THE GOLDEN AGE.

THE ſeaſons, in this firſt period of nature, were ſo temperate, that there was no neceſſity for men to provide themſelves with clothes and houſes, as a ſecurity againſt the violence of heat and cold. The rivers flowed with wine and milk. The oaks yielded honey; and nature ſpontane⯑ouſly produced her greateſt delicacies. Nor were theſe the chief advantages of that happy age. Tempeſts were not alone removed from nature; but thoſe more furious tempeſts were unknown to human breaſts, which now cauſe ſuch uproar, and engender ſuch confuſion. Avarice, ambition, cru⯑elty, ſelfiſhneſs, were never heard of: cordial af⯑fection, compaſſion, ſympathy, were the only movements with which the mind was yet ac⯑quainted. Even the punctilious diſtinction of mine and thine was baniſhed from among that happy race of mortals, and carried with it the very no⯑tion [2] of property and obligation, juſtice and in⯑juſtice.

Let us ſuppoſe that nature has beſtowed on the human race ſuch profuſe abundance of all external conveniences, that without any uncertainty in the event, without any care or induſtry on our part, every individual finds himſelf fully provided with whatever his moſt voracious appetites can want, or luxurious imagination wiſh or deſire. His na⯑tural beauty, we ſhall ſuppoſe, ſurpaſſes all acquired ornaments. The perpetual clemency of the ſeaſon renders uſeleſs all clothes or covering. The raw herbage affords him the moſt delicious fare; the clear fountain, the richeſt beverage. No laborious occupation required; no tillage; no navigation. Muſic, poetry, and contemplation, form his ſole buſineſs; converſation, mirth, and friendſhip, his ſole amuſement.

Thus the Hours paſs unperceived along, and lead in their wanton train all the pleaſures of ſenſe, and all the joys of harmony and friendſhip Smi⯑ling Innocence cloſes the proceſſion; and, while ſhe preſents herſelf to our raviſhed eyes, ſhe embel⯑liſhes the whole ſcene, and renders the view of theſe pleaſures as tranſporting after they have paſſed us, as when, with languiſhing counte⯑nances, they were yet advancing towards us.

HUMANITY.

When Pericles, the great Athenian ſtateſman and general, was on his death-bed, his ſurrounding friends, deeming him now inſenſible, began to in⯑dulge their ſorrow for their expiring patron, by enumerating his great qualities and ſucceſſes, his conqueſts and victories, the unuſual length of his adminiſtration, and his nine trophies erected over the enemies of the republic. 'You forget,' cries the dying hero, who had heard all, 'you forget the moſt eminent of my praiſes, while you dwell ſo much on thoſe vulgar advantages in which fortune had the principal ſhare. You have not obſerved, that no citizen has ever yet worn mourning on my account.'

While the human heart is compounded of the ſame elements as at preſent, it will never be whol⯑ly indifferent to the public good, nor entirely unaffected with the tendency of characters and manners: and, though this affection of humanity may not generally be eſteemed ſo ſtrong as vanity or ambition, yet, being common to all men, it can alone be the foundation of morals, or of any general ſyſtem of blame or praiſe. One man's ambition is not another's ambition; nor will the ſame event or object ſatisfy both: but the huma⯑nity of one man is the humanity of every one; and the ſame object touches this paſſion in all hu⯑man creatures.

[4] Does the ſage preſerve himſelf always in this philoſophic indifference, and reſt contented with lamenting the miſeries of mankind, without ever employing himſelf for their relief? Does he con⯑ſtantly indulge this ſevere wiſdom, which, by pre⯑tending to elevate him above human accidents, does in reality harden his heart, and render him careleſs of the intereſt of mankind, and of ſociety? No; he knows that in this ſullen apathy neither true wiſdom, nor true happineſs, is to be found. He feels too ſtrongly the charm of the ſocial affec⯑tions, ever to counteract ſo ſweet, ſo natural, ſo virtuous a propenſity. Even when bathed in tears, he laments the miſeries of the human race, of his country, of his friends; and, unable to give ſuc⯑cour, can only relieve them by compaſſion; he yet rejoices in the generous diſpoſition, and feels a ſatisfaction ſuperior to that of the moſt indulged ſenſe. So engaging are the ſentiments of huma⯑nity, that they brighten up the very face of ſor⯑row, and operate like the ſun, which, ſhining on a duſky cloud or falling rain, paints on them the moſt glorious colours that are to be found in the whole circle of nature!

Knowledge in the arts of government naturally begets mildneſs and moderation, by inſtructing men in the advantages of humane maxims, above rigour and ſeverity, which drive ſubjects into re⯑bellion, and make the return to ſubmiſſion im⯑practicable, by cutting off all hopes of pardon [5] When the tempers of men are ſoftened, as well as their knowledge improved, this humanity appears ſtill more conſpicuous, and is the chief charac⯑teriſtic which diſtinguiſhes a civilized age from times of barbarity and ignorance. Factions are then leſs inveterate, revolutions leſs tragical, au⯑thority leſs ſevere, and ſeditions leſs frequent. Even foreign wars abate of their cruelty; and, after the field of battle, where honour and intereſt ſteel men againſt compaſſion as well as fear, the combatants diveſt themſelves of the brute, and re⯑ſume the man.

What charms are there in the harmony of minds, and in a friendſhip founded on mutual eſteem and gratitude! What ſatisfaction in relieving the diſtreſſed, in comforting the afflicted, in raiſing the fallen, and in ſtopping the career of cruel fortune, or of more cruel man, in their inſults over the good and virtuous!

THE VOLUPTUARY.

I examine the voluptuous man before enjoy⯑ment; I meaſure the vehemence of his deſire, and the importance of his object; I find that all his happineſs proceeds only from that hurry of thought which takes him from himſelf, and turns his views from his guilt and miſery. I conſider him a mo⯑ment after:—he has now enjoyed the pleaſure which he fondly ſought after. The ſenſe of his guilt and miſery returns upon him with double [6] anguiſh: his mind tormented with fear and re⯑morſe; his body depreſſed with diſguſt and ſatiety.

The joys of love, however furious and tumul⯑tuous, baniſh not the tender ſentiments of ſympa⯑thy and affection: they even derive their chief in⯑fluence from that generous paſſion; and, when pre⯑ſented alone, afford nothing to the unhappy mind, but laſſitude and diſguſt. Behold the ſprightly de⯑bauchee, who profeſſes a contempt of all other plea⯑ſures but thoſe of wine and jollity: ſeparate him from his companions, like a ſpark from a fire, where before it contributed to the general blaze; his alacrity ſuddenly extinguishes; and though ſur⯑rounded with every other means of delight, he loaths the ſumptuous banquet, and prefers even the⯑moſt abſtract ſtudy and ſpeculation, as more agree⯑able and entertaining.

INHUMANITY.

The inhuman ſports exhibited at Rome, may juſtly be conſidered as an effect of the people's contempt for ſlaves, and was alſo a great cauſe of the general inhumanity of their princes and rulers. Who can read the accounts of the amphitheatrical entertain⯑ments without horror? or who is ſurpriſed that the emperors ſhould treat that people in the ſame way the people treated their inferiors? One's humanity on that occaſion is apt to renew the barbarous wiſh of Caligula, that the people had but one neck: [] a man could almoſt be pleaſed, by a ſingle blow, to put an end to ſuch a race of monſters!

LOVE.

LOVE is a reſtleſs and impatient paſſion, full of caprices and variations; ariſing in a moment from a feature, from an air, from nothing; and ſuddenly extinguiſhing after the ſame manner. Such a paſ⯑ſion requires liberty above all things; and therefore Eloiſa had reaſon when, in order to preſerve this paſſion, ſhe refuſed to marry her beloved Abelard.

MORTALITY.

CONSIDER, that if life be frail, if youth be tran⯑ſitory, we ſhould well employ the preſent moment, and loſe no part of ſo periſhing an exiſtence. Yet a little moment, and theſe ſhall be no more; we ſhall be as though we had never been: not a me⯑mory of us be left upon earth; and even fabulous ſhades will not afford us an habitation Our fruit⯑leſs anxieties, our vain projects, our uncertain ſpe⯑culation, ſhall all be ſwallowed up and loſt. Our preſent doubts concerning the original cauſe of all things muſt never, alas! be reſolved. This alone we may be certain of, that, if any governing mind pre⯑ſide over the univerſe, he muſt be pleaſed to ſee us [8] fulfil the ends of our being, and enjoy that plea⯑ſure, for which alone we were created.

FRIENDSHIP.

MOST men of generous tempers are apt to envy the great, when they conſider the large opportuni⯑ties ſuch perſons have of doing good to their fel⯑low creatures, and of acquiring the friendſhip and eſteem of men of merit. They make no advances in vain, and are not obliged to aſſociate with thoſe whom they have little kindneſs for; like people of inferiour ſtations, who are ſubject to have their prof⯑fers of friendſhip rejected, even where they would be moſt fond of placing their affections. But, though the great have more facility in acquiring friendſhips, they cannot be ſo certain of the ſincerity of them as men of a lower rank; ſince the favours they beſtow may acquire them flattery, inſtead of good⯑will and kindneſs. We attach ourſelves more by the ſervices we perform, than by thoſe we receive; and a man is in danger of loſing his friends, by obli⯑ging them too far. I ſhould therefore chuſe to lie in the middle way, and to have my commerce with my friend varied both by obligations given and recei⯑ved. I have too much pride, to be willing that all the obligations ſhould be on my ſide; and ſhould be afraid, that if they all lay on his, he would alſo have too much pride to be entirely eaſy under them, or have perfect complacency in my company.

[9] Friendſhip is a calm and ſedate affection, con⯑ducted by reaſon, and cemented by habit ſpringing from long acquaintance and mutual obligations; without jealouſies or fears, and without thoſe fe⯑veriſh fits of heat and cold which cauſe ſuch an agreeable torment in the amorous paſſions. So ſober an affection therefore as friendſhip, rather thrives under reſtraint, and never riſes to ſuch an height, as when any ſtrong intereſt or neceſſity binds two perſons together, and gives them ſome common ob⯑ject of purſuit.

MEDIOCRITY OF FORTUNE.

THE middle ſtation of life is moſt favourable to the acquiring of wiſdom and ability, as well as of vir⯑tue; and a man ſo ſituate has a better chance of at⯑taining a knowledge both of men and things, than thoſe of a more elevated ſtation. He enters with more familiarity into human life; every thing appears in its natural colours before him; he has more leiſure to form obſervations, and has beſides the motive of ambition to puſh him on in his attainments, being certain that he can never riſes to any diſtinction or eminence in the world without his own induſtry.

MARRIAGE.

LET us conſider whether love or friendſhip ſhould moſt predominate in marriage; and we ſhall ſoon determine whether liberty or conſtraint be the moſt favourable to it. The happieſt mar⯑riages, to be ſure, are found where love, by long [10] acquaintance, is conſolidated into friendſhip. Whoever dreams of raptures and extaſies beyond the honey-moon, is a fool. Even romances themſelves, with all their liberty of fiction, are obliged to drop their lovers the very day of their marriage; and find it eaſier to ſupport the paſſion for a dozen years under coldneſs, diſdain, and difficulties, than a week under poſſeſſion and ſecurity. We need not therefore be afraid of drawing the marriage knot the cloſeſt poſſible. The friendſhip betwixt the perſons where it is ſolid and ſincere, will rather gain by it; and where it is wavering and uncertain, this is the beſt expedient of fixing it. How many frivolous quarrels and diſguſts are there, which peo⯑ple of common prudence endeavour to forget, when they lie under the neceſſity of paſſing their lives to⯑gether; but which would ſoon enflame into the moſt deadly hatred, were they purſued to the utmoſt un⯑der the proſpect of an eaſy ſeparation!

JEALOUSY.

A SPANIARD is jealous of the very thoughts of thoſe who approach his wife; and, if poſſible, will prevent his being diſhonoured even by the wantonneſs of imagination. When the mother of the late King of Spain was on her road to Madrid, ſhe paſſed through a little town in Spain, famous for its manufactory of gloves and ſtockings. The honeſt magiſtrates of the place thought they could not better expreſs their joy for the reception of their [11] new Queen, than by preſenting her with a ſample of thoſe commodities, for which alone their town was remarkable. The Major-Domo, who conducted the Queen, received the gloves very graciouſly; but when the ſtockings were preſented, he flung them away with great indignation, and ſeverely reprimanded the magiſtrates for this egregious piece of indecency: "Know," ſays he, "that a Queen of Spain has no legs." The poor young Queen, who at that time underſtood the language but very im⯑perfectly, and had been often frightened with ſtories of Spaniſh jealouſy, imagined they were to cut off her legs: upon which ſhe ſell a-crying, and begged them to conduct her back to Germany; for that ſhe never could endure that operation: and it was with ſome difficulty they could appeaſe her. Phi⯑lip IV. is ſaid never in his life to have laughed heartily but at the recital of this ſtory.

DIVORCE.

HOW often does diſguſt and averſion riſe, after marriage, from the moſt trivial accidents, or from an incompatibility of humour; where time, in⯑ſtead of curing the wounds proceeding from mu⯑tual injuries, does every day feſter them the more, by new quarrels and reproaches! Let us ſeparate hearts which are not made for each other. Each of them may perhaps find another, for which it is better fitted: at leaſt, nothing can be more cruel than to preſerve by violence, an union, which at firſt was made by mutual love, and is now in ef⯑fect diſſolved by mutual hatred.

[12] The liberty of divorce is not only a cure to ha⯑tred and domeſtic quarrels; it is alſo an admirable preſervative againſt them, and the only ſecret for keeping alive that love which firſt united the mar⯑ried couple. The heart of man delights in liberty; the very image of conſtraint is grievous to it: when you would confine it by violence to what would otherwiſe have been its choice, its inclina⯑tion immediately changes, and deſire is turned into averſion. If the public intereſt will not allow us to enjoy, in polygamy, that variety which is ſo agreeable in love, deprive us not, at leaſt, of that liberty which is ſo eſſentially requiſite. In vain you tell me, that I had my choice of the perſon with whom I would conjoin myſelf: I had my choice, it is true, of my priſon; but this is only a ſmall comfort, ſince it muſt ſtill be a priſon.

PLEASURE.

See, propitious to my wiſhes, the divine, the amiable Pleaſure, the ſupreme love of God and men, advances towards me. At her approach, my heart beats with genial heat, and every ſenſe and every faculty is diſſolved in joy; while ſhe pours around me, all the embelliſhments of the Spring, and all the treaſures of the Autumn. The melody of her voice charms my ear with the ſofteſt muſic, as ſhe incites me to partake of thoſe delicious fruits, which, with a ſmile that diffuſes glory in the hea⯑vens and the earth, ſhe preſents to me. The ſpor⯑tive [13] cupids that attend her, fan me with their odo⯑riferous wings, or pour on my head the moſt fra⯑grant oils, or offer me their ſparkling nectar in gol⯑den goblets. O! forever let me ſpread my limbs on this bed of roſes, and thus, thus feel the delici⯑ous moments with ſoft and downy ſteps glide along. But, cruel chance! whither do ye flee ſo faſt? Why do my ardent wiſhes, and that load of pleaſures which you labour under, rather haſten than retard your unrelenting pace? Suffer me to enjoy this ſoft repoſe after all my fatigues, in ſearch of happineſs. Suffer me to ſatiate myſelf with theſe delicacies, after the pains of ſo long and ſo fooliſh an abſti⯑nence.

FAME.

THE love of fame rules with ſuch uncontrouled authority in all generous minds, that it is often the grand object of all their deſigns and undertakings. By our continual and earneſt purſuit of a character, a name, a reputation in the world, we bring our own deportment and conduct frequently in re⯑view, and conſider how they appear in the eyes of thoſe who approach and regard us. This con⯑ſtant habit of ſurveying ourſelves as it were in reflection, keeps alive all the ſentiments of right and wrong, and begets, in noble natures, a certain reverence for themſelves as well as others, which is the ſureſt guardian of every virtue. The animal conveniences and pleaſure ſink gradually in their value; while every inward beauty and moral grace is [14] ſtudiouſly acquired, and the mind is accompliſhed in every perfection which can adorn or embelliſh a rational creature.

I was lately lamenting to a friend of mine, who loves a conceit, that popular applauſe ſhould be beſtowed with ſo little judgment, and that ſo many empty forward coxcombs ſhould riſe up to a figure in the world: upon which, he ſaid, there was no⯑thing ſurpriſing in the caſe. "Popular ſame," ſays he, "is nothing but a breath of air; and air very naturally preſſes into a vacuum."

AMBITION.

CANUTE, who was the greateſt and moſt powerful Prince of his time, Sovereign of Denmark and Norway, as well as of England, could not fail to meet with adulation from his courtiers; a tri⯑bute which is liberally paid even to the meaneſt and weakeſt Princes. Some of his flatterers, break⯑ing out one day in admiration of his grandeur, exclaimed, that every thing was poſſible for him: upon which the Monarch, it is ſaid, ordered his chair to be ſet on the ſea-ſhore, while the tide was making; and, as the waters approached, he com⯑manded them to retire, and to obey the voice of him who was Lord of the Ocean. He feigned to fit ſome time in expectation of their ſubmiſſion; but when the ſea ſtill advanced towards him, and be⯑gan to waſh him with its billows, he turned to his [15] courtiers, and remarked to them, that every crea⯑ture in the univerſe was feeble and impotent, and that power reſided with One Being alone, in whoſe hands were all the elements of nature; who could ſay to the ocean, "Thus far ſhalt thou go, and no further;" and who could level with his nod the moſt towering piles of human pride and ambition.

HUMAN ACTIVITY.

