philosophy quickens this taste of the creation, and renders it not only pleasing to the imagination
but to the understanding. It does not rest in tile murmur of brooks, and the melody of birds, in the shade
of groves and woods, or in the embroidery of fields
and meadows, but considers the several ends of Providence which are served by them, and the wonders
of Divine Wisdom which appear in them. It heightens
the pleasures of the eye, and raises such a rational admiration in the soul as is little inferior to devotion.
It is not in the power of every one to offer up this
kind of worship to the Great Author of nature, and to
indulge these more refined meditations of the heart,
which are doubtless highly acceptable in his sight; I
shall therefore conclude this short essay, on that pieasure which the mind naturally conceives from the
present season of the year, by the recommending of a
practice for which eaery one has sufficient abilities.
I would have my readers endeavour to moralize this
natural pleasure of the soul, and to improve this vernal delight, as Milton calls it, into a Christian virtue.
When we find ourselves inspired with this pleasing
instinct, this secret satisfaction and complacency arising from the beauties of the creation, let us consider
to whom we stand indebted for all these ente, tainments
of sense, and who it is that thus opens its hands and
fills the world with good. The Apostle instructs us
* The Spring




IMPROVEMENT OF CHURCH MUSIC,    28t
to take advantage of our present temper of mind, to
graft upon it such a religious exercise as is particularly coniformable to it; by that precept which advises
those who are sad to pray, and those who are merry
to sing psalms. The cheerfulness of heart which
springs up in us from the survey of nature's works,
is an admirable preparation for gratitude. The mind
has gone a great way towards praise and thanksgiving that is filled with such a secret gladness: a grateful
refection on the Supreme Cause who produces it,
sanctifies it in the soul, and gives it a proper value.
Such an habitual disposition of mind consecrates every
field and wood, turns an ordinary walk into a morning
or eveninge sacrifice, and will improve those transient
gleams of joy which naturally brighten up and refresh
the soul on such occasions, into an inviolable and per
petual state of bliss and happiness.
L.
IMPROVEMENT OF CHURCH MUSIC.
Ot e Iravirtrspot po 7rql LXaaKovro,
KaXov atduovrE;g rcatova Kspot'AXXatov,
Me;Arovrs; cKacprov o b& opEoa repirEraKrsrv..IOM.
With hymn divine the joyous banquet ends,
The PJeans lengthen'd till the sun descends.
The Greeks restor'd the gratelul notes prolong;
Apollo listens, and approves the song.
POPE.
I COULD heartily wish there were the same application and endeavours to cultivate and improve out
church music, as have been lately bestowed on that
of the stage. Our composers have one very great
incitement to it: they are sure to meet with excellen,
words, and, at the same time, a wonderful variety
of them. There is no passion that is not finely expressed in those parts of the inspired writings, which
%re proper for divine songs and anthems.




288    IMPROVEMENT OF CHURCH MUSIC.
There is a certain coldness and indifference-in the
phrases of our European languages, when they are
compared with the oriental forms of speech; and it
happens very luckily, that the Hebrew idioms run
into the English tongue with a particular grace and
beauty. Our language has received innumerable
deegancies and improvements, from the infusion of
Hebraisms, which are derived to it out of the poetical
passages in Holy Writ. They give a force and energy to our expressions, warm and animate our language, and convey our thoughts in more ardent and
inltense phrases, than any that are to be met with in
our own tongue. There is something so pathetic in
this kind of diction, that it often sets the mind in a
flame, and makes our hearts burn within us. How
cold and dead does a prayer appear, that is composed
in the most elegant and polite forms of speech, which
are natural to our tongue, when it is not heightened
by that solemnity of phrase, which may be drawn
from the sacred writings. It has been said by some
of the ancients, that it the gods were io talk with
men, they would certainly speak in Plato's style;
but I think we may say, with justice, that when mortals converse with their Creator, they cannot do it
in so proper a style as in that of the Holy Scriptures.
If any one would judge of the beauties of poetry
that are to be met with in the divine writings, and
examine how kindly the Hebrew manners of speech
mix and incorporate with the English language;
after having perused the book of Psalms, let him read
a literal translation of Horace or Pindar. He will
find in these two last such an absurdity and confusion of style with such a comparative poverty of
imagination, as will make him very sensible of what
I have been here advancing.
Since we have therefore such a treasury of words,
so beautiful in themselves, and so proper for the airs
of music, I cannot but wonder that persons of distinction shoald give so little attention and encourage.
ment to that kind of music, which would have its
foundation in reason, and which would improve our




IMPROVbKMEINT OF CHURCH MUSIC.    2
virtue, in proportion as it raised our delight. The
passions that are excited by ordinary compositions5
generally flow from such silly and absurd occasionst
that a man is ashamed to reflect upon them seriously: but the fear, the love, the sorrow, the indignation that are awakened in the mind by hymns and
anthems, make the heart better, and proceed from
such, causes as are altogether reasonable and praiseworthy. Pleasure and duty go hand in hand, and the
greater our satisfaction is, the greater is our religion.
Music among those who were styled the chosen
people was a religious art. The songs of Sion, which
We have reason to believe were in high repute among
the courts of the Eastern monarchs, were nothing
else but psalms and pieces of poetry that adored or
celebrated the Supreme Being. The greatest conqueror in this holy nation, after the maiiner of the old
Grecian lyrics, did not only compose the words of his
divine odes, but generally set them to music himself:
after which, his works, though they were consecrated
to the tabernacle, became the national entertainment,
as well as the devotion of the people.
The first original of the drama was a religious worship consisting only of a ch arus which was nothing
else but a hymn to a deity. As luxury and voluptuousness prevailed over innocence and religion, this
form of worship degenerated into tragedies i in which
however the chorus so far remembered its first office,
as to brand every thing that was vicious, and recornmend every thing that was laudable, to intercede
with Heaven for the innocent, and to implore its vengeance on the criminal.
Homer and Hesiod intimate to us how this art
should be applied, when they represent the Muses
as surrounding Jupiter, and warbling their hymns
about his throne. I might show, from innumerable
passages in ancient writers, not only that vocal and
instrumental music were made use of in their religious worship, but that their most favourite diversions were filled with songs and hymns to their respective deities. Had we frequent enmertainments
VOL. I.-19




290         OMNIPRESENCE or O0D.
of this nature among us. they would not a little pu.
rify and exalt our passions, give our thoughts a proper turn, and cherish those divine impulses in the
soul, which every one feels that has not stifled them
by sensual and immoderate pleasures.
Music, when thus applied, raises noble hints in the
mind of the hearer, and fills it with great conceptions.
It strengthens devotion, and advances praise into
rapture. It lengthens out every act of worship, and
produces more lasting and permanent impressions in
the mind, than those which accompany any transient
form of words that are uttered in the ordinary method
of religious wcrship.
OMNIPRESENCE OF GOD.
-Deum namque ire per omnes
Terrasque, tractusque maris, ccelunque profundum.
For God the whole created mass inspires;
Thro' heaven, and earth, and ocean depths he throws
His influence round, and kindles as he goes.
DRYDEN.
I WAS yesterday about sunset walking in the open
fields, till the night insensibly fell upon me. I at frst
amused myself with all the richness and variety O
colours which appeared in the western parts of heaven: in proportion as they faded away, and went out,
several stars and planets appeared one after another,
till the whole firmament was in a glow. The blueness of the ether was exceedingly lightened and enlivened by the rays of all those luminaries that passed
through it. The galaxy appeared in its most beautiful white. To complete the scene, the full moon rose
at length in that clouded majesty which Milton takes
notice of, and opened to the eye a new picture of nature, which was more finely shadedr, and disposed




)IMNIPRESENVE OF SOD.          209
maong softer lights, than that which the sun had be.
fore disco, ered to us.
As I was surveying the moon walking in her bright.
ness, and taking her progress among the constellations,
u thought rose in me which I believe very often perplexes and dltfrbs men of serious contemplative
natures. David himself fell into it in that reflection,
"' When I consioer the Heavens the work of thy fingers, the moon and the stars which thou hast ordaineP; what is man that thou art -mindful of him, and
the son of man that thou regardest him I" In the same
manner, when 1 consideredthat infinite host of stars,
or, to speak more philosophically, of suns, which
were then shining upon me, with those innumerable
sets of planets or worlds, which were moving round
their respective suns; when I still enlarged the idea,
and supposed another Heaven of suns and worlds
rising still above this which we discovered, and these
still enlightened by a superior firmament of lumina
ries, which are planted at so great a distance, that
they may appear to the inhabitants of the former as
the stars do to us; in short, while I pursued this
thought, I could not but reflect on that little insignificant figure which I myself bore amidst the immensity of God's works.
Were the sun which enlightens this part of the
creation, with all the host of-planetary worlds that
move about him, utterly extinguished and annihilated,
they would not be missed more than a grain of sand
upon the sea-shore. Th: space they possess is so exceedingly little in comparison of the whole, that it
would scarce make a blank in the creation. The chasm
would be imperceptible to an eye, that could take in
the whole compass of nature, and pass from one end
of the creation to the other; as it is possible there may
be such a sense in ourselves hereafter, or in creatures
which are at present more exalted than ourselves.
We see many stars by the help of glasses, which we
do not discover with our naked eyes; and the fine
our telescopes are, the more still are our dissoveries




292          ONI"XIosn ENCszi or ooV.
Huygeneus carries this thought so far, that te does
not think it impossible there may be stars whose
light is not yet travelled down to us, since their firsi
creation. There is no question but the universe has
bounds set to it; but when we consider that it is the
work of infinite power, prompted by infinite goodness,
with an infinite space to exert itself in, how can our
imagination set any bounds to it?
To; return therefore to my first thought, I could not
but look upon myself with secret horror, as a being
that was not worth the smallest regard of one who
had so great a work under his care and superintendency. 1 was afraid of being overlooked amidst the
immensity of nature, and lost among that infinite variety of creatures which in all probability swarm
through all these immeasurable regions of matter.
In order to recover myself from this mortifying
thought, I considered that it took its rise from those
narrow conceptions, which we are apt to entertain
of the divine nature. We ourselves cannot attend
to many different objects at the same time. If we are
careful to inspect some things, we must of course neglect others. This imperfection, which we observe in
ourselves, is an imperfection, that cleaves in some
degree to creatures of the highest capacities, as they
are creatures, that is, beings of finite and limited natures. The presence of every created being is confined to a certain measure of space, and consequently
his observation is stinted to a certain number of objects. The sphere in which we move, and act, and
understand, is of a wider circumfere nce to one creature than another, according as we rise above one another in the scale of existence. But the widest of
these our spheres has its circumference. When therefore we reflect on the divine nature, we are so used
and accustomed to this imperfection in ourselves, that
we cannot forbear in some measure ascribing it to him
in whom there is no shadow of imperfection. Our
reason indeed assures us that his attributes are infi.
nite, but the poorness of our conceptions is such that
it cannot forbear setting bounds to every thing it con




OMINIPEILSENCE OF GOD.          293
templates, until our reason comes again to our sucour,
airi throws down all those little prejudices which rise
in us unawares, and are natlral to the mind of man.
We shall therefore utterly extinguish this melancholy thought, of our being overlooked by our Maker
in the multiplicity of his works, and the infinity of
those objects among which he seems to be incessantly
employed, if we consider, in the first place, that he is
omnipresent; and, in the second, that heaisomniscient.
If we consider him in his omnipresence: his being
passes througlh  actuates, and supports the whole
frame of nature. His creation, and every part of it,
is full of him. There is nothing he has mnade, that
is either so distant, so little, or so inconsiderable, which
he does not essentially inhabit. His substance is within the substance of every being, whether material or
immaterial, and as intimately present to it, as that
being is to itself  It would be an imperfection in him,
were he able to remove out of one place into another,
or to withdraw himself from any thing he has created,
or from any part of that space which is diffused and
spread abroad to infinity. In short, to speak of him
in the language of the old philosopher, he is a being
whos~ centre is every where, and his circumference
tio where.
In the second place, he is omniscient as well as
omnipresent,  His omniscience indeed necessarily
and naturally flows from his omnipresence; he cannot but be consciousof every motion that arises in the
whole material world, which he thus essentially pervades, and of every thought that is stirring in the in
tellectual wortk, to every part of which he is thus
intimately united. Several moralists have considered
the creation as the Templeof God, which he has built
with his own hands, and which is filled with his presence. Others have considered infinite space as the
receptacle, or rather the habitation of the Almighty: but
the noblest and most exalted way of considering this
infinite space is that of Sir Isaac Newton, who calls
it the Sensorium of the Godhead.  Brutes and niet
have their Sensorioln, or little Sensoriumns, by which