THERE is no craving or demand of the human mind more conſtant and inſatiable, than that for exerciſe and employment; and this deſire ſeems the foundation of moſt of our paſſions and purſuits. Deprive a man of all buſineſs and ſerious occupa⯑tion, he runs reſtleſs from one amuſement to an⯑other; and the weight and oppreſſion which he feels from idleneſs, is ſo great, that he forgets the ruin which muſt follow from his immoderate ex⯑pences. Give him a more harmleſs way of em⯑ploying his mind or body, he is ſatisfied, and feels no longer that inſatiable thirſt after pleaſure. But if the employment you give him be profitable, eſpecially if the profit be attached to every parti⯑cular exertion of induſtry, he has gain ſo often in his eye, that he acquires, by degrees, a paſſion for it, and knows no ſuch pleaſure as that of ſeeing the daily increaſe of his fortune.

COURAGE.

THE utility of courage, both to the public, and to the perſon poſſeſſed of it, is an obvious founda⯑tion of merit: but to any one who duly conſiders of the matter, it will appear that this quality has a peculiar luſtre, which it derives wholly from it⯑ſelf, and from that noble elevation inſeparable from it. Its figure, drawn by painters, and by poets, diſplays in each feature a ſublimity and daring confidence, which catches the eye, engages the affections, and diffuſes, by ſympathy, a like ſublimity of ſentiment over every ſpectator.

The martial temper of the Romans, inflamed by continual wars, had raiſed their eſteem of courage ſo high, that, in their language, it was called vir⯑tue, by way of excellence, and of diſtinction from all other moral qualities. The Suevi, in the opi⯑nion of Tacitus, dreſſed their hair with a laudable intent; not for the purpoſe of loving or being be⯑loved: they adorned themſelves only for their ene⯑mies, and in order to appear more terrible.

DUELLING.

NOTHING ſurely can be more abſurd and bar⯑barous than the practice of duelling; but thoſe who juſtify it, ſay, that it begets civility and good-manners; and a duelliſt always values himſelf upon his courage, his ſenſe of honour, his fidelity, and [17] friendſhip; qualities which are here very oddly directed, but which have been eſteemed univerſally ſince the foundation of the world.

MAGNANIMITY.

OF the ſame claſs of virtues with courage, is that undiſturbed philoſophical tranquillity, ſupe⯑rior to pain, ſorrow, anxiety, and each aſſault of adverſe fortune. Conſcious of his own virtue, the Sage elevates himſelf above every accident of life, and, ſecurely placed in the temple of wiſdom, looks down on inferior mortals, engaged in purſuits of honours, riches, reputation, and every frivolous enjoyment. Theſe pretenſions, no doubt, when ſtretched to the utmoſt, are by far too mag⯑nificent for human nature: they carry, however, a grandeur with them, which ſeizes the ſpectator, and ſtrikes him with admiration: and, the nearer we can approach, in practice, to this ſublime tran⯑quillity and indifference, the more ſecure enjoy⯑ment ſhall we attain within ourſelves, and the more greatneſs of mind ſhall we diſcover to the world. This philoſophical tranquillity may, in⯑deed, be conſidered only as a branch of magnani⯑mity.

Who admires not Socrates, his perpetual ſerenity and contentment, amidſt the greateſt poverty and domeſtic vexation; his reſolute contempt of riches, and magnanimous care of preſerving liberty, while [18] he refuſed all aſſiſtance from his friends and diſci⯑ples, and avoided even the dependence of an obli⯑gation? Epictetus had not ſo much as a door to his little houſe or hovel, and therefore ſoon loſt his iron lamp, the only furniture which he had, worth taking: but, reſolving to diſappoint all robbers for the future, he ſupplied its place with an earthen lamp, of which he very peaceably kept poſſeſſion ever after.

The exceſſive bravery and reſolute inflexibility of Charles XII. ruined his own country, and in⯑feſted all his neighbours, but have ſuch ſplendour and greatneſs in their appearance, as ſtrike us with admiration; and they might, in ſome degree, be even approved of, if they betrayed not ſometimes too evident ſymptoms of madneſs and diſorder.

Who can diſpute, that a mind, which ſupports a perpetual ſerenity and cheerfulneſs, a noble dig⯑nity and undaunted ſpirit, a tender affection and good-will to all around, as it has more enjoyment within itſelf, is alſo a more animating and rejoi⯑cing ſpectacle, than if dejected with melancholy, tormented with anxiety, irritated with rage, or ſunk into the moſt abject baſeneſs and degeneracy?

POLITENESS.

AS the mutual ſhocks in ſociety, and the oppo⯑ſitions of intereſt and ſelf-love, have conſtrained [19] mankind to eſtabliſh the laws of juſtice, in order to preſerve the advantages of common aſſiſtance and protection; in like manner, the eternal con⯑trarieties, in company, of men's pride and ſelf-conceit, have introduced the rules of good-man⯑ners or politeneſs, in order to facilitate the inter⯑courſe of minds, and an undiſturbed commerce and converſation. Among well-bred people, a mutual deference is affected; contempt of others diſguiſed; authority concealed; attention given to each in his turn; and an eaſy ſtream of converſation main⯑tained, without vehemence, without mutual inter⯑ruption, without eagerneſs for oratory, and with⯑out any airs of ſuperiority. Theſe attentions and regards are immediately agreeable to others, abſ⯑tracted from any conſideration of utility or bene⯑ficial tendencies: they conciliate affection, promote eſteem, and extremely enhance the merit of the perſon who regulates his behaviour by them.

Many of the forms of breeding are arbitrary and caſual; but the thing expreſſed by them is ſtill the ſame. A Spaniard goes out of his own houſe before his gueſts, to ſignify that he leaves him maſter of all: in other countries, the landlord walks out laſt, as a common mark of deference and regard.

MODESTY.

MODESTY may be underſtood in different ſenſes. It ſometimes means that tenderneſs and [20] nicety of honour, that apprehenſion of blame, that dread of intruſion or injury towards others, that pudor, which is the proper guardian of every kind of virtue, and a ſure preſervative againſt vice and corruption: but its moſt uſual meaning is, when it is oppoſed to impudence and arrogance, and expreſſes a diffidence of our own judgment, and due attention and regard for others. In young men, chiefly, this quality is a ſure ſign of good-ſenſe, and is alſo the certain means of augmenting that endowment, by preſerving their ears open to inſtruction, and making them ſtill graſp after new entertainments. But it has a farther charm to every ſpectator, by flattering every man's vanity, and preſenting the appearance of a docile pupil, who receives, with proper attention and reſpect, every word they utter.

'Tis wonderful to obſerve what airs of ſuperio⯑rity fools and knaves, with large poſſeſſions, give themſelves, above men of the greateſt merit in po⯑verty: nor do the men of merit make any ſtrong oppoſition to theſe uſurpations; or rather ſeem to favour them, by the modeſty of their behaviour. Their good-ſenſe and experience make them diffi⯑dent of their judgment, and cauſe them to examine every thing with the greateſt accuracy; as, on the other hand, the delicacy of their ſentiments makes them timorous, left they commit faults, and loſe, in the practice of the world, that integrity of vir⯑tue, of which they are ſo jealous. To make wiſ⯑dom [21] agree with confidence, is as difficult as to re⯑concile vice to modeſty.

HONOUR.

NOR need we fear, that men, by loſing their ferocity, will loſe their martial ſpirit, or become leſs undaunted and vigorous in defence of their country, or their liberty. The arts have no ſuch effect in enervating either the mind or body: on the contrary, induſtry, their inſeparable attendant, adds new force to both; and if anger, which is ſaid to be the whet-ſtone of courage, loſes ſome⯑what of its aſperity, by politeneſs and refinement; a ſenſe of honour, which is a ſtronger, more con⯑ſtant, and more governable principle, acquires freſh vigour by that elevation of genius which ariſes from knowledge and a good education.

PHILOSOPHY.

TO reconcile the indifference and contingency of human actions with preſcience; or to defend abſolute decrees, and yet free the Deity from be⯑ing the author of ſin, has been found hitherto to exceed all the power of Philoſophy. Happy if ſhe be thence ſenſible of her temerity, when ſhe pries into theſe ſublime myſteries; and, leaving a ſcene ſo full of obſcurities and perplexities, returns with ſuitable modeſty to her true and proper province, the examination of common life; where ſhe will find difficulties enough to employ her enquiries, [22] without launching into ſo boundleſs an ocean of doubt, uncertainty, and contradiction!

What a malignant philoſophy muſt it be, that will not allow to humanity and friendſhip the ſame privileges which are indiſputably granted to the darker paſſions of enmity and reſentment! Such a philoſophy is more like a ſatire than a true deli⯑neation or deſcription of human nature, and may be a good foundation for paradoxical wit and rail⯑lery, but is a very bad one for any ſerious argu⯑ment or reaſoning.

Though the philoſophical truth of any propoſition by no means depends on its tendency to promote the intereſt of ſociety, yet a man has but a bad grace who delivers a theory, however true, which, he muſt confeſs, leads to a practice dangerous and pernicious. Why rake into thoſe corners of nature which ſpread nuiſance all around? Why dig up the peſtilence from the pit, in which it is buried? The ingenuity of your reſearches may be admired, but your ſyſtems will be deteſted: and mankind will agree, if they cannot refute them, to ſink them, at leaſt, in eternal ſilence and oblivion. Truths which are pernicious to ſociety, if any ſuch there be, will yield to errors which are ſalu⯑tary and advantageous.

But what philoſophical truths can be more ad⯑vantageous to ſociety, than thoſe which repreſent [23] Virtue in all her genuine and moſt engaging charms, and make us approach her with eaſe, familiarity, and affection? The diſmal dreſs falls off, with which many divines, and ſome philoſophers, had covered her; and nothing appears but gentleneſs, humanity, beneficence, affability; nay, even, at proper intervals, play, frolic, and gaiety. She talks not of uſeleſs auſterities and rigours, ſuffer⯑ing and ſelf-denial. She declares, that her ſole purpoſe is to make her votaries, and all mankind, during every inſtant of their exiſtence, if poſſible, chearful and happy; nor does ſhe ever willingly part with any pleaſure, but in hopes of ample compenſation in ſome other period of their lives. The ſole trouble which ſhe demands, is that of juſt calculation, and a ſteady preference of the greater happineſs. And if any auſtere pretenders approach her, enemies to joy and pleaſure, ſhe ei⯑ther rejects them as hypocrites and deceivers; or, if ſhe admits them in her train, they are ranked, however, as the leaſt favoured of her votaries.

Thoſe who have a propenſity to philoſophy, will ſtill continue their reſearches; becauſe they reflect, that, beſides the immediate pleaſure attending ſuch an occupation, philoſophical deciſions are nothing but the reflections of common life methodiſed and corrected. But they will never be tempted to go beyond common life, ſo long as they conſider the imperfection of thoſe faculties which they employ, their narrow reach, and their inaccurate operations. [24] While we cannot give a ſatisfactory reaſon why we believe, after a thouſand experiments, that a ſtone will fall, or fire burn; can we ever ſatisfy ourſelves concerning any determination which we may form with regard to the origin of worlds, and the ſiua⯑tion of nature from and to eternity?

A man may as well pretend to cure himſelf of love, by viewing his miſtreſs through the artificial medium of a microſcope or proſpect, and beholding there the coarſeneſs of her ſkin, and monſtrous diſ⯑proportion of her features, as hope to excite or moderate any paſſion by the artificial arguments of a Seneca or an Epictetus. The remembrance of the natural aſpect and ſituation of the object, will in both caſes ſtill recur upon him. The reflections of philoſophy are too ſubtle and diſtant to take place in common life, or eradicate any affection. The air is too fine to breathe in, where it is above the winds and clouds of the atmoſphere.

His appears the moſt perfect charcter, who, re⯑taining an equal ability and taſte for books, com⯑pany, and buſineſs, preſerves in converſation that diſcernment and delicacy, which are the natural reſult of a juſt philoſophy. In order to diffuſe and cultivate ſo accompliſhed a character, nothing can be more uſeful than compoſitions of the eaſy ſtyle and manner, which draw not too much from life, require no deep application or retreat to be com⯑prehended, and ſend back the ſtudent among man⯑kind [25] full of noble ſentiments and wiſe precepts, applicable to every exigence of human life. By means of ſuch compoſitions, virtue becomes ami⯑able, ſcience agreable, company inſtructive, and retirement entertaining.

The eaſy and obvious philoſophy will always, with the generality of mankind, have the prefe⯑rence above the accurate and abſtruſe; and by many will be recommended, not only as more agreeable, but more uſeful, than the other. It en⯑ters more into common life; moulds the heart and affections, and, by touching thoſe principles which actuate men, reforms their conduct, and brings them nearer that model of perfection which it de⯑ſcribes. Abſtruſe philoſophy, being founded on a turn of mind which cannot enter into buſineſs and action, vaniſhes when the philoſopher leaves the ſhade, and comes into open day; nor can its prin⯑ciples eaſily retain any influence over our conduct and behaviour. The feelings of our heart, the agitation of our paſſions, the vehemence of our affections, diſſipate all its concluſions, and reduce the profound philoſopher to a mere plebeian.

In every art or profeſſion, even thoſe which moſt concern life or action, a ſpirit of accuracy, how⯑ever acquired, carries all of them nearer their per⯑fection, and renders them more ſubſervient to the intereſts of ſociety. And though a philoſopher may live remote from buſineſs, the genius of phi⯑loſophy, [26] if carefully cultivated by ſeveral, muſt gra⯑dually diffuſe itſelf throughout the whole ſociety, and beſtow a ſimilar correctneſs on every art and calling. The politician will acquire greater fore⯑ſight and ſubtlety in the ſubdividing and balancing of power; the lawyer more method and finer prin⯑ciples in his reaſonings; and the general more regu⯑larity in his diſcipline, and more caution in his plans and operations. The ſtability of modern go⯑vernments above the ancient, and the accuracy of modern philoſophy, have improved, and probably will ſtill improve, by ſimilar gradations.

METAPHYSICS

ARE not properly a ſcience, but ariſe either from the fruitleſs efforts of human vanity, which would penetrate into ſubjects utterly inacceſſible to the underſtanding, or from the craft of popular ſuper⯑ſtitions, which, being unable to defend themſelves on fair ground, raiſe theſe entangling brambles to cover and protect their weakneſs. Chaced from the open country, theſe robbers fly into the foreſt, and lie in wait to break in upon every unguarded ave⯑nue of the mind, and overwhelm it with religious fears and prejudices. The ſtouteſt antagoniſt, if he remit his watch a moment, is oppreſſed: and many, through cowardice and folly, open the gates to the enemy, and willingly receive them, with reverence and ſubmiſſion, as their legal ſovereigns.

PHILOSOPHERS.

WERE we to diſtinguiſh the ranks of men by their genius and capacity, more than by their vir⯑tue and uſefulneſs to the public, great philoſophers would certainly challenge the firſt rank, and muſt be placed at the top of human kind. So rare is this character, that, perhaps, there has not as yet been above two in the world who can lay a juſt claim to it: at leaſt, Galileo and Newton ſeem to me ſo far to excel all the reſt, that I cannot admit any other into the ſame claſs with them.

Moral philoſophers conſider man chiefly as born for action, and as influenced in his actions by taſte and ſentiment; purſuing one object, and avoiding another, according to the value which theſe objects ſeem to poſſeſs, and according to the light in which they preſent themſelves. As virtue, of all objects, is allowed to be the moſt valuable, theſe philoſo⯑phers paint her in the moſt amiable colours; bor⯑rowing all helps from poetry and eloquence, and treating their ſubject in an eaſy and obvious man⯑ner, and ſuch as is beſt fitted to pleaſe the imagi⯑nation and engage the affections. They ſelect the moſt ſtriking obſervations and inſtances from com⯑mon life; place oppoſite character, in a proper con⯑traſt; and, alluring us into the paths of virtue by the views of glory and happineſs, direct our ſteps in theſe paths by the ſoundeſt precepts and moſt illuſtrious examples. They make us feel the diffe⯑rence [28] between vice and virtue; they excite and re⯑gulate our ſentiments; and ſo they can but bend our hearts to the love of probity and true honour, they think that they have fully attained the end of all their labours.

GALLANTRY.

TO correct ſuch groſs vices as lead us to commit real injury on others, is the part of morals, and the object of the moſt ordinary education. Where that is not attended to, in ſome degree, no human ſociety can ſubſiſt. But, in order to render conver⯑ſation, and the intercourſe of minds, more eaſy and agreeable, good-manners have been invented, and have carried the matter ſomewhat farther. Where⯑ever nature has given the mind a propenſity to any vice, or to any paſſion diſagreeable to others, re⯑fined breeding has taught men to throw the biaſs on the oppoſite ſide, and to preſerve in all their behaviour the appearance of ſentiments different from thoſe to which they naturally incline. Thus, as we are commonly proud and ſelfiſh, and apt to aſſume the preference above others, a polite man learns to behave with deference towards his com⯑panions, and to yield the ſuperiority to them in all the common incidents of ſociety. In like manner, wherever a perſon's ſituation may naturally beget any diſagreeable ſuſpicion in him, it is the part of good-manners to prevent it by a ſtudied diſplay of ſentiments directly contrary to thoſe of which he is apt to be jealous. Thus, old men know their [29] infirmities, and naturally dread contempt from the youth; hence, well-educated youth redouble the inſtances of reſpect and deference to their elders. Strangers and foreigners are without protection; hence, in all polite countries, they receive the higheſt civilities., and are intitled to the firſt place in every company. A man is lord in his own fa⯑mily, and his gueſts are, in a manner, ſubject to his authority; hence, he is always the loweſt per⯑ſon in the company; attentive to the wants of every one; and giving himſelf all the trouble, in order to pleaſe, which may not betray too viſible an af⯑fectation, or impoſe too much conſtraint on his gueſts. Gallantry is nothing but an inſtance of the ſame generous attention. As nature has given man the ſuperiority above woman, by endowing him with greater ſtrength both of mind and body, it is his part to alleviate that ſuperiority, as much as poſſible, by the generoſity of his behaviour, and by a ſtudied deference for all her inclinations and opinions. Barbarous nations diſplay this ſuperio⯑rity by reducing their females to the moſt abject ſlavery; by confining, them, by beating them, by ſelling them, by killing them. But the male ſex among a polite people diſcover their authority in a more generous, though not a leſs evident manner; by civility, by reſpect, by complaiſance, and, in a word, by gallantry. In good company, you need not aſk who is the maſter of the feaſt. The man who ſits in the loweſt place, and who is always induſ⯑trious in helping every one, is certainly the perſon. [30] We muſt either condemn all ſuch inſtances of ge⯑neroſity as foppiſh and affected, or admit of gal⯑lantry among the reſt. The ancient Muſcovites wedded their wives with a whip, inſtead of a ring. The ſame people, in their own houſes, took always the precedence above foreigners, even foreign am⯑baſſadors.