294         OM1IPRESENCE OF GOD.
they apprehend the presence and perceive the actions
of a few objects, that lie contiguous to them. Their
knowledge and observation turn within a very narrow
circle. But as God Alnighty cannot but perceive and
know every thinc in which he resides, infinite space
gives room for ininite knowledge, and is, as it were, ar
organ to omnisc ance.
Were the soul separate from the body, and with one
glance of thought should start beyond the bounds eo
the creation, should it for millions of years continue its
progress through infinite space with the same activity,
it would still find itself within the embrace of its Creator, and encompassed round with the irmmensity oh
the Godhead. Whilst we are in the body he is not less
present with us, because he is concealed from us. "0
that 1 knew where I might find him!" says Job,
"' Behold, I go forward, but he is not there; and backward, but I cannot perceive him: on the left hand,
where he does work, but I cannot behold him: he
hideth himself on the right hand that I cannot see him."
In short, reason as well as revelation assures us, that
he cannot be absent from us, notwithstanding he is
undiscovered by us.
In this consideration of God Almighty's omnipresence and omniscience, every uncomfortable thought
vanishes. He cannot but regard every thing that has
being, especially such of his creatures who fear they
are not regarded by him. He is privy to all their
houghts, and to that anxiety of heart in particular,
which is apt to trouble them oan this occasion;, for, as.it is impossible he should overlook any of his creatures, so we may be ccnfident that lhe regards, with
an eye of mercy, those who endeavour to recommend
themselves to his notice, and in an unfeigned humility of heart think themselves unworthy that he
should be mindful of them.
I have considered the ubiquity of the Godhean, and
at the same tim: shown, that as he is present to every




OMNIPRESENCE OF GOD.             295.hing, he cannot but be attentive to every thing, and
privy to all the modes and parts of its existence: or,
in other words, that the omniscience and omnipre.
sence are coexistent, and run together through the
whole infinitude of space. This consideration might
furnish us with many incentives to devotion, and
motives to morality; but as this subject has been
handled by several excellent writers, I shall consider
it in a lr-ht wherein I have not seen it placed by others.
First, How disconsolate is the condition of an intellectual being,who is thus present with his Maker, but at
the same time receives no extraordinary benefits or advantage from this his presence I
Secondly, How deplorable is the condition of an in,
tellectual }being who feels no other effects from this his
presence, but such as proceed from divine wrath and
indignation!,
Thirdly, How happy is the condition of that intellectual being, who is sensible of his Maker's presence
from the secret effect of his mercy and loving-kindness!
First, how disconsolate is the condition of an intellectual being, who is thus present with his Maker,
but at the same time receives no extraordinary benefit
or advantage from this his presence! Every particle
of matter is actuated by this Almighty Being which
passes through it. The heavens and the earth, the stars
and planets, move and gravitate by virtue of this great
principle within them. All the dead parts of nature
are invigorated by the presence of their Creator, and
made capable of exerting their respective qualities.
The several instincts, in the brute creation, do likewise operate and work towards the several ends which
are agreeable to them, by this divine energy. Man
only, who does not co-operate with his holy spirit,
and is inattentive to his presence, receives none of
those advantages from it, which are perfective of his
nature, and necessary to his well-being. The divinity
is with him, and in him, and every where about hirn,
but of no advantage to hitn. It is the same thing to
a man without religion, as if there were nc God in the




296         OMNIPRESENCE OF GOD.
world. It is indeed impossible for an infinite being
to remove himself from any of his creatures; but
though he cannot withdraw his essence from us,which
wouhd argue an imperfection in him, he can withdraw from us all the joys and consolations of it. His
presence may perhaps be necessary to support us in
our existence; but he may leave this our existence to
itself, with regard to its happiness or misery. For,
in this sense he may cast us away from his presence.
and take his holy Spirit from us. This single consideration one would think sufficient to make us open our
hearts to all those infusions of joy and gladness which
are so near at hand, and ready to be poured in upon
us; especially when we consider, secondly, the deplorable condition of an intellectual being, who feels no
other effects fro{n his. Maker's presence, but such as
proceed from divine wrath and indignation.
We may assure ourselves, that the great Author of
nature will not always be as one who is indifierent to
any of his creatures. Those who will not feel him in
his love, will be sure at length to feel him in his displeasure. And how dreadful is the condition of that
creature, who is only sensible of the being of his Creator by what he suffers from him! He is essentially
present in hell as in heaven; but the inhabitants of the
Tormer behold him only in his wrath, and shrink within
the flames to con.ceal themselves from him. It is not
in the power of imagination to conceive the fearful effects of omnipotence incensed.
But I shall only consider the wretchedness of an
intellectual being, who in this life lies under the displeasure of him, that at all times and in all places is
intimately united with him. He is able to disquiet the
soul, and vex it in all its faculties. He can hinder any
of the greatest comforts of life from refreshing us, and
give an edge to every one of its slightest calamities.
Who then can bear the thought of being an outcast
from his presence, that is, from the comforts of it, or
of feeling it only in its terrors! how pathetic is that
expostulation of Job, when for the trial of his patience
he was made to look upon himself in this deplorable




OMNIPRESENCE OF GOD.           29?
condition! "Why hast thou set me as a mark against
thee, so that I am become a burden to myself? " But
thirdly, how happy is the condition of that intellectual being, who is sensible of his Maker's presence from
the secPet effects of his mercy and loving kindness I
The blessed in heaven behold him face to face, that
is, are as sensible of his presence as we are of the pre.
sence of any person whom we look upon with our eyen,
There is doubtless a faculty in spirits, by which they
apprehend one another, as our senses do material ob.
jects; and there is no question but our souls, when
they are disembodied, or placed in glorified bodies,
will, by this faculty, in whatever part of space they
reside, be always sensible of the divine presence. We,
who have this veil of flesh, standing between us and
the world of spirits, must be content to know that the
spirit of God is present with us, by the effects which
he produceth in us. Our outward senses are too gross
to apprehend him; we may however taste and see
how gracious he is, by his influence upon our minds,
by those virtuous thoughts which he awakens in us,
by those secret comforts and refreshments which he
conveys into our souls, and by those ravishing joys and
inward satisfactions which are perpetually springing up, and diffusing themselves among all the thoughts
of good men. He is lodged in our very essence, and
is as a soul within the soul to irradiate its understand.
ing, rectify its will, purify its passions, and enliven
all the powers of man. How happy therefore is an
intellectual being, who, by prayer and meditation, by
virtue and good works, opens this communication between God and his own soul! Though the whole
creation frowns upon him, and all nature looks black
about him, he has his light and support within him,
that are able to cheer his mind, and bear him up in the
midst of all those horrors which encompass him. He
knows that his helper is at hand, and is always nearer
to him than any thing else can be, which is capable
of annoying or terrifying him. In the midst of calumny or contempt, he attends to that being who whia
pers beoter things within his soul, and whom he looks
lb




296         OMNIPRESENCE Or GOD.
upon as his defender, his glory, and th~ lifter-up of
his head. In his deepest solitude and retirement he
knows that he is in company with the greatest of be.
ings; and perceives within himself such real sensations
of his presence, as are more delightful than any thing
that can be met with in the conversation of his creatures. Even in the hour of death, he considers the
pains of his dissolution to be nothing else but the
breaking down of that partition, which stands betwixt
his soul, and the sight of that being, who is always
present with him, and is about to manifest itself to hbun
in fulness of joy.
If we would be thus happy, and tlius sensible of our
Maker's presence, from the secret effects of his mercy
and goodness, we must keep such a watch over all
our thoughts, that, in the language of the scripture,
his soul may have pleasure in us. We must take care
not to grieve his holy Spirit, and endeavour to make
the meditations of our hearts always acceptable in his
sight, that he may delight thus to reside and dwell in
us. The light of nature could direct Seneca to this
doctrine, in a very remarkable passage among his
epistles: Sacer inest in nobis spiritus bonqrum malorumque custos, et observator, et qucmadmodum
nos ilium tractamus, ita et ille nos. "There is a
holy spirit residing in us who watches and observes
both good and evil men, and will treat us after the
same manner that we treat him." I shall employ
those more emphatical words in divine revelation: "U 1!
a man loves me, he will keep my words; and my Father will love him, and we will come unto himl, and
make our abode with him."
The doctrine of the omnipresence of the Divine Being is so agreeable to reason, that we meet with it in
the writings of the enlightened heathens, as I might
show at large,were it not already done by other hands.
But though the Deity be thus essentially present
through all the immens ty of space, there is one part




OMNIPRESENCE OFr GO.           299
of it in which he discovers himself in a most transtendent and visible glory. t'his is that place which
is marked out in scripture under the different appellations of "Paradise, the third heaven, the throne of God,
and the habitation of his glory." It is here where the
glorified body of our Saviour resides, and where all the
celestial hierarchies, and the innumerable hosts of angels, are represented as perpetually surrounding the
seat of God with hallelujahs and hymns of praise.
This is that presence of God which some of the divines
call his glorious, and others his majestic presence. He
is indeed as essentially present in all other places as
in this; but it is here where he resides in a sensible
magnificence, and in the midst of' all those splendours
which can affect the imagination of created beings.
It is very remarkable that this opinion of God Almighty's presence in Heaven, whether discovered by
the light of nature, or by general tradition from our first
parents, prevails among ali the nations of the world,
whatsoever different notions they entertain of the godhead. If you look into Homer, the most ancient of
the Greek writers, you see the supreme power seated
in the heavens, and encompassed with inferior deities,
among whom the Muses are represented as singing
incessantly about his throne. Who does not here see
thile main strokes and outlines of this great truth we
are speaking of? The same doctrine is shadowed out
in many other heathen authors, though at the same
time, like several other revealed truths, dashed and
adulterated with a mixture of fables and human inventions. But to pass over the notions of the Greeks
and Romans, those more enlightened parts of the
Pagan world, we find there is scarce a people among
the late discovered nations who are not trained up in
an opinion, that heaven is the habitation of the divi
nity whom they worship.
As in Solomon's temple there was the Sanctum
Sanctorum in which a visible glory appeared among
the figures of the cherubims, and into which none
but the high-priest himself was permitted to enter, aftsr having made an atonement for the sins of the




3oo         OMNIPRESENCE OF GOD.
people; so if we consider the whole creation as one
great temple, there is in it this holy of holies, into
which the high-priest of our salvation entered, and
took his place arnong angels and archangels, after
having made a propltiation for the silns of mankind.
With how much skill must the throne of God be
erected! With what glorious design is that habitation
beautified, which is contrived an: built by him who
inspired Hiram with wisdom?  How great must be
the majesty of that place, where the whole art of creation has been employed, and where God has chosen
to show himself in the most magnificent manner?
What must be the architecture of infinite power under the direction of infinite wisdom'  A spirit cannot
but be transported after an ineffable manner with the
sight of those objects, which were made to affect
him by that Being who knows the inward frame of
the soul, and how to please and ravish it in all its
-most secret powers and faculties. It is to this majestic presence of God, we may apply these beautiful expressions in holy writ: " Behold even to the
moon, and it shineth not; yea, the stars are not pure
in his sight."  The light of the sun, and all the
glories of the world in which we live, are but as weak
and sickly gliummerings, or rather darkness itself, in
comparison of those splenatours which encompass the
throne of God.
As the glory of this palace is transcendent beyond
imagination, so probably is the extent of it. There
is light behind light, and glory within glory. How
far that space may reach, in which God thus appears
in perfect majesty, we cannot possibly conceive.
Though it is not infinite, it may be indefinite: and
though not so immeasurable in itself, it may be so
with regard to any created eye or imagination. If
he has made these lower regions of matter so inconceivably wide and magnificent for the habitation of
mortal and perishable beings, how great may we suppose the courts of his house to be, where he makes his
residence in a more especial manner, and displays himself in the fulness of his glory, among an innumerahle




OMNlPRESFENC E orF GO.        301
company of angels and spirits of just men made per
fect l
This is certain, that our imaginations cannot he
rainsed too high, when we think on a place where om.
nipotence and omniscience have so signally exerted
themselves, because that they are able to produce a
scene infinitely more great and glorious than what we
are able to imagine. It is not impossible but at the
consummation of all things, these outward apartments
of nature, which are now suited to those beings who
inhabit them, may be taken in and added to that glorious place of which I am here speaking; and by that
means made a proper habitation for beings who are
exempt from mortality, and cleared of their imperfections: for so the scripture seems to intimate when it
speaks of new heavens and of a new earth, wherein
dwelleth righteousness.
I have only considered this glorious place with
regard to the sight and imagination, though it is
highly probable that our other senses may here likewise enjoy their highest gratifications. There is nothing which more ravishes and transports the soul,
than harmony; and we have great reason to believe,
from the descriptions of this place in holy scripture,
that this is one of the entertainments of it. And if
the soul of man can be so wonderfully affected with
those strains of music, which human art is capable
of producing, how much more will it be raised and
elevated by those, in which is exerted the whole power
of harmony! the senses are faculties of the human
soul, though they cannot be employed, during this
our vital union, without proper instruments in the
body. Why therefore should we exclude the satis.
faction of these faculties, which we find by experience
are inlets of great pleasure to the soul, from among
those entertainments which are to make up our happiness hereafter? Why should we suppqse that our
hearing and seeing will not be gratified with those
objects which are most agreeable to them, and which
they cannot meet with in these lower regions of nature; objects, " which neither eye hath seen, nor ear
16