Gallantry is not leſs conſiſtent with wiſdom and prudence, than with nature and generoſity; and, when under proper regulations, contributes more than any other invention to the entertainment and improvement of both ſexes. Among every ſpecies of animals, nature has founded on the love between the ſexes their ſweeteſt and beſt enjoyments. But the ſatisfaction of the bodily appetite is not alone ſufficient to gratify the mind; and even among brute creatures, we find that their play and dalli⯑ance, and other expreſſions of fondneſs, form the greateſt part of the entertainment. In rational be⯑ings, we muſt certainly admit the mind for a con⯑ſiderable ſhare. Were we to rob the feaſt of all its garniture of reaſon, diſcourſe, ſympathy, friend⯑ſhip, and gaiety, what remains would ſcarcely be worth acceptance, in the judgment of the truly elegant and luxurious.

MAN.

MAN is a reaſonable being, and, as ſuch, re⯑ceives from ſcience his proper food and nouriſh⯑ment: but ſo narrow are the bounds of human [31] underſtanding, that little ſatisfaction can be hoped for in this particular, either from the extent or ſecurity of his acquiſitions.

Man is a ſociable, no leſs than a reaſonable be⯑ing; but neither can he always enjoy company agreeable and amuſing, or preſerve the proper re⯑liſh for them.

Man is alſo an active being; and, from that diſ⯑poſtion, as well as from the various neceſſities of human life, muſt ſubmit to buſineſs and occupa⯑tion.

MEN AND ANIMALS.

ON the one hand, we ſee a creature, whoſe thoughts are not limited by any narrow bounds, either of place or time; who carries his reſearches into the moſt diſtant regions of this globe, and beyond this globe to the planets and heavenly bo⯑dies; looks backward to conſider the firſt origin, at leaſt the hiſtory, of human race; caſts his eyes forward to ſee the influence of his actions upon poſterity, and the judgments which will be formed of his character a thouſand years hence: a crea⯑ture, who traces cauſes and effects to a great length and intricacy; extracts general principles from particular appearances; improves upon his diſco⯑veries; corrects his miſtakes; and makes his very errors profitable. On the other hand, we are pre⯑ſented with a creature the very reverſe of this; li⯑mited [32] in its obſervations and reaſonings to a few ſenſible objects which ſurround it; without curio⯑ſity, without foreſight; blindly conducted by in⯑ſtinct, and attaining, in a ſhort time, its utmoſt perfection; beyond which it is never able to ad⯑vance a ſingle ſtep. What a wide difference is there between theſe creatures! And how exalted a notion muſt we entertain of the former, in com⯑pariſon of the latter!

TRUTH AND TASTE.

TRUTH is diſputable, not taſte: what exiſts in the nature of things is the ſtandard of our judg⯑ment; what each man feels within himſelf is the ſtandard of ſentiment. Propoſitions in geometry may be proved, ſyſtems in phyſic may be contro⯑verted; but the harmony of verſe, the tenderneſs of paſſion, the brilliancy of wit, muſt give imme⯑diate pleaſure. No man reaſons concerning an⯑other's beauty, but frequently concerning the juſ⯑tice or injuſtice of his actions. In every criminal trial, the firſt object of the priſoner is to diſprove ſhe facts alledged, and deny the actions imputed to him; the ſecond, to prove that, even if theſe actions were real, they might be justified, as in⯑nocent and lawful. It is confeſſedly by deductions of the underſtanding, that the firſt point is aſcer⯑tained: how can we ſuppoſe that a different faculty of the mind is employed in fixing the other?

GENEROSITY.

IT would be difficult to ſhew why a man is more a loſer by a generous action than by any other me⯑thod of expence; ſince the utmoſt which he can attain by the moſt elaborate ſelfiſhneſs, is the in⯑dulgence of ſome affection.

Once on a time, a ſtateſman, in the ſhock and conteſt of parties, prevailed ſo far as to procure, by his eloquence, the baniſhment of an able ad⯑verſary, whom he ſecretly followed, offering him money for his ſupport during his exile, and ſooth⯑ing him with topics of conſolation in his misfor⯑tunes. "Alas!" cries the baniſhed ſtateſman, "with what regret muſt I leave my friends in this city, where even enemies are ſo generous!"

GLORY.

YE favoured of Heaven, while the wanton Spring pours upon you all her blooming honours, let not Glory ſeduce you, with her deluſive blaze, to paſs in perils and dangers this delicious ſeaſon, this prime of life! Wiſdom points out to you the road to pleaſure; Nature, too, beckons to you to fol⯑low her in that ſmooth and ſlowery path: will you ſhut your ears to their commanding voice? Will you harden your heart to their ſoft allurements? Oh, deluded mortals! thus to loſe your youth, thus to throw away ſo invaluable a preſent; to [34] trifle with ſo periſhing a bleſſing! Contemplate well your recompenſe; conſider that Glory, which ſo allures your proud hearts, and ſeduces you with your own praiſes: 'tis an echo, a dream; nay, the ſhadow of a dream, which is diſſipated by every wind, and loſt by every contrary breath of the ig⯑norant and ill-judging multitude. You fear not, that even death itſelf will raviſh it from you: but, behold! while you are yet alive, calumny bereaves you of it; ignorance neglects it; nature enjoys it not; fancy alone, renouncing every pleaſure, re⯑ceives this airy recompenſe, empty and unſtable as itſelf.

SCIENCE.

THOSE who cultivate the ſciences in any ſtate, are always few in number; the paſſion that governs them, limited; their taſte and judgment tender, and eaſily perverted; and their applications diſ⯑turbed by the ſmalleſt accident. Chance, there⯑fore, or ſecret and unknown cauſes muſt have a great influence on the riſe and progreſs of all the refined arts.

Greece was a cluſter of little principalities, which ſoon became republics; and, being united both by their near neighbourhood, and by the ties of the ſame language and intereſt, they entered into the cloſeſt intercourſe of commerce and of learn⯑ing. There concurred a happy climate, a fertile ſoil, and a moſt harmonious and comprehenſive [35] language; ſo that every circumſtance among that people ſeemed to favour the riſe of the arts and ſciences. Each city produced its ſeveral artiſts and philoſophers, who refuſed to yield the pre⯑ference to thoſe of the neighbouring republics. Their debates and contentions ſharpened the wits of men: a variety of objects was preſented to the judgment; while each challenged the preference to the reſt: and the ſciences, not being dwarfed by the reſtraint of authority, were enabled to make ſuch conſiderable ſhoots, as are, even at this time, the objects of our admiration.

It ſeems that Nature has pointed out a mixed kind of life as moſt ſuitable to the human race. Indulge your paſſion for ſcience, ſays ſhe; but let your ſcience be human, and ſuch as may have a direct reference to action and ſociety. Abſtruſe thought and profound reſearches I prohibit, and will ſeverely puniſh, by the penſive melancholy which they introduce, by the endleſs uncertainty in which they involve you, and by the cold recep⯑tion which your pretended diſcoveries ſhall meet with, when communicated. Be a philoſopher; but, amidſt all your philoſophy, be ſtill a man.

A ſerious attention to the ſciences and liberal arts ſoftens and humaniſes the temper, and che⯑riſhes thoſe fine emotions in which true virtue and honour conſiſt. It rarely, very rarely, happens, that a man of taſte and learning is not, at leaſt, [36] an honeſt man, whatever frailties may attend him. The bent of his mind to ſpeculative ſtudies, muſt mortify in him the paſſions of intereſt and ambi⯑tion, and muſt, at the ſame time, give him a greater ſenſibility of all the decencies and duties of life. He feels more fully a moral diſtinction in characters and manners; nor is his ſenſe of this kind diminiſhed, but, on the contrary, it is much increaſed, by ſpeculation.

GENIUS.

COURAGE and reſolution are chiefly requiſite in a commander, juſtice and humanity in a ſtateſ⯑man, but genius and capacity in a ſcholar. Great generals and great politicians are found in all ages and countries of the world, and frequently ſtart out, at once, even amongſt the greateſt barbarians. Sweden was ſunk in ignorance when it produced Guſtavus Ericſon, and Guſtavus Adolphus; Muſcovy when the Czar appeared; and perhaps Carthage, when it gave birth to Hannibal: but England muſt paſs through a long gradation of its Spenſers, Jonſons, Wallers, Drydens, before it arrive at an Addiſon or a Pope. A happy talent for the liberal arts and ſciences, is a kind of prodigy among men. Nature muſt afford the richeſt genius that comes from her hands; education and example muſt cul⯑tivate it from the earlieſt infancy; and induſtry muſt concur to carry it to any degree of perfection. No man needs be ſurpriſed to ſee Kouli Kan among [37] the Perſians; but Homer, in ſo early an age among the Greeks, is certainly a matter of the higheſt wonder.

HAPPINESS.

TO be happy, the paſſion muſt neither be too violent, nor too remiſs. In the firſt caſe, the mind is in a perpetual hurry and tumult; in the ſecond, it ſinks into a diſagreeable indolence and lethargy.

To be happy, the paſſion muſt be benign and ſocial; not rough or fierce. The affections of the latter kind are not near ſo agreeable to the feeling, as thoſe of the former. Who will compare rancour and animoſity, envy and revenge, to friendſhip, benignity, clemency, and gratitude?

To be happy, the paſſion muſt be chearful and gay, not gloomy and melancholy. A propenſity to hope and joy, is real riches; one to fear and ſorrow, real poverty.

Indeed, all the difference between the conditions of life depends upon the mind; nor is there any one ſituation of affairs in itſelf preferable to an⯑other. Good and ill, both natural and moral, are entirely relative to human ſentiment and affection. No man would ever be unhappy, could he alter his feelings: Proteus-like, he would elude all at⯑tacks, by the continual alteration of his ſhape and form.

[38] By doing good, only, can a man truly enjoy the advantages of being eminent. His exalted ſtation, of itſelf, but the more expoſes to danger and tem⯑peſt. His ſole prerogative is to afford ſhelter to inferiors, who repoſe themſelves under his cover and protection.

Inward peace of mind, conſciouſneſs of integri⯑ty, a ſatisfactory review of our own couduct, are circumſtances very requiſite to happineſs, and will be cheriſhed and cultivated by every honeſt man who feels the importance of them.

BENEVOLENCE.

THE very ſoftneſs and tenderneſs of this ſenti⯑ment, its engaging endearments, its fond expreſ⯑ſions, its delicate attentions, and that flow of mu⯑tual confidence and regard which enters into a warm attachment of love and friendſhip, being delightful in themſelves, are neceſſarily communi⯑cated to the ſpectators, and melt them into the ſame fondneſs and delicacy. The tear naturally ſtarts in our eye on the apprehenſion of a warm ſentiment of this nature; our breaſt heaves, our heart is agitated, and every humane tender prin⯑ciple of our frame is ſet in motion, and gives us the pureſt and moſt ſatisfactory enjoyment.

No qualities are more entitled to the general good-will and approbation of mankind, than bene⯑ficence and humanity, friendſhip and gratitude, [39] natural affection and public ſpirit, or whatever proceeds from a tender ſympathy with others, and a generous concern for our kind and ſpecies. Theſe, wherever they appear, ſeem to transfuſe themſelves, in a manner, into each beholder; and to call forth, in their own behalf, the ſame favour⯑able and affectionate ſentiments which exert on all around.

That ſpecies of ſelf-love which diſplays itſelf in kindneſs to others, you muſt allow to have great influence over human actions, and even greater, on many occaſions, than that which remains in its original ſhape and form: for how few are there, who, having a family, children, and relations, do not ſpend more on the maintenance and education of theſe than on their own pleaſures! This, in⯑deed, may proceed from their ſelf-love; ſince the proſperity of their family and friends is one, or the chief, of their pleaſures, as well as their chief honour. Be you alſo one of theſe ſelfiſh men, and you are ſure of every one's good opinion and good-will; the ſelf-love of every one, and mine among the reſt, will then incline us to ſerve you, and ſpeak well of you.

POVERTY.

XENOPHON, in the Banquet of Socrates, gives a natural unaffected deſcription of the tyranny of the Athenian people. In my poverty, ſays Char⯑mides, [40] I am much more happy than I ever was while poſſeſſed of riches; as much as it is happier to be in ſecurity than in terror, free than a ſlave, to receive than to pay court, to be truſted than ſuſpected. Formerly I was obliged to careſs every informer; ſome impoſition was continually laid upon me; and it was never allowed me to travel, or be abſent from the city. At preſent, when I am poor, I look big, and threaten others; the rich are afraid of me, and ſhew me every kind of civi⯑lity and reſpect; and I am become a kind of ty⯑rant in the city.

IGNORANCE.

ELASTICITY, gravity, coheſion of parts, communication by impulſe; theſe are probably the ultimate cauſes and principles which we ſhall ever diſcover in nature; and we may eſteem our⯑ſelves ſufficiently happy, if, by accurate enquiry and reaſoning, we can trace up the particular phae⯑nomena to, or near to, theſe general principles. The moſt perfect philoſophy of the natural kind, only ſtaves off our ignorance a little longer; as, perhaps, the moſt perfect philoſophy of the moral of metaphyſical kind, ſerves only to diſcover larger portions of our ignorance. Thus the obſervation of human blindneſs and weakneſs is the reſult of all philoſophy, and meets us, at every turn, in ſpite of our endeavours to elude or avoid it.

THE HUMAN SOUL.

IS there any principle in all nature more myſte⯑rious than the union of ſoul with body; by which a ſuppoſed ſpiritual ſubſtance acquires ſuch an in⯑fluence over a material one, that the moſt refined thought is able to actuate the groſſeſt matter? Were we empowered, by a ſecret wiſh, to remove mountains, or control the planets in their orbits, this extenſive authority would not be more extra⯑ordinary, nor more beyond our comprehenſion.

JUSTICE.

THE rules of equity or juſtice depend entirely on the particular ſtate and condition in which men are placed, and owe their origin and exiſtence to that utility, which reſults to the public from their ſtrict and regular obſervance. Reverſe, in any conſiderable circumſtance, the condition of men: produce extreme abundance or extreme neceſſity: implant in the human breaſt perfect moderation and humanity, or perfect rapaciouſneſs and malice: by rendering juſtice totally uſeleſs, you thereby totally deſtroy its eſſence, and ſuſpend its obliga⯑tion on mankind.

Were the intereſts of ſociety no wiſe concerned, it is as unintelligible why another's articulating certain ſounds implying conſent, ſhould change the nature of my actions with regard to a particu⯑lar [42] object, as why the reciting of a liturgy by a prieſt, in a certain habit and poſture, ſhould dedi⯑cate a heap of bricks and timber, and render it thenceforth and for ever ſacred.

As juſtice evidently tends to promote public utility, and to ſupport civil ſociety, the ſentiment of juſtice is either derived from our reflecting on that tendency; or, like hunger, thirſt, and other appetites, reſentment, love of life, attachment to offspring, and other paſſions, ariſes from a ſimple original inſtinct in the human breaſt, which nature has implanted for like ſalutary purpoſes. If the latter be the caſe, it follows, that property, which is the object of juſtice, is alſo diſtinguiſhed by a ſimple original inſtinct, and is not aſcertained by any argument or reflection. But who is there that ever heard of ſuch an inſtinct? Or is this a ſubject In which new diſcoveries can be made? We may as well expect to diſcover, in the body, new ſenſes, which had before eſcaped the obſervation of all mankind.

PROPERTY.

WHAT other reaſon, indeed, could writers ever give, why this muſt be mine, and that yours; ſince uninſtructed nature, ſurely, never made any ſuch diſtinction? The objects, which receive thoſe appellations, are, of themſelves, foreign to us; they are totally disjoined and. ſeparated from us; and nothing but the general intereſt of ſociety can form the connection.

[43] What is a man's property? Any thing which it is lawful for him, and for him alone, to uſe. But what rule have we by which we can diſtinguiſh theſe objects? Here we muſt have recourſe to ſta⯑tutes, cuſtoms, precedents, analogies, and a hun⯑dred other circumſtances; ſome of which are con⯑ſtant and inflexible, ſome variable and arbitrary. But the ultimate point, in which they all profeſ⯑ſedly terminate, is, the intereſt and happineſs of human ſociety. Where this enters not into conſi⯑deration, nothing can appear more whimſical, un⯑natural, and even ſuperſtitious, than all or moſt of the laws of juſtice, and of property.

IMAGINATION.

NOTHING is more dangerous to reaſon than the flights of imagination; and nothing has been the occaſion of more miſtakes among philoſophers. Men of bright fancies may, in this reſpect, be compared to thoſe angels whom the Scripture re⯑preſents as covering their eyes with their wings.

DELICACY OF PASSION.

SOME people are ſubject to a certain delicacy of paſſion, which makes them extremely ſenſible to all the accidents of life, and gives them a lively joy upon every prosperous event, as well as a piercing grief when they meet with misfortunes and adverſity. Favours and good offices eaſily en⯑gage their friendſhip; while the ſmalleſt injury [44] provokes their reſentment. Any honour or mark of diſtinction elevates them above meaſure; but they are as ſenſibly touched with contempt.