302         OMllNIPRESENCE OF GOD.
heard, nor can it enter into the heart of man to conr
ceive?  I knew a man in Christ," says St. Paul,
speaking of himself; "above fourteen years ago,
(whether in the body, I cannot tell, or whether out of
the body, I cannot tell: God knoweth,) such a one
caught up to the third heaven. And I knew such a
man (whether in the body, or out of the body, I cannot tell: -God knoweth,) how that he was caught up
into Paradise, and heard unspeakable words which
it is not possible for a man to utter." By this is meant
that what he heard was so infinitely different from
any thing which he had heard in this world, that it
was impossible to express it in such words as might
convey a notion of it to his hearers.
It is very natural for us to take delight in inquiries
concerning any foreign country, where we are some
time or other to make our abode; and as we all hope
to be admitted into this glorious place, it is both a
laudable and a useful curiosity, to get what informations we can of it, whilst we make use of revelation
for our guide. When these everlasting doors shall be
open to us, we may be sure that the pleasures and
beauties of this place will infinitely transcend our present hopes and expectations, and that the glorious appearance of the throne of God, will rise infinitely beyond
whatever we are able to conceive of it. We might
here entertain ourselves with many other speculations
on this subject, from those several hints which we find
of it in the holy scriptures; as whether there may not
be different mansions and apartments of glory, to beings of different natures; whether as they excel one
another in perfection, they are not admitted nearer to
the throne of the Almighty, and enjoy greater manifestations of his presence; whether there are not solemn times and occasions, when all the multitude of
Heaven celebrate the presence of their Maker in more
extraordinary forms of praise and adoration; as Adam,
though he had continued in a state of innocence,
would, in the opinion of our divines, have kept holy
the Sabbath-day, in a more particular manner than any
other of the seven. These, and the like speculation;




OMNIPRESENCE OF OCD.          30
we may vtry innocently indulge, so long as we make
use of them to inspire us with a desire of becoming inhabitants of this delightful place.
I have treated on the most serious subject that can
employ the mind of man, the omnipresence of the
Deity; a subject which, if possible, should never depart from our meditations. We have considered the
Divine Being, as he inhabits infinitude, as he dwells
among his works, as he is present to the mind of man,
and as he discovers himself in a more glorious manner among the regions of the blessed. Such a consideration should be kept awake in us at all times,
and in all places, and possess our minds with a perpetual awe and reverence. It should be interwoven
with all our thoughts and perceptions, and become
one with the consciousness of our own being. It is not
to be reflected on in the coldness of philosophy, but
ought to sink us into the lowest prostration before
Him, who is so astonishingly great, wonderful and
holy.




304                  Aos.
AGE.
OF all the impertinent wishes which we hear ex
pressed in conversation, there is not one more unworthy a gentleman, or a man of liberal education, than
that of wishing one's self younger. It is a certain
sign of a foolish or a dissolute mind, if we want our
youth again only for the strength of bones and sinews
which we once were masters of; it is as absurd in
an old man to wish for the strength of a youth, as it
would be in a young man to wish for the strength of
a bull or a horse. These wishes are both equally out
of nature, which should direct in all things that are
not contradictory to justice, law, and reason.
Age in a virtuous person of either sex carries in 
an authority, which makes it preferable to all the
pleasures of youth; if to be saluted, attended, or con.
Bulted, with deference, are instances of pleasure, they
are such as never fail a virtuous old age. In the enumeration of the imperfections and advantages of the
younger and later years of man, they are so near m
their condition, that methinks it should be incredible
we see so little commerce of kindness between them. i!
we consider youth and age v ith Tully, regarding the
affinity to death, youth has many more chances to be
nearer it than age; what youth can say more than
an old man,' He shall live till night?' youth catches
distempers more easily, its sickness is more violent,
and its recovery more doubtful. The youth, indeed,
hopes for many more days; so cannot the old man.
The youth's hopes are ill glrounded; for what is more
foolish than to piace any confidence upon an uncertainty I But the old man has not room so much as for
hope; he is still happier than the you h; he has already enjoyed what the other does but hope for: one
wishesto live long, the other has lived long. But, alas,
is there any thing in human life, the duration of which
can be called lon,? There is nothing, which must
end, to be valued for its continuance. If hours, days,
months, and years, pass away, it is no matter what




AMUSEMENT OF LIFE.             305
hour, what day, what month, or what year we die,
The applause of a good actor is due to him at whatever scene of the play he makes his exit. It is thus
in the life of a man of sense,; a short life is sufficient
to manifest himself a man of honour and virtue;
when he c,-ases to he such he has lived too long; and
while he is such, It is of no consequence to him how
long he shall be so, provided he is so to his life's end.
AMUSEMENT OF LIFE.
WE all of us complain of the shortness of time,
saith Seneca, and yet have much more than we know
what to do with. Our lives, says he, are spernt
either in doing nothing at all, or in doing nothing to
the purpose, or in doing nothing that we ought to do.
We are always complaining that our days are few,
and acting as if there could be no end of them.
That noble philosopher has described our inconsistency with ourselves in this particular, by all those
various turns of expression and thought which are
peculiar to his writings. I often consider mankind
as wholly inconsistent with itself, in a point that bears
some afnity to the former: Though we seem grieved
at the shortness of life in general, we are wishing
every period of it at an end. The minor longs to be
at age, then to be a man of business, then to make up
an estate, then to arrive at honours, then to retire.
Thus, though our whole life is allowed 1'y every one
to be short, the several divisions of it appear to be
long and tedious. We are for lengthening our span
in general, but would contract the parts of which it
is composed. The usurer would be very well satisfied to have all the time annihilated that lies between
the present moment and next quarter-day. The politician would be contented to lose three years in his
life, could he p.ace things in the posture which he
VoL. I.-20




306          AMUSVMENT OP LIFM,o
fancies they will stand in after such a revo'utfon of
time. The lover would be glad to strike out of Lis ex.istence all the moments that are to pass away before
the happy meeting. Thus as fast as our time runs,
we should be very glad, in most parts of our lives,
that it ran much faster than it does. Several hours
of the day hang upon our hands; nay, we wish away
whole years, and travel through time as through a
country filled with many wild and empty wastes,
which we would fain hurry over, that we may arrive
at those several little settlements or imaginary points
of rest which are dispersed up and down in it.
If we divide the life of most men into twenty parts,
we slhall find that at least nineteen of them are mere
gaps and chasms, which are neither filled with pleasure nor business. I do not however include in this
calculation, the life of those men who are in a perpetual hurry of affairs, but of those only who are not
always engaged in scenes of action: And I hope I
shall not do an unacceptable piece of service to those
persons, if I point out to them certain methods for filling up their empty spaces of life. The methods I
shall propose to them are as follow: 
The first is the exercise of virtue, in the mrfost gencral acceptation of the word. That particular scheme
which comprehends the social virtues, may give employment to the most industrious temper, and find a
man more business than the most active statiol. of life.
To advise the ignorant, relieve the needy, comfort the
afflicted, are duties that fall in our way almost every
day of our lives. A man has frequent opportunities of
mitigating the fierceness of a party, of doing justice
to the character of a deserving man, of softening the
envious, quieting the angry, and rectifying the prejudiced; which are all of them employments suited
to a reasonable nature, and bring great satisfaction
to the person who can busy himself m them with diseretion.
There is another kind of virtue that may find employment for those retired hours in which we are all
together left to ourselves, and destitute of company




AMUJXaENT OF LIFE.            MI
and conversation; I mean that intercourse and t:ommunion which every reasonable creature ought to entertain with the Supreme Beming. The man who lives
under an habitual sense of the divine presence, keeps
up a perpetual cheerfulness of temper, and enjoys
every moment the satisfaction of thinking himself in
company with his dearest and his best of friends. The
time never lies heavy upon him: It is impossible ior
him to be alone. His thoughts and passions are the
most busied at such hours, when those of other men
are the most inactive. He no sooner steps out of the
world but his heart burns with devotion, swells with
hope and triumphs in the consciousness of that presence
which every where surrounds, him; or on the contrary,
pours out its fears, its sorrows, its apprehensions, to the
great Supporter of its existence.
I have here only considered the necessity of a man's
being virtuous, that he may have something to do;
but if we consider farther that the exercise of virtue is
not only an amusement for the time it lasts, but that
its influence extends to those parts of our existence
which lie beyond the grave, and that our whole eternity into take its colour from those hours which we
here employ in virtue or in vice, the argument redouoles upon us for putting in practice this method of
passing away time.
When a man has but a little stock to improve, and
has opportunities of turning it all to good account, what
shall we think of him, if le suffers nineteen parts of
it to lie dead, and perhaps employs even the twentieth
to his ruin or disadvarntae? But because the mind
cannot be always in its fervour, nor strained up to a
pitch of virtue, it is necessary to find out proper employments for it in its relaxations.
The next method that I would propose to fill up our
time, should be useful and innocent diversions. I must
confess I think it is below reasonable creatures, to bh
altogether conversant in such diversions as are merely
innocent, and have nothing else to recommend them,
but that there is no hurt in them. Whether any kind
of gaming has even thus much to say for itself, I shall




pib;         A.M"tMSEMR?   r JW IIFZt
not determine; but I think it is very wonderfut to me
persons of the best sense passing away a dozen hours
together in shuffling and dividing. a packof cards, with
no other conversation but what is made up of a few
game phrases; and no. other ideas but those of red
or black spots ranged together in different figures,
Would not a iman of sense laugh to hear any one of
this species complain that life is short?
The s&tage might be made a perpetual source of the
most noble and useful: entertainment, were it under
proper regulations. But the mind never unbends itself so agreeably, as in the conversation of a well-chosen friend. There is indeed no blessing of life that is
any way comparable to the enjoyment of a discreet
and virtuous friend. It eases and unloads the mmd,
clears and improves the understanding, engenders
thoughts and knowledge, and animates virtue and
good resolutions, sooths and allays the passions, and
inds employ ent for most of the vawnt hours of life.
Next to such an intimacy with a particular personls
one would endeavour alter a more general conversation with such as are able to eratrlain a1l improve
those with wham they. converse, whiwh are qualifications which seldom go, asunder.
There are many other useful amusements of life
which one would endeavour to multiply, that one
might on all occasions have recourse to something,
rather than suffer the mind to lie idle, or run adrift
with any passion that chances to rise in it.
A man who has a taste far muBsic~ painting, -or architecture, is like one who has another sense, when
compared with such as have no relish for those arts.
Tie florist, the planter, the husbandman, the gardener, when they are' only as accomplishments to the
man of fortune, are great reliefs toa country life, and
many ways useful tc those who are possessed of them
But of all the diversions of life there is none so pro.
er to fill up its empty spaces as the reading of useful and entertaining authors: but this I sall only
mention, because it in some neasure interferes with the
third method, wlhOzh I shall propose in another papes




ANXIETIrS. 
fcr the employment of our dead, inactive hours, and
which I shall mention m general to be the pursuit of
knowledge.
ANXIETIES.
IT must be owned that fear is a very powerful passion, since it is esteemed one of the greatest virtues to
subdue it: It being implanted in us for our preservation, it is no wonder it sticks close to as as long as we
have any thing we are willingto preserve; but as life
and all its enjoyments would be scarce worth the keepini, if we were under a perpetual dread of losing them,
it, is the business of rel igion and philosophy to free us
from all unnecessary anxieties, and direct our fear to
its proper object.
If we oInsider the painfulness of this passion, and
the violent effects it pr duces, we shall see how dangerous it is to give way to it upon slight occasions:
Some.have frightened themselves into madness; others
have given up their lives to these apprehensions. The
story of a man who grew gray in the space of one
aight's anxiety is very famous.
0 nox! quam lorbga es,.qua facis una fenem a
A tedious night indeed, that makes a yaung man old
These apprehensions, if they proceed from a consciousness of guilt, are the sad warningsof reason, and
may excite our pity, but admit of no remedy. When
the hand of the Almighty is visibly lifted against the
impious, the heart of mortal man cannot withstand
-him., Yre have this passion sublimely represented in
the punishment oaf the Egyptia.ns, tormented with the
plague of darkness, in the Apocryphal book of Wisdom, ascribed to Salomaon. "For when unrighteous
men thougat. to oppress the holy nation  they bKing