DELICACY OF TASTE

IS itſelf a beauty in any character; as convey⯑ing the pureſt, the moſt durable, and moſt inno⯑cent, of all enjoyments.

When you preſent a poem or a picture to a man poſſeſſed of this talent, the delicacy of his feelings makes him be ſenſibly touched with every part of it; nor are the maſterly ſtrokes perceived with more exquiſite reliſh and ſatisfaction, than the negligen⯑cies and abſurdities with diſguſt and uneaſineſs. A polite and judicious converſation affords him the higheſt entertainment; rudeneſs or impertinence is as great a puniſhment to him.

ART.

IT is a great mortification to the vanity of man, that his utmoſt art or induſtry can never equal the meaneſt of Nature's productions, either for beauty or value. Art is only the under workman, and is employed to give a few ſtrokes of embelliſhment to thoſe pieces which come from the hand of the maſter. Some of the drapery may be of his draw⯑ing; but he is not allowed to touch the principal figure. Art may make a ſuit of clothes, but Na⯑ture muſt produce a man.

SIMPLICITY.

NO advantages in this world are pure and un⯑mixed. In like manner as modern politeneſs, which is naturally ſo ornamental, runs often into affectation and foppery, diſguiſe and inſincerity; ſo the ancient ſimplicity, which is naturally ſo amiable and affecting, often degenerates into ruſti⯑city and abuſe, ſcurrility and obſcenity. Simpli⯑city paſſes for dullneſs, when it is not accom⯑panied with great elegance and propriety.

REFINEMENT.

REFINEMENT on the pleaſures and conveni⯑ences of life, has no natural tendency to beget venality and corruption. The value which all men put upon any particular pleaſure, depends on com⯑pariſon and experience; nor is a porter leſs greedy of money, which he ſpends upon bacon and bran⯑dy, than a courtier who purchaſes champagne and ortolans. Riches are valuable at all times, and to all men, becauſe they always purchaſe pleaſures, ſuch as men are accuſtomed to, and deſire: nor can any thing reſtrain or regulate the love of mo⯑ney, but a ſenſe of honour and virtue; which, if it be not nearly equal at all times, will naturally abound moſt in ages of knowledge and refine⯑ment.

VANITY.

VANITY ſeems to conſiſt chiefly in ſuch an intemperate diſplay of our advantages, honours, and accompliſhments, in ſuch an importunate and open demand of praiſe and admiration, as is offen⯑ſive to others, and encroaches too far on their ſecret vanity and ambition. It is, beſides, the ſure ſymptom of the want of true dignity and ele⯑vation of mind, which is ſo great an ornament to any character. For why that impatient deſire of applauſe; as if you were not juſtly entitled to it, and might not reaſonably expect that it will for ever attend you? Why ſo anxious to inform us of the great company you have kept; the obliging things which were ſaid to you; the honours, the diſtinctions, which you met with; as if theſe were not things of courſe, and what we could readily, of ourſelves, have imagined, without being told of them?

Every thing belonging to a vain man, is the beſt that is any where to be found: his houſes, equi⯑page, furniture, clothes, horſes, hounds, excel all others, in his conceit; and it is eaſy to obſerve, that, from the leaſt advantage in any of theſe, he draws a new ſubject of pride and vanity. His wine, if you will believe him, has a finer flavour than any other; his cookery is more exquiſite; his table more orderly; his ſervants more expert; the air in which he lives, more healthful; the [47] ſoil which he cultivates, more fertile; his fruits ripen earlier, and to greater perfection: ſuch a thing is remarkable for its novelty, ſuch another for its antiquity; this is the workmanſhip of a fa⯑mous artiſt; that belonged once to ſuch a prince or great man.

MERIT.

IT may juſtly appear ſurpriſing, that any man, in ſo late an age, ſhould find it requiſite to prove, by elaborate reaſoning, that perſonal merit conſiſts altogether in the poſſeſſion of mental qualities, uſeful or agreeable to the perſon himſelf, or to others. Whatever is valuable, in any kind, ſo naturally claſſes itſelf under the diviſion of uſeful or agreeable, the utile or dulce, that it is not eaſy to imagine, why we ſhould ever ſeek farther, or conſider the queſtion as a matter of nice reſearch or enquiry. And as every thing uſeful or agree⯑able muſt poſſeſs theſe qualities, with regard either to the perſon himſelf, or to others, the complete delineation or deſcription of merit ſeems to be per⯑formed as naturally as a ſhadow is caſt by the ſun, or an image is reflected upon water. If the ground on which the ſhadow is caſt, be not broken and uneven, nor the ſurface from which the image is reflected diſturbed and confuſed, a juſt figure is immediately preſented, without any art or atten⯑tion. And it ſeems a reaſonable preſumption, that ſyſtems and hypotheſes have perverted our natural [48] underſtanding, when a theory ſo ſimple and ob⯑vious could ſo long have eſcaped the moſt elabo⯑rate examination.

CHARACTER.

YOU are very happy, we ſhall ſuppoſe one to ſay, addreſſing himſelf to another, that you have given your daughter to Cleanthes. He is a man of honour and humanity; every one who has any in⯑tercourſe with him, is ſure of fair and kind treat⯑ment.

I congratulate you, ſays another, on the pro⯑miſing expectation of this ſon-in-law; whoſe aſſi⯑duous application to the ſtudy of the laws, whoſe quick penetration, and early knowledge both of men and buſineſs, prognoſticate the greateſt ho⯑nours and advancement.

You ſurpriſe me, replies a third, when you talk of Cleanthes as a man of buſineſs and application. I met him lately in a circle of the gayeſt company, and he was the very life and ſoul of our converſa⯑tion: ſo much wit with good-manners, ſo much gallantry without affectation, ſo much ingenious knowledge ſo genteelly delivered, I have never before obſerved in any one.

You would admire him ſtill more, ſays a fourth, if you knew him more familiarly. That chearful⯑neſs, [49] which you might remark in him, is not a ſudden flaſh ſtruck out by company; it runs through the whole tenor of his life, and preſerves a perpetual ſerenity on his countenance, and tran⯑quillity in his ſoul. He has met with ſevere trials, misfortunes as well as dangers, and by his great⯑neſs of mind was ſtill ſuperior to all of them.

The image, gentlemen, which you have here delineated of Cleanthes, cry I, is that of accom⯑pliſhed merit. Each of you has given a ſtroke of the pencil to his figure; and you have, unawares, exceeded all the pictures drawn by Gratian or Ca⯑ſtiglione. A philoſopher might ſelect this character as a model of perfect virtue.

DECENCY.

DECENCY, or a proper regard to age, ſex, character, and ſtation in the world, may be ranked among the qualities which are immediately agree⯑able to others, and which, by that means, acquire praiſe and approbation. An effeminate behaviour in a man, a rough manner in a woman, are ugly, becauſe unſuitable to each character, and different from the qualities which we expect in the ſexes. It is as if a tragedy abounded in comic beauties, or a comedy in tragic. The diſproportions hurt the eye, and convey a diſagreeable ſentiment to the ſpectators, the ſource of blame and diſapproba⯑tion.

CLEANLINESS.

CLEANLINESS naturally renders us agreeable to others, and is no inconſidarable ſource of love and affection. No one will deny, that a negli⯑gence in this particular is a fault; and as faults are nothing but ſmaller vices, and this fault can have no other origin than the uneaſy ſenſation which it excites in others; we may in this inſtance, ſeemingly ſo trivial, clearly diſcover the origin of moral diſtinctions, about which the learned have involved themſelves in ſuch mazes of perplexity and error.

GRACE.

THERE is a manner, a grace, an eaſe, a gen⯑teelneſs, an I know not what, which ſome poſſeſs above others, which is very different from external beauty and comelineſs; and which, however, catches our affection almoſt as ſuddenly and pow⯑erfully. And though this manner be chiefly talked of in the paſſion between the ſexes, where the con⯑cealed magic is eaſily explained, yet ſurely much of it prevails in all our eſtimation of characters, and forms no inconſiderable part of perſonal merit. This claſs of accompliſhments, therefore, muſt be truſted entirely to the blind, but ſure teſtimony of taſte and ſentiment; and muſt be conſidered as a part of ethics left by nature to baffle all the pride of Philoſophy, and make her ſenſible of her nar⯑row boundaries and ſlender acquiſitions.

CUSTOM.

WHEREVER the repetition of any particular act, or operation, produces a propenſity to renew the ſame act or operation, without being impelled by any reaſoning or proceſs of the underſtanding, we always ſay that this propenſity is the effect of cuſtom. By employing that word, we pretend not to have given the ultimate reaſon of ſuch a pro⯑penſity: we only point out a principle of human nature which is univerſally acknowledged, and which is well known by its effects.

Cuſtom is the great guide of human life. It is that principle alone which renders our experience uſeful to us, and makes us expect, for the future, a ſimilar train of events with thoſe which have ap⯑peared in the paſt. Without the influence of cuſ⯑tom we ſhould be entirely ignorant of every mat⯑ter of fact, beyond what is immediately preſent to the memory and ſenſes: we ſhould never know how to adjuſt means to ends, or to employ our na⯑tural powers in the production of any effect. There would be an end, at once, of all action, as well as of the chief part of ſpeculation.

ANCESTRY.

OUR forefathers being conceived as our neareſt relations, every one naturally affects to be of a good family, and to be deſcended from a long ſuc⯑ceſſion of rich and honourable anceſtors.

PROSPERITY AND ADVERSITY.

IF we examine our own hearts, or obſerve what paſſes around us, we ſhall find, that men are much oftener thrown on their knees by the melancholy than by the agreeable paſſions. Proſperity is eaſily received as our due, and few queſtions are aſked concerning its cauſe or author. It begets chear⯑fulneſs, and activity, and alacrity, and a lively en⯑joyment of every ſenſual and ſocial pleaſure: and during this ſtate of mind, men have little leiſure or inclination to think of the unknown inviſible regions. On the other hand, every diſaſtrous ac⯑cident alarms us, and ſets us on enquiries con⯑cerning the principles whence it aroſe: apprehen⯑ſions ſpring up with regard to futurity; and the mind, ſunk into diffidence, terror, and melancho⯑ly, has recourſe to every method of appeaſing thoſe ſecret intelligent Powers, on whom our fortune is ſuppoſed entirely to depend.

INCORRIGIBLE VICE.

WHERE one is born of ſo perverſe a frame of mind, of ſo callous and inſenſible a diſpoſition, as to have no reliſh for virtue and humanity, no ſym⯑pathy with his fellow-creatures, no deſire of eſteem and applauſe; ſuch an one muſt be allowed entirely incurable; nor is there any remedy in philoſophy. He reaps no ſatisfaction but from low and ſenſual objects, or from the indulgence of malignant paſ⯑ſions: [53] he feels no remorſe to controul his vicious inclinations: he has not even that ſenſe or taſte which is requiſite to make him deſire a better cha⯑racter.

HABIT.

HABIT is another powerful means of reform⯑ing the mind, and implanting in it good diſpoſi⯑tions and inclinations. A man who continues in a courſe of ſobriety and temperance, will hate riot and diſorder. If he engage in buſineſs or ſtudy, indolence will ſeem a puniſhment to him. If he conſtrain himſelf to practiſe beneficence and affa⯑bility, he will ſoon abhor all inſtances of pride and violence. Where one is thoroughly convinced that the virtuous courſe of life is preferable; if he has but reſolution enough, for ſome time, to im⯑poſe a violence on himſelf, his reformation needs not be deſpaired of. The misfortune is, that this conviction and this reſolution never can have place, unleſs a man be beforehand tolerably virtuous.

HUMAN LIFE.

GOOD and ill are univerſally intermingled and confounded; happineſs and miſery, wiſdom and folly, virtue and vice. Nothing is pure and en⯑tirely of a piece. All advantages are attended with diſadvantages. An univerſal compenſation prevails in all conditions of being and exiſtence. And it is not poſſible for us, by our moſt chimerical wiſhes, to form the idea of a ſtation, or ſituation, [54] altogether deſirable. The draughts of life, accord⯑ing to the poet's fiction, are always mixed from the veſſels on each hand of Jupiter: or if any cup be preſented altogether pure, it is drawn only, as the ſame poet tells us, from the left-handed veſſel.

When we reflect on the ſhortneſs and uncertainty of life, how deſpicable ſeem all our purſuits of happineſs! And even if we would extend our con⯑cern beyond our own life, how frivolous appear our moſt enlarged and moſt generous projects; when we conſider the inceſſant changes and revo⯑lutions of human affairs, by which laws and learn⯑ing, books and governments, are hurried away by time, as by a rapid ſtream, and are loſt in the im⯑menſe ocean of matter!

Human life is more governed by fortune than by reaſon, is to be regarded more as a dull paſtime than as a ſerious occupation, and is more influenced by particular humour than by general principles. Shall we engage ourſelves in it with paſſion and anxiety? It is not worthy of ſo much concern. Shall we be indifferent about what happens? We loſe all the pleaſure of the game by our phlegm and careleſsneſs. While we are reaſoning concern⯑ing life, life is gone; and Death, though perhaps they receive him differently, treats alike the fool and philoſopher.

[55] The whole earth is curſed and polluted: a per⯑petual war amongſt all living creatures. Neceſ⯑ſity, hunger, want, ſtimulate the ſtrong and cou⯑rageous: fear, anxiety, terror, agitate the weak and infirm. The firſt entrance into life gives an⯑guiſh to the new-born infant, and to its wretched parent: weakneſs, impotence, diſtreſs, attend each ſtage of that life; and it is at laſt finiſhed in ago⯑ny and horror.

ANIMAL HOSTILITY.

OBSERVE the curious artifices of nature, to embitter the life of every living being! The ſtronger prey upon the weaker, and keep them in perpetual terror and anxiety: the weaker, too, in their turn, often prey upon the ſtronger, and vex and moleſt them without relaxation. Conſider that innumerable race of infects, which either are bred in the body of each animal, or, flying about, infix their ſtings in him! Theſe infects have others ſtill leſs than themſelves, which torment them. And thus on each hand, before and behind, above and below, every animal is ſurrounded with ene⯑mies, which inceſſantly ſeek his miſery and de⯑ſtruction.

THE PERILOUS CONDITION OF HUMANITY.

MAN, it is true, can, by combination, ſur⯑mount all his real enemies, and become maſter of [56] the whole animal creation: but does he not imme⯑diately raiſe up to himſelf imaginary enemies, the daemons of his fancy, who haunt him with ſuper⯑ſtitious terrors, and blaſt every enjoyment of life? His pleaſure, as he imagines, becomes, in their eyes, a crime; his food and repoſe give them um⯑brage and offence; his very ſleep and dreams fur⯑nish new materials to anxious fear; and even death, his refuge from every other ill, preſents only the dread of endleſs and innumerable woes: nor does the wolf moleſt more the timid flock, than, ſuper⯑ſtition does the anxious breaſt of wretched mortals.

This very ſociety, by which we ſurmount thoſe wild beaſts, our natural enemies; what new ene⯑mies does it not raiſe to us! What woe and miſery does it not occaſion! Man is the greateſt enemy of man. Oppreſſion, injuſtice, contempt, contumely, treachery, fraud; by theſe they mutually torment each other: and they would ſoon diſſolve that ſo⯑ciety which they had formed, were it not for the dread of ſtill greater ills, which muſt attend their ſeparation.

MENTAL DISORDERS.

THE diſorders of the mind, though more ſecret, are not, perhaps, leſs diſmal and vexatious than thoſe of the body. Remorſe, ſhame, anguiſh, rage, diſappointment, anxiety, fear, dejection, deſpair; who has ever paſſed through life without cruel in⯑roads [57] roads from theſe tormentors? How many have ſcarce ever felt better ſenſations! Labour and po⯑verty ſo abhorred by every one, are the certain lot of the far greater number! And thoſe few pri⯑leged perſons, who enjoy caſe and opulence, never reach contentment or true felicity. All the goods of life united would not make a very happy man; but all the ills united would make a wretch indeed! and any one of them almoſt, nay, often the ab⯑sence of one good, is ſufficient to render life in⯑eligible.

AN AGGREGATE OF HUMAN MISERY.

WERE a ſtranger to drop, on a ſudden, into this world, I would ſhew him, as a ſpecimen of its ills, an hoſpital full of diſeaſes, a priſon crouded with malefactors and debtors, a field of battle ſtrewed with carcaſes, a fleet foundering in the ocean, a nation languiſhing under tyranny, fa⯑mine or peſtilence. To turn the gay ſide of life to him, and give him a notion of its pleaſures, whether ſhould I conduct, him? To a ball, to an opera, to a court? He might juſtly think, that I was only ſhewing him a diverſity of diſtreſs and ſorrow.

RULES OF LIFE.

IS it not certain that every condition has con⯑cealed ills? Then why envy any body? Every one has known ills; and there is a compenſation [58] throughout. Why not be contented with the pre⯑ſent?

Cuſtom deadens the ſenſe both of the good and the ill, and levels every thing.

Health and humour all: the reſt of little conſe⯑quence, except theſe be affected.

How many other good things have I? Then why be vexed for one ill?

How many are happy in the condition of which I complain? How many envy me?

Every good muſt be paid for: fortune by labour, favour by flattery. Would I keep the price, yet have the commodity?

Expect not too great happineſs in life: human nature admits it not.

Propoſe not a happineſs too complicated. But does that depend on me? Yes: the firſt choice does. Life is like a game: one may chooſe the game; and paſſion, by degrees, ſeizes the proper object.

Anticipate, by your hopes and fancy, future conſolation, which time infallibly brings to every affliction.

[59] I deſire to be rich. Why? That I may poſſeſs many fine objects; houſes, gardens, equipage. How many fine objects does nature offer to every one, without expence! If enjoyed, ſufficient. If not, ſee the effect of cuſtom, or of temper, which would ſoon take off the reliſh of riches.

I deſire ſame. Let this occur: If I act well, I ſhall have the eſteem of all my acquaintance. And what is all the reſt to me?