810               ANXIETIRS.
shut up in their houses, prisoners of darkness, and fettered with the bonds of a long night, lay there exiled
from the eternal Providence. For while they supposed to lie hid in their secret sins, they were scattered
under a dark veil of forgetfulness, being horribly as.
tonished and troubled with strange apparitions-For
wickedness condemned'y her own witness, is very
timorous, and being oppressed with conscience) always
forecasteth grievous things. For fear is nothing else
but a betraying of the succours which reason offereth
-For the whole world shined with clear light, and
none were hindered in their labour. Over them only
was spread a heavy light, an image of that darkness
which should afterward receive them; but yet were
they unto themselves more grievous than the darkness."
To fear so justly grounded, no remedy can be proposed; but a man (who hath no great guilt hanging
upon his mind, who walks in the plain path of justice
and integrity, and yet either by natural complexion,
ocr confirmed prejudices, or neglect of serious reflection, suffers himself to be moved by this abject and
unmanly passion) would do well to consider, that there
is nothing which deserves his fear, but that beneficent
Being who is his Friend, his Protector, his Father.
Were this one thought strongly fixed in the mind, what
calamity would be dreadful? What load can infamy
lay upon us, when we are sure of the approbation of'
him who will repay the disgrace of a moment with
the glory of eternity? What sharpness is there in pain
and diseases, when they only hasten us on to pleasures that will never fade. What sting is in death,
when we are assured that it is only the beginning of
ife? A man who lives so as not to fear to die, is inconsistent with himself, if he delivers himself up to any
incidental anxiety.
The intrepidity of a just and good man is so nobly
set forth by Horace, that it canr,,t be too often repeat
ed.
The man resolv'd and steady to his truo,
Inflexible to ill, and o atinatel], just




ANXIETIES.                 311
May the rude rabble's insolence despise,
Their senseless clamours and tumultuous Pries;
The tyrant's fierceness he beguiles,
And the stern brow, and the harsh voice defies,
And with superior greatness smiles.
Not the rough whirlwind, that deforms
Adria's black gulf, and vexes it with storms,
The stubborn virtue of his soul can move;
Not the red arm of angry Jove,
That flings the thunder from the sky,
And gives it rage to roar, and strength to fly.
Should the whole frame of nature round him break,
In ruin and confusion hurl'd,
He unconcerned would hear the mighty crack,
And stand secure amid the falling world.
The vanity of fear may be yet farther illustrated, if
We reflect,
First, What we fear may not come to pass. No human scheme can be so accurately projected, but some
little circumstance intervening, may spoil it. He who
directs the heart of man at his pleasure, and understands the thoughts long before, may, by ten thousand
accidents, or an immediate change in the inclinations
of men, disconcert the most subtle projects, and turn
it to the benefit of his own servants.
In the next place we should consider, though the
evil we imagine should come to pass, it may be much
more supportable than it seemed to be. As there is no
prosperous state of life without its calamities, so there
is no adversity without its benefits. Ask the great and
powerful, if they do not feel the pangs of envy and
ambition. Inquire of the poor and needy, if they have
not tasted the sweets of quiet and contentment. Even
under the pains of body, the infidelity of friends, or the
misconstructions put upon our laudable actions, our
minds (when for some'time accustomed to these preslures) are sensible of secrt flowings of comfort, the
present reward of a pious resignation. The evils of
this life appear like rocks and precipices, rugged and
wtrrer at a distance; but at our nearer approach we




312              ARGUMENTS.
find little fruitful spots and refreshing springs, mixed
with the harshness and deformities of nature.
In the last place, we may comfort ourselves with this
consideration, that, as the thing feared may not reach
us, so we may not reach what we fear. Our lives may
not extend to that dreadful point which we have in
view. He who knows all our failings, and will not
suffer us to be tempted beyond our strength, is often
pleased in his tender severity, to separate the soul from
its body and miseries together.
If we look forward to him for help, we shall never
be in danger of falling down these precipices, which
our imagination is apt to create. Like those who walk
upon a fine, if we keep our eye fixed upon one point,
we may step forward securely; whereas an imprudent or cowardly glance on either side will infallibly
destroy us.
ARGUMENTS.
AvorD disputes as much as possible, in order to appear easy and well bred in conversation. You may
assure yourself it requires more wit, as well as more
good humour, to improve rather than contradict the
notions of another; but if you are at any time obliged
to enter on an argument, give your reasons with the
utmost coolness and modesty, two things which scarce
ever fail of making an impression upon the hearers.
Besides, if you are neither dogmatical, nor show either
by your words or actions that you are full of yourself,
all will more heartily rejoice at your victory; nay,
should you be pinched in your argument, you may
make your retreat with a very good grace: you were
never positive, and are now gla to be better informed.
This has made some approve of the Socratical way of
reasoning, where, while you scarce affirm any thing,
you can hardly be caught in an absurdity; and though
possibly you are endeavouring to bring over another




ARGUMENTS.                313
to your opinion, which is firmly fixed, you seem only
to desire information from him.
In order to keep that temper which is so difficult,
and yet so necessary to observe, you may please to
consider that nothing can be more unjust or ridiculous,
than to be angry with another because he is not of
your opinion. The interests, education, and means
by which men attain their knowledge, are so very different, that it is impossible they should all think alike;
and he has at least as much reason to be angry with
you, as you with him. Sometimes, to keep yourself
cool, it may be of service to ask yourself fairly what
might have been your opinion, had you all the biasses
of education or interest your adversary may possibly
have? But if you contend for the honour of victory
alone, you may lay down this as an infallible maxim,
that you cannot make a more false step, or give your
antagonists a greater advantage over you, than by
falling into a passion.
When an argument is over, how many weighty
reasons does a man recollect, which his heat and violence made him utterly forget!
It is yet more absurd to be angry With a man because he does not apprehend the force of your reasons,
or gives weak ones of his own. If you argue for reputation, this makes your victory the easier; he is
certainly, in all respects, an object of your pity rather
than anger; and if he cannot comprehend what you
do, you ought to thank nature for her favours, who
has given you so much the cleaner understanding.
You may please to add this consideration, that
among your equals no one values your anger, which
cnly preys upon its master; and perhaps you may
find it not very consistent either with prudence or your
ease, to punish yourself whenever you meet with a
fool or a knave.
Lastly, if youll propose to yourself the true end of
argument, which is information, it may be a seasonable check to your passion; for if you search purely
after truth, it will be almost indifferent to you where
you find it. I cannot in this place omit an observar




314              BANKRaUPTCY.
tion which 1 have often made, namely, that nothing
procures a man more esteem and less envy from the
whole company, than if he chooses the part of moderator, without engaging directly on either side in the
dispute. This gives him the character of impartial,
furnishes him with an opportunity of sifting things to
the bottom, showing his judgment, and of sometimes
making handsome compliments to each of the con
tending parties.
I shall close this subject with giving you one cau
tion: when you have gained a victory, do not push it
too far; it is sufficient to let the company and your
adversary see it is in your power, but that you are too
generous to make use of it.
BIANKRUPTCY.
OTWAY, in his Tragedy of Venice Preservea, has
described the misery of a man whose effects al e in the
hands of the law, with great spirit. The bitterness
of being the scorn and laughter of base minds, the anguish of being insulted by men hardened beyond the
sense of shame and pity, and the injurv of a man'c
fortune being wasted under pretence of justice, are excellently aggravated in the following speech of Pierre
to Jaff.er:
I pass'd this very moment by thy doors,
And found them guarded by a troop of villains:
The sons of public rapine were destroying.
They told me, by the sentence of the law,
They had commission to seizeall thy fortune:
Nay, more, Priuli's cruel hand had sign'd it.
Here stood aeuffian with a horrid face,
Lording it o'er a pile of massy plate,
Tumbled into a heap for public sale.
There was another making villanous jests
At thy undoing  He had ta'en possession
Of all thy ancient most domestic ornaments,
Rich hangings intermix'd and wrough; with gold,