Theſe reflections are ſo obvious, that it is a won⯑der they occur not to every man; ſo convincing, that it is a wonder they perſuade not every man. But perhaps they do occur to and perſuade moſt men, when they conſider human life by a general and calm ſurvey. But where any real, affecting incident happens; when paſſion is awakened, fancy agitated, example draws, and counſel urges; the philoſopher is loſt in the man, and he ſearches in vain for that perſuaſion which before ſeemed ſo firm and unſhaken. What remedy for this incon⯑venience? Aſſiſt yourſelf by a frequent peruſal of the entertaining moraliſts: have recourſe to the learning of Plutarch, the imagination of Lucian, the eloquence of Cicero, the wit of Seneca, the gaiety of Montagne, the ſublimity of Shafteſbury. Moral precepts, ſo couched, ſtrike deep, and for⯑tify the mind againſt the illuſion of paſſion. But truſt not altogether to external aid. By habit and ſtudy acquire that philoſophical temper, which [60] both gives force to reflection, and, by rendering a great part of your happineſs independent, takes off the edge from all diſorderly paſſions, and tranquil⯑lizes the mind. Deſpiſe not theſe helps; nor con⯑ſide too much in them, unleſs nature has been fa⯑vourable in the temper with which ſhe has en⯑dowed you.

HISTORY.

WHEN we peruſe the firſt hiſtories of all na⯑tions, we are apt to imagine ourſelves tranſported into ſome new world; where the whole frame of nature is disjointed, and every element performs its operations in a different manner from what it does at preſent. Battles, revolutions, peſtilence, famine, and death, are never the effect of thoſe natural cauſes which we experience. Prodigies, omens, oracles, judgments, quite obſcure the few natural events that are intermingled with them. But, as the former grow thinner every page, in pro⯑portion as we advance nearer the enlightened ages, we ſoon learn, that there is nothing myſterious or ſupernatural in the caſe; but that all proceeds from the uſual propenſity of mankind towards the marvellous; and that, though this inclination may at intervals receive a check from ſenſe and learning, it can never be thoroughly extirpated from human nature.

DEITY.

BY the ſame act he ſees paſt, preſent, and fu⯑ture. His love and hatred, his mercy and juſtice, [61] are one individual operation. He is entire in every point of ſpace, and complete in every inſtant of duration. No ſucceſſion, no change, no acquifi⯑tion, no diminution. What he is, implies not in it any ſhadow of diſtinction or diverſity; and what he is this moment, he ever has been, and ever will be, without any new judgment, ſenti⯑ment, or operation. He ſtands fixed in one ſimple perfect ſtate: nor can you ever ſay, with any pro⯑priety, that this act of his is different from that other; that this judgment or idea has been lately formed, and will give place, by ſucceſſion, to any different judgment or idea.

ELOQUENCE.

ELOQUENCE, when at its higheſt pitch, leaves little room for reaſon or reflection; but, addreſſing itſelf entirely to the fancy or the affec⯑tion, captivates the willing hearers, and ſubdues their underſtanding. Happily this pitch, it ſeldom attains: but what a Tully or Demoſthenes could ſcarcely effect over a Roman or Athenian audience, every Capuchin, every itinerant or ſtationary teach⯑er, can perform over the generality of mankind, and in a higher degree, by touching ſuch groſs and vulgar paſſions.

It may be pretended, that the diſorders of the ancient governments, and the enormous crimes of which the citizens were often guilty, afforded much [62] ampler matter for eloquence than can be met with among the moderns. Were there no Verres or Ca⯑tiline, there would be no Cicero. But that this reaſon can have no great influence, is evident: 'twill be eaſy to find a Philip in modern times; but where ſhall we find a Demoſthenes?

Does any man pretend to have more good-ſenſe than Julius Caeſar? Yet that haughty conqueror, we know, was ſo ſubdued by the charms of Cicero's eloquence, that he was in a manner conſtrained to change his ſettled purpoſe and reſolution, and to abſolve a criminal, whom, before that orator ap⯑peared, he was determined to condemn.

The orator, by the force of his own genius and eloquence, firſt inflamed himſelf with anger, in⯑dignation, pity, ſorrow; and then communicated theſe impetuous movements to his audience.

There is a great prejudice againſt ſet ſpeeches; and a man can ſcarce eſcape ridicule, who repeats a diſcourſe as a ſchool-boy does his leſſon, and takes no notice of any thing that has been ad⯑vanced in the courſe of the debate. But where is the neceſſity of falling into this abſurdity? A pub⯑lic ſpeaker muſt know, before-hand, the queſtion under debate. He may compoſe all the arguments, objections, and anſwers, ſuch as he thinks will be moſt proper for his diſcourſe. If any thing new occur, he may ſupply it from his invention; [63] nor will the difference be very apparent, betwixt his elaborate and his extemporary compoſitions. The mind naturally continues with the ſame im⯑petus or force which it has acquired by its motion; as a veſſel, once impelled by the oars, carries on its courſe for ſome time, even when the original impulſe is ſuſpended.

SERMONS.

IF the other learned and polite nations of Eu⯑rope had poſſeſſed the ſame advantages of a popu⯑lar government, they would probably have carried eloquence to a greater height than it has yet reached in Britain. The French ſermons, eſpecially thoſe of Flechier and Bourdaloue, are much ſuperior to the Engliſh in this particular; and in Flechier there are many ſtrokes of the moſt ſublime poetry. His funeral ſermon on the Marechal de Turenne is a good inſtance.

RIBALDRY.

THERE is a ſet of men lately ſprung up among us, who endeavour to diſtinguiſh themſelves by ri⯑diculing every thing that has hitherto appeared ſacred and venerable in the eyes of mankind. Reaſon, ſobriety, honour, friendſhip, marriage, are the perpetual ſubjects of their inſipid raillery: and even public ſpirit, and a regard to our coun⯑try, are treated as chimerical and romantic. Were the ſchemes of theſe anti-reformers to take place, all the bonds of ſociety muſt be broke, to make [64] way for the indulgence of a licentious mirth and gaiety: the companion of our drunken frolics muſt be preferred to a friend or brother; diſſolute prodigality muſt be ſupplied at the expence of every thing valuable, either in public or private; and men ſhall have ſo little regard to any thing beyond themſelves, that, at laſt, a free conſtitu⯑tion of government muſt become a ſcheme perfectly impracticable among mankind, and muſt degene⯑rate into one univerſal ſyſtem of fraud and corrup⯑tion.

PHILOSOPHICAL PRIDE.

A GRAVE philoſophical endeavour after per⯑fection, under pretext of reforming prejudices and errors, ſtrikes at all the moſt endearing ſentiments of the heart, and all the moſt uſeful biaſſes and inſtincts which can govern a human creature. The Stoics were remarkable for this folly among the ancients; and I wiſh ſome of more venerable characters in latter times had not copied them too faithfully. The virtuous and tender ſentiments, or prejudices, if you will, have ſuffered mightily by theſe reflections; while a certain ſullen pride, or contempt of mankind, has prevailed in their ſtead, and has been eſteemed the greateſt wiſdom; though in reality it be the moſt egregious folly. Statilius being ſolicited by Brutus to make one of that noble band who ſtruck the god-like ſtroke for the liberty of Rome, refuſed to accompany them, ſaying, That all men were fools or mad, and did [65] not deſerve that a wiſe man ſhould trouble his head about them.

FEROCITY.

DIOGENES being aſked by his friends, in his ſickneſs, what ſhould be done with him after his death? Why, ſays he, throw me out into the fields. What! replied they, to the birds or beaſts? No, place a cudgel by me, to defend myſelf withal. To what purpoſe? ſay they: you will not have any ſenſe, nor any power of making uſe of it. Then, if the beaſts ſhould devour me, cries he, ſhall I be any more ſenſible of it? I know none of the ſayings of that philoſopher which ſhews more evidently both the livelineſs and ferocity of his temper.

THE SAGE.

THE temple of Wiſdom is ſeated on a rock, above the rage of the fighting elements, and in⯑acceſſible to all the malice of man. The rolling thunder breaks below; and thoſe more terrible in⯑ſtruments of human fury reach not ſo ſublime a height. The ſage, while he breathes that ſerene air, looks down with pleaſure, mixed with com⯑paſſion, on the errors of miſtaken mortals, who blindly ſeek for the true path of life, and purſue riches, nobility, honour, or power, for genuine felicity. The greateſt part lie beholds diſappointed of their fond wiſhes. Some lament, that, having once poſſeſſed the object of their deſires, it is ra⯑viſhed [66] from them by envious fortune; and all com⯑plain, that even their own vows, though granted, cannot give them happineſs, or relieve the anxiety of their diſtracted minds.

LABOUR.

SEE the hardy hunters rife from their downy couches, ſhake off the ſlumbers that ſtill weigh down their heavy eye-lids, and, ere Aurora has yet covered the heavens with her flaming mantle, haſten to the foreſt. They leave behind, in their own houſes, and in the neighbouring plains, ani⯑mals of every kind, whoſe fleſh furniſhes the moſt delicious fare, and which offer themſelves to the fatal ſtroke. Laborious man diſdains ſo eaſy a pur⯑chaſe. He ſeeks for a prey that hides itſelf from his ſearch, or flies from his purſuit, or defends it⯑ſelf from his violence. Having exerted in the chace every paſſion of the mind, and every mem⯑ber of the body, he then finds the charm of re⯑poſe, and with joy compares its pleaſures to thoſe of his engaging labours.

SLOTH.

IN vain do ye ſeek repoſe from beds of roſes; In vain do you hope for enjoyment from the moſt delicious wines or fruits: your indolence itſelf be⯑comes a fatigue; your pleaſure itſelf creates diſ⯑guſt. The mind unexerciſed finds every delight inſipid and loathſome; and ere yet the body, full [67] of noxious humours, feels the torment of its mul⯑tiplied diſeaſes, your nobler part is ſenſible of the invading poiſon, and ſeeks in vain to relieve its anxiety by new pleaſures, which ſtill augment the fatal malady.

INDUSTRY.

CAN vigorous induſtry give pleaſure to the pur⯑ſuit even of the moſt worthleſs prey, which fre⯑quently eſcapes our toils? And cannot the ſame induſtry render the cultivation of our minds, the moderating of our paſſions, the enlightening of our reaſon, an agreeable occupation, while we are everyday ſenſible of our progreſs, and behold our inward features and countenance brightening in⯑ceſſantly with new charms? Begin by curing yourſelf of this lethargic indolence; the taſk is not difficult; you need but taſte the ſweets of honeſt labour. Proceed to learn the juſt value of every purſuit: long ſtudy is not requiſite: compare, though but for once, the mind to the body, virtue to fortune, and glory to pleaſure; you will then perceive the advantages of induſtry; you will then be ſenſible what are the proper objects of your in⯑duſtry.

FORTUNE FICKLE.

THE inſtability of fortune is a conſideration not to be overlooked or neglected. Happineſs cannot poſſibly exiſt, where there is no ſecurity; and ſe⯑curity can have no place where Fortune has any [68] dominion. Though that unſtable deity ſhould not exert her rage againſt you, the dread of it would ſtill torment you, would diſturb your ſlumbers, haunt your dreams, and throw a damp on the jol⯑lity of your moſt delicious banquets.

CHEARFULNESS.

NO quality more readily communicates itſelf to all around than chearfulneſs, becauſe no one has a greater propenſity to diſplay itſelf in jovial talk and pleaſant entertainment. The flame ſpreads through the whole circle, and the moſt ſullen and moroſe are often caught by it. That the melan⯑choly hate the merry, even though Horace ſays it, I have ſome difficulty to allow, becauſe I have al⯑ways obſerved, that, where the jollity is moderate and decent, ſerious people are ſo much the more delighted, as it diſſipates the gloom with which they are commonly oppreſſed, and gives them an unuſual enjoyment.

MEANNESS.

WHEN a man can ſubmit to the baſeſt ſlavery in order to gain his ends, fawn upon thoſe who abuſe him, and degrade himſelf by intimacies and familiarities with undeſerving inferiors, it conſti⯑tutes the vice we properly call Meanneſs. A cer⯑tain degree of generous pride, or ſelf-value, is ſo requiſite, that the abſence of it in the mind diſ⯑pleaſes; after the ſame manner as the want of a [69] noſe, eye, or any of the moſt material features of the face, or members of the body. View the pic⯑ture which Tacitus draws of Vitellius, fallen from empire, prolonging his ignominy from a wretched love of life, delivered over to the mercileſs rabble; toſſed, buffeted, and kicked about; conſtrained, by their holding a poniard under his chin, to raiſe his head, and expoſe himſelf to every contumely. What abject infamy! what low humiliation!

LUXURY.

LUXURY, or a refinement on the pleaſures and conveniences of life, had long been ſuppoſed the ſource of every corruption in government, and the immediate cauſe of faction, ſedition, civil wars, and the total loſs of liberty: it was therefore uni⯑verſally regarded as a vice, and was an object of declamation to all ſatiriſts and ſevere moraliſts. Thoſe who prove, or attempt to prove, that ſuch refinements rather tend to the increaſe of induſtry, civility, and arts, regulate anew our moral as well as political ſentiments, and repreſent as laudable and innocent what had formerly been regarded as pernicious and blameable.

Let us conſider what we call vicious luxury. No gratification, however ſenſual, can of itſelf be eſteemed vicious: a gratification is only vicious when it engroſſes all a man's expence, and leaves no ability for ſuch acts of duty and generoſity as are required by his ſituation and fortune. Sup⯑poſe [70] that he correct the vice, and employ part of his expence in the education of his children, in the ſup⯑port of his friends, and in relieving the poor; would any prejudice reſult to ſociety? On the contrary, the ſame conſumption would ariſe; and that labour which at preſent is employed only in producing a ſlender gratification to one man, would relieve the neceſſitous, and beſtow ſatisfaction on hundreds. The ſame care and toil that raiſe a diſh of peaſe at Chriſtmas, would give bread to a whole family during ſix months. To ſay that, without a vi⯑cious luxury, the labour would not have been employed at all, is only to ſay, that there is ſome other defect in human nature, ſuch as indolence, ſelfiſhneſs, inattention to others, for which luxury in ſome meaſure provides a remedy, as one poiſon may be an antidote to another. But virtue, like wholeſome food, is better than poiſons however corrected.

BOOKS.

THE good fortune of a book, and that of a man, are not the ſame. The ſecret deceiving path of life, which Horace talks of, fallentis ſemita vitae, may be the happieſt lot of the one, but is the greateſt misfortune which the other can poſſibly fall into.

It is with books as with women, where a certain plainneſs of manner and of dreſs is more engaging than that glare of paint, and airs, and apparel, [71] which may dazzle the eye, but reaches not the affections. Terence is a modeſt and baſhful beauty, to whom we grant every thing, becauſe he aſſumes nothing, and whoſe purity and nature make a du⯑rable, though not a violent impreſſion.

When we run over libraries, what havock muſt we make! If we take in our hand any volume, of divinity or ſchool metaphyſics, for inſtance, let us aſk, Does it contain any abſtract reaſoning con⯑cerning quantity or number?—No. Does it con⯑tain any experimental reaſoning concerning matter of fact and exiſtence?—No. Commit it then to the flames: for it can contain nothing but ſo⯑phiſtry and illuſion.

There is only one ſubject on which I am apt to diſtruſt the judgment of females, and that is, con⯑cerning books of gallantry and devotion, which they commonly affect as high-flown as poſſible; and moſt of them ſeem more delighted with the warmth, than with the juſtneſs of the paſſion. I mention gallantry and devotion as the ſame ſub⯑ject, becauſe, in reality, they become the ſame when treated in this manner; and we may obſerve, that they both depend upon the very ſame com⯑plexion. As the fair ſex have a great ſhare of the tender and amorous diſpoſition, it perverts their judgment on this occaſion, and makes them be eaſily affected, even by what has no propriety in the expreſſion, nor nature in the ſentiment. Mr. [72] Addiſon's elegant diſcourſes of religion have no reliſh with them, in compariſon of books of myſtic devotion; and Otway's Tragedies are rejected for the rants of Mr. Dryden.

SUPERSTITION.

THE mind of man is ſubject to certain unac⯑countable terrors and apprehenſions, proceeding either from the unhappy ſituation of private or public affairs, from ill health, from a gloomy and melancholy diſpoſition, or from the concurrence of all theſe circumſtances. In ſuch a ſtate of mind, infinite unknown evils are dreaded from unknown agents; and, where real objects of terror are want⯑ing, the ſoul, active to its own prejudice, and foſtering its predominant inclination, finds ima⯑ginary ones, to whoſe power and malevolence it ſets no limits. As theſe enemies are entirely invi⯑ſible and unknown, the methods taken to appeaſe them are equally unaccountable, and conſiſt in ce⯑remonies, obſervances, mortifications, ſacrifices, preſents, or in any practice, however abſurd or frivolous, which either folly or knavery recom⯑mends to a blind and terrified credulity. Weak⯑neſs, fear, melancholy, together with ignorance, are, therefore, the true ſources of ſuperſtition.

THE SUBLIME.

THE great charm of poetry conſiſts in lively pictures of the ſublime paſſions, magnanimity, [73] courage, diſdain of fortune; or thoſe of the ten⯑der affections, love and friendſhip; which warm the heart, and diffuſe over it ſimilar ſentiments and emotions: and though all kinds of paſſion, even the moſt diſagreeable, ſuch as grief and an⯑ger, are obſerved, when excited by poetry, to con⯑vey a ſatisfaction, from a mechaniſm of nature not eaſy to be explained, yet thoſe more elevated or ſofter affections have a peculiar influence, and pleaſe from more than one cauſe or principle; not to mention, that they alone intereſt us in the for⯑tune of the perſons repreſented, or communicate any eſteem and affection for their character.

And can it poſſibly be doubted, that this talent itſelf of poets, to move the paſſions, this pathetic and ſublime of ſentiment, is a very conſiderable merit; and, being inhanced by its extreme rarity, may exalt the perſon poſſeſſed of it above every character of the age in which he lives? The prudence, addreſs, ſteadineſs, and benign govern⯑ment of Auguſtus, adorned with all the ſplendour of his noble birth and imperial crown, rendered him but an unequal competitor for fame with Virgil, who lays nothing in the oppoſite ſcale but the divine beauties of his poetical genius.

DIOGENES AND PASCAL.

THE foundation of Diogenes' conduct was an endeavour to render himſelf an independent being [74] as much as poſſible, and to confine all his wants and deſires and pleaſures within himſelf and his own mind. The aim of Paſcal was to keep a per⯑petual ſenſe of his dependence before his eyes, and never to forget his numberleſs wants and infirmi⯑ties. The ancient ſupported himſelf by magnani⯑mity, oftentation, pride, and the idea of his own ſuperiority above his fellow creatures. The mo⯑dern made conſtant profeſſion of humility and abaſement, of the contempt and hatred of him⯑ſelf, and endeavoured to attain theſe ſuppoſed vir⯑tues as far as they are attainable. The auſterities of the Greek were in order to inure himſelf to hard⯑ſhips, and prevent his ever ſuffering. Thoſe of the Frenchman were embraced merely for their own ſake, and in order to ſuffer as much as poſſible. The philoſopher indulged himſelf in the moſt beaſtly pleaſures, even in public. The ſaint re⯑fuſed himſelf the moſt innocent, even in private. The former thought it his duty to love his friends, and to rail at them, and reprove them, and ſcold them. The latter endeavoured to be abſolutely indifferent towards his neareſt relations, and to love and ſpeak well of his enemies. The great ob⯑ject of Diogenes' wit was every kind of ſuperſtition, that is, every kind of religion known in his time: the mortality of the ſoul was his ſtandard principle, and even his ſentiments of a divine providence ſeem to have been licentious. The moſt ridiculous ſuperſtitions directed Paſcal's faith and practice; and an extreme contempt of this life, in compariſon [75] of the future, was the chief foundation of his con⯑duct.

INSPIRATION.

There is a God within us, ſays Ovid, who breathes that divine fire by which we are animated. Poets, in all ages, have advanced this claim to inſpira⯑tion. There is not, however, any thing ſuperna⯑tural in the caſe. Their fire is not kindled from heaven; it only runs along the earth, is caught from one breaſt to another, and burns brighteſt where the materials are beſt prepared, and moſt happily diſpoſed.

AGRICULTURE.

THE moſt natural way of encouraging huſ⯑bandry is, firſt to excite other kinds of induſtry, and thereby afford the labourer a ready market for his commodities, and a return of ſuch goods as may contribute to his pleaſure and enjoyment. This method is infallible and univerſal.

MODERN INVENTIONS.

OUR ſuperior ſkill in mechanics; the diſcovery of new worlds, by which commerce has been ſo much enlarged; the eſtabliſhment of poſts, and the uſe of bills of exchange; theſe ſeem all ex⯑tremely uſeful to the encouragement of art, in⯑duſtry, and populouſneſs. Were we to ſtrike off theſe, what a check mould ſhould we give to every kind [76] of buſineſs and labour, and what multitudes of families would immediately periſh from want and hunger!

THE UNIVERSE.

THERE is very little ground, either from rea⯑ſon or obſervation, to conclude the world eternal or incorruptible. The continual and rapid mo⯑tion of matter, the violent revolutions with which every part is agitated, the changes remarked in the heavens, the plain traces as well as tradition of an univerſal deluge, or general convulſion of the elements; all theſe prove ſtrongly the morta⯑lity of this fabric of the world, and its paſſage, by corruption or diſſolution, from one ſtate or order to another. It muſt, therefore, as well as each individual form which it contains, have its in⯑fancy, youth, manhood, and old age; and it is probable that, in all theſe variations, man, equally with every animal and vegetable, will partake. In the flouriſhing age of the world, it may be ex⯑pected that the human ſpecies ſhould poſſeſs greater vigour, both of mind and body, more proſperous health, higher ſpirits, longer life, and a ſtronger inclination and power of generation; but, if the general ſyſtem of things, and human ſociety of courſe, have any ſuch gradual revolutions, they are too ſlow to be diſcernible in that ſhort period which is comprehended by hiſtory and tradition. Stature and force of body, length of life, even courage, and extent of genius, ſeem hitherto to [77] have been naturally, in all ages, pretty much the ſame. The arts and ſciences, indeed, have flou⯑riſhed in one period, and have decayed in another; but, at the time when they roſe to greateſt perfection among one people, they were, perhaps, totally un⯑known to all the neighbouring nations; and, though they univerſally decayed in one age, yet in a ſucceeding generation they again revived, and diffuſed themſelves over the world. As far, there⯑fore, as obſervation reaches, there is no univerſal difference diſcernible in the human ſpecies; and though it were allowed that the univerſe, like an animal body, had a natural progreſs from infancy to old-age, yet, as it muſt ſtill be uncertain whe⯑ther at preſent it be advancing to its point of per⯑fection, or declining from it, we cannot thence preſuppoſe any decay in human nature.

WIT AND TASTE.

NO one has ever been able to tell preciſely what wit is, and to ſhew why ſuch a ſyſtem of thought muſt be received under that denomination, and ſuch another rejected. It is by taſte alone we can decide concerning it; nor are we poſſeſed of any other ſtandard by which we can form a judgment of this nature. Now, what is this taſte, from which true and falſe wit in a manner receive their being, and without which no thought can have a title to either of theſe denominations? It is plain⯑ly nothing but a ſenſation of pleaſure from true [78] wit, and of diſguſt from falſe, without our being able to tell the reaſons of that ſatisfaction or un⯑eaſineſs. The power of exciting theſe oppoſite ſenſations is, therefore, the very eſſence of true or falſe wit; and, conſequently, the cauſe of that vanity or mortification which ariſes from one or the other.

MAXIMS.

NO man will accept of low profits, where he can have high intereſt; and no man will accept of low intereſt, where he can have high profits.

Many events happen in ſociety, which are not to be accounted for by general rules. Who could imagine that the Romans, who lived freely with their women, ſhould be very indifferent about mu⯑ſic, and eſteem dancing infamous; while the Greeks, who never almoſt ſaw a woman but in their own houſes, were continually piping, ſinging, and dancing?

It is an infallible conſequence of all induſtrious profeſſions, to beget frugality, and make the love of gain prevail over the love of pleaſure.

Lawyers and phyſicians beget no induſtry; and it is even at the expence of others they acquire their riches; ſo that they are ſure to diminiſh the poſſeſſions of ſome of their fellow-citizens as faſt as they increaſe their own.

[79] Our regard to a character with others, ſeems to ariſe only from a care of preſerving a character with ourſelves; and to attain this end, we find it neceſ⯑ſary to prop our tottering judgment on the corre⯑ſponding approbation of mankind.

The more unhappy another is, the more hap⯑py do we ourſelves appear in our own conception.

Men always conſider the ſentiments of others in their judgment of themſelves.

The ſuffrage of thoſe who are ſhy and backward in giving praiſe, is attended with an additional reliſh and enjoyment.

A generous and noble character affords a ſatiſ⯑faction even in the ſurvey; and when preſented to us, though only in a poem or fable, never fails to charm and delight.

We may change the names of things; but their nature and operation on the underſtanding never change.

General obſervations, treaſured up by a courſe of experience, give us the clue of human nature, and teach us to unravel all its intricacies.

Experience only teaches how one event conſtantly follows another; without inſtructing us in the ſe⯑cret [80] connexion which binds them together, and renders them inſeparable.

From cauſes which appear ſimilar, we expect ſimilar effects. This is the ſum of all our experi⯑mental concluſions.

Where a great man is delicate in his choice of favourites, every one courts with greater earneſt⯑neſs his countenance and protection.

The ſweeteſt and moſt inoffenſive path of life leads through the avenues of ſcience and learning; and whoever can either remove any obſtructions in this way, or open up any new proſpect, ought ſo far to be eſteemed a benefactor to mankind.

Obſcurity, indeed, is painful to the mind, as well as to the eye; but to bring light from obſcu⯑rity, by whatever labour, muſt needs be delightful and rejoicing.

All polite letters are nothing but pictures of human life in various attitudes and ſituations, and inſpire us with different ſentiments, of praiſe or blame, admiration or ridicule, according to the qualities of the object which they ſet before us.

As a ſtream neceſſarily follows the ſeveral incli⯑nations of the ground on which it runs, ſo are the ignorant and thougthleſs actuated by their natural propenſities.

[81] The catching of flies, like Domitian, if it give more pleaſure, is preferable to the hunting of wild beaſts, like William Rufus, or conquering of king⯑doms, like Alexander.

When by my will alone I can ſtop the blood, as it runs with impetuoſity along its canals, then may I hope to change the courſe of my ſentiments and paſſions.

The ultimate author of all our volitions is the Creator of the world, who firſt beſtowed motion on this immenſe machine, and placed all beings in that particular poſition, whence every ſubſequent event, by an inevitable neceſſity, muſt reſult.

As a man who fired a mine, is anſwerable for all the conſequences, whether the train he employed be long or ſhort; ſo wherever a continued chain of neceſſary cauſes is fixed, that being who produces the firſt is likewiſe the author of all the reſt, and muſt both bear the blame, and acquire the praiſe, which belong to them.

HUMAN NATURE ALWAYS THE SAME.

RECORDS of wars, intrigues, factions, and revolutions, are ſo many collections or experiments, by which the politician, or moral philoſopher, fixes the principles of his ſcience; in the ſame manner as the phyſician, or natural philoſopher, becomes [82] acquainted with the nature of plants, minerals, and other external objects, by the experiments which he forms concerning them. Nor are the earth, water, and other elements, examined by Ariſiotle and Hippocrates, more like to thoſe which at preſent lie under our obſervation, than the men deſcribed by Polybius and Tacitus are to thoſe who now govern the world.

PUBLIC SPIRIT.

A MAN who loves only himſelf, without regard to friendſhip and deſert, merits the ſevereſt blame; and the man who is only ſuſceptible of friendſhip, without public ſpirit, or a regard to the commu⯑nity, is deficient in the moſt material of vir⯑tues.

NEUTRALITY.

SOLON was no very cruel, though perhaps an unjuſt legiſlator, who puniſhed neuters in civil wars; and few, I believe, would in ſuch caſes incur the penalty, were their affection and diſcourſe allowed ſufficient to abſolve them. No ſelfiſhneſs, and ſcarce any philoſophy, have therefore ſufficient to ſupport a total coolneſs and indifference; and he muſt be more or leſs than man, who kindles not in the common blaze.

EUROPE.

THE government of the Germans, and that of all the Northern nations who eſtabliſhed themſelves [83] on the ruins of Rome, was always extremely free; and thoſe fierce people, accuſtomed to indepen⯑dence, and inured to arms, were more guided by perſuaſion than authority in the ſubmiſſion which they paid their princes. The military deſpotiſm which had taken place in the Roman empire, and which, previouſly to the irruption of theſe conque⯑rors, had ſunk the genius of men, and deſtroyed every noble principle of ſcience and virtue, was unable to reſiſt the vigorous efforts of a free peo⯑ple; and Europe, as from a new epoch, rekindled her ancient ſpirit, and ſhook off the baſe ſervitude to arbitrary will and authority under which it had ſo long laboured. The free conſtitutions then eſtabliſhed, however impaired by the encroachments of ſucceeding princes, ſtill preſerve an air of in⯑dependence and legal adminiſtration, which diſtin⯑guiſh the European nations; and if that part of the globe maintain ſentiments of liberty, honour, equity, and valour, ſuperior to the reſt of man⯑kind, it owes theſe advantages chiefly to the ſeeds implanted by thoſe generous barbarians.

Europe is ſhared out moſtly into great monar⯑chies; and ſuch parts of it as are divided into ſmall territories, are commonly governed by abſo⯑lute princes, who ruin their people by a mimicry of the greater monarchs, in the ſplendour of their court, and number of their forces. Swiſſerland alone and Holland reſemble the ancient republics; and though the former is far from poſſeſing any [84] advantage, either of ſoil, climate, or commerce, yet the numbers of people with which it abounds, notwithſtanding their enliſting themſelves into every ſervice in Europe, prove ſufficiently the advantages of their political inſtitutions.

THE ANGLO-SAXONS.

THESE, we muſt conceive, were very little re⯑moved from the original ſtate of nature: the ſocial ſtate among them was more martial than civil: they had chiefly in view the means of attack or defence againſt public enemies, not thoſe of pro⯑tection againſt fellow-citizens: their poſſeſſions were ſo ſlender, and ſo equal, that they were not expoſed to great dangers; and the natural bravery of the people made every man truſt to himſelf, and to his particular friends, for his defence or ven⯑geance. This defect in the political union drew much cloſer the knot of particular confederacies. An inſult upon any man was regarded by all his relations and aſſociates as a common injury: they were bound, by honour as well as by a ſenſe of general intereſt, to revenge his death, or any vio⯑lence which he had ſuffered. They retaliated on the aggreſſor by like violences; and if he was protected, as was natural and uſual, by his own clan, the quarrel was ſpread ſtill wider, and bred endleſs diſorder in the nation.

COMMERCE AND LEARNING.

'TIS more eaſy to account for the riſe and pro⯑greſs of commerce in any kingdom, than for that of learning; and a ſtate that ſhould apply itſelf to the encouragement of the one, would be much more aſſured of ſucceſs, than one which ſhould cultivate the other. Avarice, or the deſire of gain, is an univerſal paſſion, that operates at all times, in all places, and upon all perſons: but curioſity, or the love of knowledge, has but a very limited influence, and requires youth, leiſure, education, genius, and example, to make it govern any per⯑ſon. You will never want bookſellers while there are buyers of books: but there may frequently be readers, where there are no authors. Multitudes of people, neceſſity, and liberty, have begot com⯑merce in Holland: but ſtudy and application have not produced any eminent writers.

MONEY.

MONEY never gathers into large ſtocks or ſums, which can be lent at intereſt. It is diſperſed into numberleſs hands, who either ſquander it in idle ſhew and magnificence, or employ it in the purchaſe of the common neceſſaries of life. Com⯑merce alone aſſembles it, from the induſtry which it begets, and the frugality which it inſpires.

I ſhould as ſoon dread, that all our ſprings and rivers ſhould be exhauſted, as that money ſhould [86] abandon a kingdom where there are people and induſtry. Let us carefully preſerve theſe latter advantages, and we need never be apprehenſive of loſing the former.

WAR.

WAR has its laws, as well as peace; and even that ſportive kind of war, carried on among wreſt⯑lers, boxers, cudgel-players, gladiators, is regu⯑lated by fixed principles.

I muſt confeſs, when I ſee princes and ſtates fighting and quarreling, amidſt their debts, funds, and public mortgages, it always brings to my mind a match of cudgel-play fought in a china-ſhop. How can it be expected, that ſovereigns will ſpare a ſpecies of property, which is pernicious to them⯑ſelves and to the public, when they have ſo little compaſſion on lives and properties, that are uſeful to both?

INFATUATION.

MANKIND are in all ages caught by the ſame baits. The ſame tricks, played over and over again, ſtill trepan them. The heights of popula⯑rity and patriotiſm are ſtill the beaten road to power and tyranny; flattery to treachery; ſtand⯑ing armies to arbitrary government; and the glory of God to the temporal intereſt of the clergy. The fear of an everlaſting deſtruction of credit, allowing it to be an evil, is a needleſs bugbear. [87] A prudent man, in reality, would rather lend to the public immediately after they had taken a ſpunge to their debts, than at preſent; as much as an opulent knave, even though one could not force him to pay, is a preferable debtor to an honeſt bankrupt: for the former, in order to carry on buſineſs, may find it his intereſt to diſcharge his debts, where they are not exorbitant: the latter has it not in his power.

THE NATIONAL FUNDS.

WE have always found, where a government has mortgaged all its revenue, that it neceſſarily ſinks into a ſtate of languor, inactivity, and im⯑potence.

The greateſt part of public ſtock being always in the hands of idle people, who live on their revenue, our funds give great encouragement to an uſeleſs and inactive life.

As foreigners poſſeſs a great ſhare of our national funds, they render the public, in a manner, tri⯑butary to them, and may in time occaſion the tranſport of our people and our induſtry.

LONDON.

IT is a queſtion, whether it be for the public intereſt, that ſo many privileges ſhould be conferred on London, which has already arrived at ſuch an [88] enormous ſize, and ſeems ſtill increaſing? Some men are apprehenſive of the conſequences. For my own part, I cannot forbear thinking, that, though the head is undoubtedly too large for the body, yet that great city is ſo happily ſituated, that its exceſſive bulk cauſes leſs inconvenience than even a ſmaller capital to a greater kingdom. There is more difference between the prices of all proviſions in Paris and Languedoc, than between thoſe in London and Yorkſhire. The immenſe great⯑neſs, indeed, of London, under a government which admits not of diſcretionary power, renders the peo⯑ple factious, mutinous, ſeditious, and even per⯑haps rebellious. But to this evil, the national debts themſelves tend to provide a remedy. The firſt viſible irruption, or even immediate danger, of public diſorders, muſt alarm all the ſtock-hold⯑ers, whoſe property is the moſt precarious of any, and will make them fly to the ſupport of govern⯑ment, whether menaced by Jacobitiſh violence or democratical frenzy.

TRADE.

ANY great blow given to trade, whether by in⯑judicious taxes, or by other accidents, throws the whole ſyſtem of government into confuſion.

INTEREST.