BANKRUPTCY.                3156
The very bed, which on thy wedding-night
Rteceiv'd thee to the arms of Belvidera,
The scene of all thy joys, were violated
By the coarse hands of filthy dungeon villainse
And thrown amongst the common lumber.
Nothing indeed can be more unhappy than the condition of bankruptcy. The calamity which happens
to us by ill fortune, or by the injury of others, has in
it some consolation; but what arises from our own
misbehaviour or error, is the state of the most exquisite
sorrow. When a man considers not only an am le
fortune, but even the very necessaries of life, his pretence to food itself, at the mercy of his creditors, he
cannot but look upon himself in the state of the dead,
with his case thus much worse, that the last office is
perfo'med by his adversaries instead of his friends.
From this hour the cruel world does not only take possession of his whole fortune, but even of every thing
else, which had no relation to it. All his indifferent
actions have new interpretations put upon them; and
those whom he has favoured in his former life, discharged themselves of their obligation to him, by joining in the reproaches of his enemies. It is almost inlcredible that it should be so, but it is too often seen
that there is a pride mixed with the impatience of the
creditor; and there are those who would rather recover their own by the downfall of a prosperous man,
than be discharged, to the common satisfaction of themselves and their creditors. The wretched man, who
was lately master of abundance, is now under the direction of others; and the wisdom, economy, good
sense, and skill in human life before, by reason of his
present misfortune, are of no use to him in the disposition of any thing. The incapacity of an infant or a
lunatic is designed for his provision and accommodation; but that of a bankrupt, without any mitigation in respect of the accidents by which it arrived, is
calculated for his utter ruin, except there be a remamin
der ample enough, after the discharge of his creditors,
to bear also the expense of rewarding those by whose
means qAbe effect of all his labour was trar sferred from




316              BANKRUPTCY.
him. The man is to look on and see others give di
rections upon what terms and conditions his goods are
to be purchased; and all this done. not with an air of
trustees to dispose of his effects, but destroyers to divide and tear them to pieces.
There is something sacred in misery to great and
good minds; for this reason all wise lawgivers have
been extremely tender how they let loose even the man
who has right on his side, to act with any mixture of
resentment against the defendant.  Virtuous and
modest men, though they be used with some artifice,
and have it in their power to avenge themselves, are
slow in the application of their power, and are ever
constrained to go into righteous measures; they are
careful to demonstrate themselves not. only injured, but
also that to bear it longer would be a means to make
the offender injure others, before they proceed.-Such
men clap their hands upon their hearts, and consider
what it is to have at their mercy the life of a citizen.
Such would have it to say to their own souls, if possible, that they were merciful, when they could have
destroyed, rather tikn, when it was in their power tc
have spared a man, they destroyed.-This is due to
the common calamity of human life-due in some
measure to our very enemies. They who scruple doing
the least injury, are cautious of exacting the utmost
justice. Let any one who is conversant in tile variety
of human life reflect upon it, and he will find the man
who wants mercy, has a taste of no enjoyment of any
kind. There is a natural disrelish of every thing which
is good in his very nature, and he is born an enemy
to the world. He is ever extremely partial to himself
in all his actions, and has no sense of iniquity but from
the punishment which shall attend it. The law of the
land is his gospel, and all his cases of conscience are
determined by an attorney. Such men know not what
it is to gladden the heart of a miserable fellow-man;
that riches are the instruments of serving the purposes of heaven or hell, according to the disposition
of the possessor. The wealthy can torment or gratify
all whom they have in their poweq and choose to do




BANKRUPTCY.                37
one or other as they are affected with love or hatred
to mankind. As for such who are insensible of the
concerns of others, but merely as they affect themselves, those men are to be valued only for their mortality, and as we hope better things from their heirs
I could not but read with great delight a letter from
an erminent citizen who has failed, to one who was intimate with him in his better fortune, and able by his
countenance to retrieve his lost condition.
Ssr,
IT is in vain to multiply words and make apologies
for what is never to be defended by the best advocate
in the world, the guilt of being unfortunate. All that
a man in my condition can do or say, will be received
with prejudice by the generality of mankind, but, I
hope, not with you. You have been a great instrument in helping me to get what I have lost, and I
know (for that reason, as well as kindness for me) you
cannot but be in pain to see me undone. To show
you I am not a man incapable of bearing calamity, I
will, though a poor man, lay aside the dist'nction between us, and talk with the frankness we did when
we were nearer to an eouality. As all I do will be
received with preju)dice, all you do will be looked upon
with partiality. What I desire of you is, that you
who are courted by all, would smile upon me wh,, am
shunned by ail. Let that grace and favour whicn your
fortune throws upon you, be turned to make up the
coldness and inlifference that is used towards me. All
good and generous men will have an eye of kindness
or me for my own sake, and the rest of the world wil
regard me for yours. There is a happy contagion in
riches, as well as a destructive one in poverty: the
rich can make rich, without parting with any of their
store; and the conversation of the poor makes men
poor, though they borrow nothing of them. How
this is to be accounted for, I know not; but men's es
timation follows us according to the company we
keep. If you are what you were to me. you can gc
a great way toward my recovery; if you are not
16*~




3168             CALAMITIXS.
my good fortune, if ever it returns, will return by
slower approaches.
I am, Sir, &e.
This was answered with a condescension that did
not, by long impertinent professions of kindness, in.
suit his distress, but was as follows:
DeAR TOM,
[ AM very glad to hear that you have heart enough
to begin the world a second time. I assure you, I
do not think your numerous family at all diminished
(min the gifts of nature, for which I have ever so much
admired them) by what has lately happened to you.
I shall not only countenance your affairs with my ap.
pearance for you, but shall accommodate you with a
considerable sim, at common interest, for three years.
You know I could make more of it; but I have so
great a love tor you, that I can waive opportulnltes of
gain to help you; for I do not care whether they say
of me after I am dead, that I had an hundred, or fifty
thousand pounds rWore than I wanted when I war
Your obliged, f.c.