INTEREST is the barometer of the ſtate, and its lowneſs is a ſign almoſt infallible of the flouriſh⯑ing [89] condition of a people. It proves the increaſe of induſtry, and its prompt circulation through the whole ſtate, little inferior to a demonſtration. And though, perhaps, it may not be impoſſible, but a ſudden and a great check to commerce may have a momentary effect of the ſame kind, by throwing ſo many ſtocks out of trade, it muſt be attended with ſuch miſery and want of employment in the poor, that, beſides its ſhort duration, it will not be poſſible to miſtake the one caſe for the other.

A REFLECTION.

SUPPOSE the public once fairly brought to that condition, to which it is haſtening with ſuch amazing rapidity; ſuppoſe the land to be taxed eighteen or nineteen ſhillings in the pound, for it can never bear the whole twenty; ſuppoſe all the exciſes and cuſtoms to be ſcrewed up to the utmoſt which the nation can bear, without entirely loſing its commerce and induſtry; and ſuppoſe that all theſe funds are mortgaged to perpetuity, and that the wit and invention of all our projectors can find no new impoſition, which may ſerve as the foun⯑dation of a new loan; and let us conſider the ne⯑ceſſary conſequences of this ſituation. Though the imperfect ſtate of our political knowledge, and the narrow capacities of men, make it difficult to foretell the effects which will reſult from any un⯑tried meaſure, the ſeeds of ruin are here ſcattered with ſuch profuſion, as not to eſcape the eye of the moſt careleſs obſerver.

PUBLIC BANKRUPTCY.

IT has been computed, that all the creditors of the public, natives and foreigners, amount only to ſeventeen thouſand. Theſe make a figure at preſent on their income; but, in caſe of a public bankruptcy, would, in an inſtant, become the low⯑eſt as well as the moſt wretched of the people. The dignity and authority of the landed gentry and nobility is much better rooted; and would render the contention very unequal, if ever we come to that extremity. One would incline to aſ⯑ſign to this event a very near period, ſuch as half a century, had not our fathers prophecies of this kind been found fallacious, by the duration of our public credit ſo much beyond all reaſonable ex⯑pectation. When the aſtrologers in France were every year foretelling the death of Henry IV., "theſe fellows," ſays he, "muſt be right at laſt."

When the nation becomes heartily ſick of her debts, and is cruelly oppreſſed by them, ſome daring projector may ariſe with viſionary ſchemes for their diſcharge: and as public credit will be⯑gin, by that time, to be a little frail, the leaſt touch will deſtroy it, as happened in France du⯑ring the regency; and in this manner it will die of the doctor.

Let the time come, and ſurely it will come, when the new funds created for the exigencies of the year are not ſubſcribed to, and raiſe not the [91] money projected. Suppoſe either that the caſh of the nation is exhauſted; or that our faith, which has been hitherto ſo ample, begins to fail us: ſup⯑poſe that, in this diſtreſs, the nation is threatened with an invaſion; a rebellion is ſuſpected, or broken out at home; a ſquadron cannot be equipped, for want of pay, victuals, or repairs; or even a fo⯑reign ſubſidy cannot be advanced. What muſt a prince or miniſter do in ſuch an emergence? The right of ſelf-preſervation is unalienable in every individual, much more in every community: and the folly of our ſtateſmen muſt then be greater than the folly of thoſe who firſt contracted debt, or, what is more, than that of thoſe who truſted, or continue to truſt, this ſecurity, if theſe ſtateſ⯑men have the means of ſafety in their hands, and do not employ them. The funds created and mortgaged, will, by that time, bring in a large yearly revenue, ſufficient for the defence and ſecu⯑rity of the nation: money is perhaps lying in the Exchequer, ready for the diſcharge of the quar⯑terly intereſt: neceſſity calls, fear urges, reaſon exhorts, compaſſion alone exclaims: the money will immediately be ſeized for the current ſervice, under the moſt ſolemn proteſtations, perhaps, of being immediately replaced. But no more is re⯑quiſite. The whole fabric, already tottering, falls to the ground, and buries thouſands in its ruins.

Here thouſands are ſacrificed to the ſafety of mil⯑lions; but we are not without danger that millions [92] may be ſacrificed for ever to the temporary ſafety of thouſands. Our popular government, perhaps, will render it difficult or dangerous for a miniſter to venture on ſo deſperate an expedient, as that of a voluntary bankruptcy. And though the Houſe of Lords be altogether compoſed of proprietors of land, and the Houſe of Commons chiefly; and conſequently neither of them can be ſuppoſed to have great property in the funds: yet the connec⯑tions of the members may be ſo great with the proprietors, as to render them more tenacious of public faith, than prudence, policy, or even juſ⯑tice, ſtrictly ſpeaking, requires. And perhaps, too, our ſoreign enemies may be ſo politic as to diſcover, that our ſafety lies in deſpair, and may not therefore ſhew the danger open and bare-faced, till it be inevitable. The balance of power in Europe, our grandfathers, our fathers, and we, have all eſteemed too unequal to be preſerved without our attention and aſſiſtance. But our children, weary of the ſtruggle, and fettered with incumbrances, may ſit down ſecure, and ſee their neighbours oppreſſed and conquered; till, at laſt, they themſelves and their creditors lie both at the mercy of the conqueror. And this may properly enough be denominated the violent death of our public credit.

WHIGGISM.

THE limitations and reſtraints of civil govern⯑ment, and a legal conſtitution, may be defended, [93] either from reaſon, which, reflecting on the great frailty and corruption of human nature, teaches, that no man can ſafely be truſted with unlimited authority; or from experience and hiſtory, which inform us of the enormous abuſes that ambition, in every age and country, has been found to make of ſo imprudent a confidence.

FEMALE INTRIGUE.

EXCEPT the fabulous ſtories of an Helen and a Clytemneſtra, there ſcarcely is an inſtance of any event in the Greek hiſtory which proceeded from the intrigues of women.

THE HOUSE OF COMMONS.

HOW much would it have ſurpriſed ſuch a genius as Cicero, or Tacitus, to have been told, that, in a future age, a very regular ſyſtem of mixed govern⯑ment would take place, where the authority was ſo diſtributed, that one rank, whenever it pleaſed, might ſwallow up all the reſt, and engroſs the whole power of the conſtitution! Such a government, they would ſay, will not be a mixed government: for ſo great is the natural ambition of men, that they are never ſatisfied with power; and if one order of men, by purſuing its own intereſt, can uſurp upon every other order, it will certainly do ſo, and render it⯑ſelf, as far as poſſible, abſolute and uncontroulable. But in this opinion, experience ſhews they would have been miſtaken: for this is actually the caſe [94] with the Britiſh conſtitution. The ſhare of power allotted by our conſtitution to the Houſe of Com⯑mons, is ſo great, that it abſolutely commands all the other parts of the government.

OPINION.

THERE has been a ſudden and ſenſible change in the opinions of men, within theſe laſt fifty years, by the progreſs of learning and of liberty. Moſt people, in this iſland, have diveſted themſelves of all ſuperſtitious reverence to names and authority: the clergy have much loſt their credit: their pre⯑tenſions and doctrines have been ridiculed; and even religion can ſcarcely ſupport itſelf in the world. The mere name of King commands little reſpect; and to talk of a King as God's vicegerent on earth, or to give him any of thoſe magnificent titles which formerly dazzled mankind, would but excite laughter in every one. Though the Crown, by means of its large revenue, may main⯑tain its authority, in times of tranquillity, upon private intereſt and influence; yet, as the leaſt ſhock or convulſion muſt break all theſe intereſts to pieces, the royal power, being no longer ſup⯑ported by the ſettled principles and opinions of men, will immediately diſſolve. Had men been in the ſame diſpoſition at the Revolution, as they are at preſent, monarchy would have run a great riſque of being entirely loſt in this iſland.

USURPATION.

A MAN poſſeſſed of uſurped power, can ſet no bounds to his pretenſions. His par [...]iz [...]ns have liberty to hope for every thing in his favour: his enemies provoke his ambition with his fears, by the violence of their oppoſition: and the govern⯑ment being thrown into a ferment, every corrupted humour in the ſtate naturally gathers to him.

THE INFLUENCE OF THE CROWN.

UPON a moderate computation, there are near three millions at the diſpoſal of the Crown. The civil liſt amounts to near a million; the collection of all taxes, to another; and the employments in the army and navy, together with eccleſiaſtical preferments, to above a third million: an enor⯑mous ſum, and what may fairly be computed to be more than a thirtieth part of the whole income and labour of the kingdom. When we add to this great property, the increasing luxury of the na⯑tion, our proneneſs to corruption, together with the great power and prerogatives of the Crown, and command of military force, there is no one but muſt deſpair of being able, without extraor⯑dinary efforts, to ſupport our free government much longer, under theſe diſadvantages.

The Crown has ſo many offices at its diſpoſal, that, when aſſiſted by the honeſt and diſintereſted [96] part of the houſe, it will always command the re⯑ſolutions of the whole; ſo far, at leaſt, as to pre⯑ſerve the ancient conſtitution from danger. We may give to this influence what name we pleaſe. We may call it by the invidious appellation of Cor⯑ruption and Dependence; but ſome degree and ſome kind of it are inſeparable from the very na⯑ture of the conſtitution, and neceſſary to the pre⯑ſervation of our mixed government.

PRINCES.

ALWAYS to throw, without diſtinction, the blame of all diſorders upon the Prince, would in⯑troduce a fatal error in politics, and ſerve as a per⯑petual apology for treaſon and rebellion; as if the turbulency of the great, and madneſs of the peo⯑ple, were not, equally with the tyranny of Princes, an evil incident to human ſociety, and no leſs to be guarded againſt in every well-regulated conſti⯑tution.

ALLEGIANCE.

To whom is allegiance due? and who are our legal ſovereigns? This queſtion is often the moſt difficult of any, and liable to infinite diſcuſſions. When people are ſo happy that they can anſwer, Our preſent ſovereign, who inherits in a direct line from anceſtors that have governed us for many ages, this anſwer admits of no reply; even though hiſtorians, in tracing up to the remoteſt antiquity [97] the origin of that royal family, may find, as com⯑monly happens, that its firſt authority was derived from uſurpation and violence. It is confeſſed that private juſtice, or the abſtinence from the proper⯑ties of others, is a moſt cardinal virtue; yet rea⯑ſon tells us, that there is no property in durable objects, ſuch as lands or houſes, when carefully examined, in paſſing from hand to hand, but muſt in ſome period have been founded in fraud and injuſtice. The neceſſities of human ſociety, nei⯑ther in public nor private life, will allow of ſuch an accurate enquiry.

MONARCHIES.

ENORMOUS monarchies are, probably, de⯑ſtructive to human nature, in their progreſs, in their continuance, and even in their downfall, which never can be very diſtant from their eſta⯑bliſhment. The military genius, which aggran⯑diſed the monarchy, ſoon leaves the court, the capital, and the centre of ſuch a government, while the wars are carried on at a great diſtance, and intereſt ſo ſmall a part of the ſtate. The an⯑cient nobility, whoſe affections attach them to the ſovereign, live all at court, and never will accept of military employments, which would carry them to remote and barbarous frontiers, where they are diſtant both from their pleaſure and their fortune. The arms of the ſtate muſt therefore be in truſted to mercenary ſtrangers, without zeal, without attach⯑ment, [98] without honour; ready on every occaſion to turn them againſt the prince, and join each de⯑ſperate malcontent who offers pay and plunder. This is the neceſſary progreſs of human affairs. Thus human nature checks itſelf in its airy eleva⯑tion. Thus ambition blindly labours for the de⯑ſtruction of the conqueror of his family, and of every thing near and dear to him.

THE ORIGIN OF INTEREST.

HIGH intereſt ariſes from three circumſtances; a great demand for borrowing, little riches to ſup⯑ply that demand, and great profits ariſing from commerce: and theſe circumſtances are a clear proof of the ſmall advance of commerce and in⯑duſtry, not of the ſcarcity of gold and ſilver. Low intereſt, on the other hand, proceeds from the three oppoſite circumſtances; a ſmall demand for borrowing, great riches to ſupply that demand, and ſmall profits ariſing from commerce: and theſe circumſtances are all connected together, and pro⯑ceed from the increaſe of induſtry and commerce, not of gold and ſilver.

THE FLUCTUATION OF RICHES.

IN five hundred years, the poſterity of thoſe now in the coaches, and of thoſe upon the boxes, will probably have changed places, without affect⯑ing the public by theſe revolutions.

THE ORIGIN OF GOVERNMENT.

THE people, if we trace government to its firſt origin in the woods and deſerts, are the ſource of all power and juriſdiction, and voluntarily, for the ſake of peace and order, abandoned their native liberty, and received laws from their equal and companion. The conditions upon which they were willing to ſubmit were either expreſſed, or were ſo clear and obvious that it might well be deemed ſuperfluous to expreſs them. If this, then, be the original contract, it cannot be denied that all go⯑vernment is, at firſt, founded on a contract, and that the moſt ancient rude combinations of man⯑kind were formed intirely by that principle. In vain are we aſked, in what records this charter of our liberties is regiſtered? It was not writ in parchment, nor yet on leaves, or barks of trees; it preceded the uſe of writing, and all other civi⯑liſed arts of life.

THE REVOLUTION.

THE Revolution forms a new epoch in the con⯑ſtitution, and was attended with conſequences much more advantageous to the people than the barely freeing them from a bad adminiſtration. By deciding many important queſtions in favour of liberty, and ſtill more by that great precedent of depoſing one king and eſtabliſhing a new fa⯑mily, it gave ſuch an aſcendant to popular prin⯑ciples, [100] as has put the nature of the Engliſh conſtitu⯑tion beyond all controverſy. And it may ſafely be affirmed, without any danger of exaggeration, that we in this iſland have ever ſince enjoyed, if not the beſt ſyſtem of government, at leaſt the moſt intire ſyſtem of liberty, that ever was known among mankind.

THE DISPENSING POWER IN THE CROWN.

MEN deemed a diſpenſing power to be in fact the ſame with a repealing power; and they could not conceive that leſs authority was requiſite to re⯑peal than to enact any ſtatute. If one penal law was diſpenſed with, any other might undergo the ſame fate; and by what principle could even the laws which define property be afterwards ſecured from violation? The Teſt act had ever been con⯑ceived the great barrier of the eſtabliſhed religion under a popiſh ſucceſſor: as ſuch it had been in⯑ſiſted on by the parliament; as ſuch, granted by the king; as ſuch, during the debates with regard to the excluſion, recommended by the chancellor:— by what magic, what chicane of law, is it now annihilated, and rendered of no validity? Theſe queſtions were every where aſked; and men, ſtrait⯑ened by precedents and deciſions of great autho⯑rity, were reduced either to queſtion the antiquity of this prerogative itſelf, or to aſſert that even the practice of five centuries could not beſtow on it ſuf⯑ficient [101] authority. It was not conſidered that the preſent difficulty, or ſeeming abſurdity, had pro⯑ceeded from late innovations introduced into the government. Ever ſince the beginning of this century, the parliament had, with the moſt lau⯑dable zeal, been acquiring powers, and eſtabliſh⯑ing principles, favourable to law and liberty; the authority of the crown had been limited in many important particulars; and penal ſtatutes were often calculated to ſecure the conſtitution againſt the attempts of miniſters, as well as to preſerve general peace, and repreſs crimes and immorali⯑ties. A prerogative, however, derived from very ancient and almoſt uniform practice, the diſpen⯑ſing power, ſtill remained, or was ſuppoſed to re⯑main, with the crown, ſufficient in an inſtant to overturn this whole fabric, and to throw down all the fences of the conſtitution. If this prerogative, which carries on the face of it ſuch ſtrong ſym⯑ptoms of an abſolute authority in the crown, had yet, in ancient times, ſubſiſted with ſome degree of liberty in the ſubject, this fact only proves, that ſcarce any human government, much leſs one erect⯑ed in rude and barbarous times, is entirely con⯑ſiſtent and uniform in all its parts. But to expect that the diſpenſing power could in any degree be rendered compatible with thoſe accurate and re⯑gular limitations which had of late been eſtabliſh⯑ed, and which the people were determined to maintain, was a vain hope; and though men knew not on what principles they could deny that [102] prerogative, they ſaw, that, if they would pre⯑ſerve their laws and conſtitution, there was an abſolute neceſſity for denying, or, at leaſt, for aboliſhing it. The Revolution alone, which ſoon ſucceeded, happily put an end to all theſe diſputes: by means of it a more uniform edifice was at laſt erected; the monſtrous inconſiſtence, ſo viſible, between the ancient Gothic parts of the fabric and the recent plans of liberty, was fully corrected; and, to their mutual felicity, king and people were finally taught to know their proper limits and boundaries.

OBEDIENCE.

OBEDIENCE, or ſubjection, becomes ſo fami⯑liar, that moſt men never make any enquiry about its origin or cauſe, more than about the principles of gravity, reſiſtance, or the moſt univerſal laws of nature: or, if curioſity ever move them, as ſoon as they learn that they themſelves and their an⯑ceſtors have, for ſeveral ages, or for time imme⯑morial, been ſubject to ſuch a government or ſuch a family, they immediately acquieſce, and acknow⯑ledge their obligation to allegiance. Were you to preach, in moſt parts of the world, that political connexions are founded altogether on voluntary conſent, or a mutual promiſe, the magiſtrate would ſoon impriſon you, as ſeditious, for looſening the ties of obedience, if your friends did not before ſhut you up as delirious, for advancing ſuch ab⯑ſurdities.

RESISTANCE.

IF ever, on any occaſion, it were laudable to conceal truth from the populace, it muſt be con⯑feſſed, that the doctrine of reſiſtance affords ſuch an example, and that all ſpeculative reaſoners ought to obſerve, with regard to this principle, the ſame cautious ſilence which the laws, in every ſpecies of government, have ever preſcribed to themſelves. Government is inſtituted, in order to reſtrain the fury and injuſtice of the people; and being always founded on opinion, not on force, it is dangerous to weaken, by theſe ſpeculations, the reverence which the multitude owe to autho⯑rity, and to inſtruct them before-hand, that the caſe can ever happen, when they may be freed from their duty of allegiance. Or, ſhould it be found impoſſible to reſtrain the licence of human diſquiſitions, it muſt be acknowledged, that the doctrine of obedience ought alone to be inculcated; and that the exceptions, which are very rare, ought ſeldom or never to be mentioned in popular rea⯑ſonings and diſcourſes. Nor is there any danger, that mankind, by this prudent reſerve, ſhould univerſally degenerate into a ſtate of abject ſervi⯑tude. Where the exception really occurs, even though it be not previouſly expected and deſcanted on, it muſt from its very nature be ſo obvious and undiſputed, as to remove all doubt, and overpower the reſtraint, however great, impoſed by teaching the general doctrine of obedience. But between [104] reſiſting a prince and dethroning him, there is a very wide interval; and the abuſes of power which can warrant the latter violence, are much greater and more enormous than thoſe which will juſtify the former. Hiſtory, however, ſupplies us with examples even of this kind; and the reality of this ſuppoſition, though for the future it ought ever to be little looked for, muſt, by all candid enquirers, be acknowledged in the paſt. But between the dethroning a prince, and puniſhing him, there is another very wide interval; and it were not ſtrange, if even men of the moſt enlarged thought ſhould queſtion, whether human nature could ever, in any monarch, reach that height of depravity, as to warrant in revolted ſubjects this laſt act of extra⯑ordinary juriſdiction. That illuſion, if it be an illuſion, which teaches us to pay a ſacred regard to the perſons of princes, is ſo ſalutary, that to diſſipate it by the formal trial and puniſhment of a ſovereign, will have more pernicious effects upon the people, than the example of juſtice can be ſuppoſed to have a beneficent influence upon princes, by checking their career of tyranny. 'Tis dangerous alſo, by theſe examples, to reduce princes to deſpair, or bring matters to ſuch extremities againſt perſons endowed with great power, as to leave them no reſource, but in the moſt violent and moſt ſanguinary counſels. This general poſi⯑tion being eſtabliſhed, it muſt, however, be ob⯑ſerved, that no reader, almoſt of any party or prin⯑ciple, was ever ſhocked, when he read in ancient [105] hiſtory, that the Roman ſenate voted Nero, their abſolute ſovereign, to be a public enemy, and, even without trial, condemned him to the ſevereſt and moſt ignominious puniſhment; ſuch a puniſh⯑ment as the meaneſt Roman citizen was by the laws exempted from.

THE EUTHANASIA OF THE BRITISH CONSTITUTION.

AS one kind of death may be preferable to an⯑other, it may be enquired, whether it be more de⯑ſirable for the Britiſh conſtitution to terminate in a popular government, or in abſolute monarchy? Here I would frankly declare, that, though liberty be preferable to ſlavery, in almoſt every caſe, yet I ſhould rather wiſh to ſee an abſolute monarchy than a republic in this iſland: for, let us conſider what kind of republic we have reaſon to expect. The queſtion is not concerning any fine imaginary republic, of which a man may form a plan in his cloſet. There is no doubt, but a popular govern⯑ment may be imagined more perfect than abſolute monarchy, or even than our preſent conſtitution. But what reaſon have we to expect that any ſuch government will ever be eſtabliſhed in Britain, upon the diſſolution of our monarchy? If any ſingle perſon acquire power enough to take our conſtitution to pieces, and put it up a-new, he is really an abſolute monarch; and we have already had an inſtance of this kind, ſufficient to convince us, that ſuch a perſon will never reſign his power, [106] or eſtabliſh any free government. Matters, there⯑fore, muſt be truſted to their natural progreſs and operation; and the Houſe of Commons, according to its preſent conſtitution, muſt be the only legiſ⯑lator in ſuch a popular government. The incon⯑veniences attending ſuch a ſituation of affairs pre⯑ſent themſelves by thouſands. If the Houſe of Commons, in ſuch a caſe, ever diſſolve itſelf, which is not to be expected, we may look for a civil war every election. If it continue itſelf, we ſhall ſuffer all the tyranny of a faction, ſubdivided into new factions. And, as ſuch violent government can⯑not long ſubſiſt, we ſhall at laſt, after many con⯑vulſions and civil wars, find repoſe in abſolute mo⯑narchy, which it would have been happier for us to have eſtabliſhed peaceably from the beginning. Abſolute monarchy, therefore, is the eaſieſt death; the true Euthanaſia of the Britiſh conſtitution.

THE DOWNFALL OF THE ROMAN EMPIRE.

THE period was now come when that enormous fabric of the Roman empire, which had diffuſed ſlavery and oppreſſion, together with peace and civility, on ſo conſiderable a part of the globe, was approaching towards its final diſſolution. Italy, and the centre of the empire, removed du⯑ring ſo many ages from all concern in the wars, had entirely loſt the military ſpirit, and were peo⯑pled by an enervated race, equally diſpoſed to ſub⯑mit to a foreign yoke, or to the tyranny of their [107] own rulers. The emperors found themſelves ob⯑liged to recruit their legions from the frontier provinces, where the genius of war, though lan⯑guiſhing, was not totally extinct; and theſe mer⯑cenary forces, careleſs of laws and civil inſtitu⯑tions, eſtabliſhed a military government, no leſs dangerous to the ſovereign than to the people. The farther progreſs of the ſame diſorders intro⯑duced the bordering barbarians into the ſervice of the Romans; and thoſe fierce nations, having now added diſcipline and ſkill to their native bravery, could no longer be reſtrained by the impotent po⯑licy of the emperors, who were accuſtomed to em⯑ploy the one in the deſtruction of the other. Sen⯑ſible of their own force, and allured by the pro⯑ſpect of ſo rich a prize, the Northern barbarians, in the reign of Arcadius and Honorius, aſſailed at once all the frontiers of the Roman empire; and, having firſt ſatiated their avidity by plunder, be⯑gan to think of fixing a ſettlement in the waſted provinces. The more diſtant barbarians, who oc⯑cupied the deſerted habitations of the former, ad⯑vanced in their acquiſitions, and preſſed with their incumbent weight the Roman ſtate, already un⯑equal to the load which it ſuſtained. Inſtead of arming the people in their own defence, the em⯑perors recalled all the diſtant legions, in whom alone they could repoſe confidence, and collected the whole military force for the defence of the ca⯑pital and centre of the empire. The neceſſity of ſelf-preſervation had ſuperſeded the ambition of [108] power; and the ancient point of honour, of never contracting the limits of the empire, could no longer be attended to in this deſperate extremity.

BRITAIN AND ROME.

WE are to conſider the Roman government, un⯑der the emperors, as a mixture of deſpotiſm and liberty, where the deſpotiſm prevailed; and the Engliſh government as a mixture of the ſame kind, where the liberty predominates. The conſequences are ſuch as may be expected from thoſe mixed forms of government, which beget a mutual watchfulneſs and jealouſy. The Roman emperors were, many of them, the moſt frightful monſters that ever diſgraced human nature; and it is evi⯑dent, their cruelty was chiefly excited by their jealouſy, and by their obſerving that all the great men of Rome bore with impatience the dominion of a family which, but a little before, was no way ſuperior to their own. On the other hand, as the republican part of the government prevails in Eng⯑land, though with a great mixture of monarchy, it is obliged, for its own preſervation, to maintain a watchful jealouſy over the magiſtrates, to remove all diſcretionary powers, and to ſecure every one's life and fortune by general and inflexible laws: no action muſt be deemed a crime but what the law has plainly determined to be ſuch; no crime muſt be imputed to a man, but from a legal proof before his judges; and even theſe judges muſt be [109] his fellow ſubjects, who are obliged by their own intereſt to have a watchful eye over the incroach⯑ments and violence of the miniſters. From theſe cauſes it proceeds that there is as much liberty, and even perhaps licentiouſneſs, in Britain, as there were formerly ſlavery and tyranny in Rome.

RELIGION.

The univerſal propenſity to believe in inviſible intelligent power, if not an original inſtinct, be⯑ing at leaſt a general attendant of human nature, may be conſidered as a kind of mark or ſtamp which the divine workman has ſet upon his work; and no⯑thing can ſurely more dignify mankind than to be thus ſelected from all other parts of the creation, and to bear the image and impreſſion of the uni⯑verſal Creator. But conſult this image, as it ap⯑pears in the popular religions of the world—How is the Deity disfigured in our repreſentations of him! What caprice, abſurdity, and immorality, are attributed to him! How much is he degraded even below the character which we ſhould natural⯑ly, in common life, aſcribe to a man of ſenſe and virtue!

What a noble privilege is it of human reaſon, to attain the knowledge of the Supreme Being; and, from the viſible works of nature, be enabled to infer ſo ſublime a principle as its Supreme Crea⯑tor! But turn the reverſe of the medal. Survey [110] moſt nations and moſt ages. Examine the reli⯑gious principles which have, in fact, prevailed in the world; you will ſcarcely be perſuaded that they are any thing but ſick men's dreams; or, perhaps, will regard them more as the playſome whimſies of monkies in human ſhape, than the ſerious, poſitive, dogmatical aſſeverations of a be⯑ing who dignifies himſelf with the name of ra⯑tional.

Hear the verbal proteſtations of all men: no⯑thing ſo certain as their religious tenets. Exa⯑mine their lives: you will ſcarcely think that they repoſe the ſmalleſt confidence in them.

The greateſt and trueſt zeal gives us no ſecurity againſt hypocriſy. The moſt open impiety is at⯑tended with a ſecret dread and compunction.

No theological abſurdities ſo glaring, that they have not ſometimes been embraced by men of the greateſt and moſt cultivated underſtanding. No religious precepts ſo rigorous, that they have not been adopted by the moſt voluptuous and aban⯑doned of men.

What ſo pure as ſome of the morals included in ſome theological ſyſtems? What ſo corrupt as ſome of the practices to which theſe ſyſtems give riſe?

[111] The comfortable views exhibited by the belief of futurity are raviſhing and delightful; but how quickly vaniſh on the appearance of its terrors, which keep a more firm and durable poſſeſſion of the human mind!

A CHARACTER.

THE uncertainty of their life makes ſoldiers laviſh and generous, as well as brave; their idle⯑neſs, together with the large ſocieties which they form in camps or garriſons, incline them to plea⯑ſure and gallantry; by their frequent change of company, they acquire good-breeding and open⯑neſs of behaviour; being employed only againſt a public and an open enemy, they become candid, honeſt, and undeſigning; and, as they uſe more the labour of the body than that of the mind, they are commonly thoughtleſs and ignorant.

ANOTHER.

It is a trite, but not altogether a falſe maxim, that prieſts of all religions are the ſame; and, though the character of the profeſſion will not, in every inſtance, prevail over the perſonal character, yet is it ſure always to predominate with the greater number. As chymiſts obſerve, that ſpirits, when raiſed to a certain height, are all the ſame, from whatever materials they be extracted; ſo theſe men, being elevated above humanity, ac⯑quire a uniform character, which is entirely their [112] own, and which, in my opinion, is, generally ſpeaking, not the moſt amiable that is to be met with in human ſociety. Moſt men are ambitious; but the ambition of other men may commonly be ſatisfied by excelling in their particular profeſſion, and thereby promoting the intereſt of ſociety. The ambition of the clergy can often be ſatisfied only by promoting ignorance and ſuperſtition, and implicit faith, and pious frauds; and having got what Archimedes only wanted, another world on which he could fix his engines, no wonder they move this world at their pleaſure.

SIR ISAAC NEWTON.

IN Newton this iſland may boaſt of having pro⯑duced the greateſt and rareſt genius that ever aroſe for the ornament and inſtruction of the ſpecies. Cautious in admitting no principles but ſuch as were founded on experiment, but reſolute to adopt every ſuch principle, however new or unuſual; from modeſty, ignorant of his ſuperiority above the reſt of mankind, and thence leſs careful to accommodate his reaſonings to common apprehen⯑ſions; more anxious to merit than acquire ſame; he was, from theſe cauſes, long unknown to the world; but his reputation at laſt broke out with a luſtre which ſcarce any writer, during his own life-time, had ever before attained. While New⯑ton ſeemed to draw off the veil from ſome of the myſteries of Nature, he ſhewed, at the ſame time, [113] the imperfections of the mechanical Philoſophy; and thereby reſtored her ultimate ſecrets to that obſcurity in which they ever did and ever will remain.

LORD FALKLAND.

BEFORE aſſembling the preſent parliament, this man, devoted to the purſuits of learning, and to the ſociety of all the polite and elegant, had enjoyed himſelf in every pleaſure which a fine ge⯑nius, a generous diſpoſition, and an opulent for⯑tune, could afford. Called into public life, he ſtood foremoſt in all attacks on the exorbitant pre⯑rogative of the crown; and diſplayed that maſcu⯑line eloquence, and undaunted love of liberty, which, from his intimate acquaintance with the ſublime ſpirits of antiquity, he had greedily im⯑bibed. When civil convulſions proceeded to ex⯑tremity, and it became requiſite for him to chuſe his ſide, he tempered the ardour of his zeal, and embraced the defence of thoſe limited powers which remained to monarchy, and which he deemed ne⯑ceſſary for the ſupport of the Engliſh conſtitution. Still anxious, however, for his country, he ſeems to have dreaded the too proſperous ſucceſs of his own party as much as of the enemy; and, among his intimate friends, often, after a deep ſilence, and frequent ſighs, he would with a ſad accent reiterate the word peace. In excuſe for the too free expoſing of his perſon, which ſeemed unſuit⯑able in a ſecretary of ſtate, he alledged that it [114] became him to be more active than other men in all hazardous enterpriſes, leſt his impatience for peace might bear the imputation of cowardice or puſillanimity. From the commencement of the war, his natural chearfulneſs and vivacity became clouded; and even his uſual attention to dreſs, required by his birth or ſtation, gave way to a negligence which was eaſily obſervable. On the morning of the battle in which he fell, he had ſhewn ſome care for the adorning his perſon; and gave for a reaſon, that the enemy ſhould not find his body in any ſlovenly, indecent ſituation. "I am weary," ſubjoined he, "of the times, and foreſee much miſery to my country; but be⯑lieve that I ſhall be out of it are night."

ALFRED.

THE merit of this prince, both in private and public life, may with advantage be ſet in oppoſi⯑tion to that of any monarch or citizen, which the annals of any nation, or any age, can preſent to us. He ſeems, indeed, to be the complete model of that perfect character, which, under the deno⯑mination of a ſage, or wiſe man, the philoſophers have been fond of delineating, rather as a fiction of their imagination, than in hopes of ever ſeeing it reduced to practice: ſo happily were all his vir⯑tues tempered together, ſo juſtly were they blend⯑ed, and ſo powerfully did each prevent the other from exceeding its proper bounds! He knew how [115] to conciliate the boldeſt enterpriſe with the cooleſt moderation; the moſt obſtinate perſeverance with the eaſieſt flexibility; the moſt ſevere juſtice with the greateſt lenity; the moſt vigorous command with the greateſt affability of deportment; the higheſt capacity and inclination for ſcience with the moſt ſhining talents for action. His civil and military virtues are almoſt equally the objects of our admiration; excepting only, that the former being more rare among princes, as well as more uſeful, ſeem chiefly to challenge our applauſe. Nature, alſo, as if deſirous that ſo bright a pro⯑duction of her ſkill mould be ſet in the faireſt light, had beſtowed on him all bodily accompliſhments; vigour of limbs, dignity of ſhape and air, and a pleaſant, engaging, and open countenance. For⯑tune alone, by throwing him into that barbarous age, deprived him of hiſtorians worthy to tranſ⯑mit his fame to poſterity; and we wiſh to ſee him delineated in more lively colours, and with more particular ſtrokes, that we may at leaſt perceive ſome of thoſe ſmall ſpecks and blemiſhes, from which, as a man, it is impoſſible he could be en⯑tirely exempted.

THE IRISH MASSACRE.

THE Iriſh, every where intermingled with the Engliſh, needed but a hint from their leaders and prieſts to begin hoſtilities againſt a people, whom they hated on account of their religion, and envied for their riches and proſperity. The houſes, cattle, [116] goods, of the unwary Engliſh were firſt ſeized. Thoſe who heard of the commotion in their neighbourhood, inſtead of deſerting their habitations, and flocking together for mutual protection, remained at home in hopes of defending their property, and fell thus ſeparately into the hands of their enemies. After rapacity had fully exerted itſelf, cruelty, and the moſt barbarous that ever, in any nation, was known, or heard of, began its operations. An univerſal maſſacre commenced of the Engliſh, now defence⯑leſs, and paſſively reſigned to their inhuman foes. No age, no ſex, no condition, was ſpared. The wiſe, weeping for her butchered huſband, and em⯑bracing her helpleſs children, was pierced with them, and periſhed by the ſame ſtroke. The old, the young, the vigorous, the infirm, underwent a like fate, and were confounded in one common ruin. In vain did flight ſave from the firſt aſſault; Deſtruction was, every where, let looſe, and met the hunted victims at every turn. In vain was re⯑courſe had to relations, to companions, to friends. All connection was diſſolved; and death was dealt by that hand, from which protection was implored and expected. Without provocation, without op⯑poſition, the aſtoniſhed Engliſh, living in profound peace and full ſecurity, were maſſacred by their neareſt neighbours, with whom they had long up⯑held a continued intercourſe of kindneſs and good offices.

[117] But death was the lighteſt puniſhment inflicted by thoſe more than barbarous ſavages: all the tortures which wanton cruelty could deviſe, all the lingering pains of body, the anguiſh of mind, the agonies of deſpair, could not ſatiate revenge exacted without injury, and cruelty derived from no cauſe. To enter into particulars, would ſhock the leaſt delicate humanity. Such enormities, though atteſted by undoubted evidence, appear al⯑moſt incredible. Depraved nature, even perverted religion, though encouraged by the utmoſt licence, reach not to ſuch a pitch of ferocity; unleſs the pity inherent in human breaſts, by that contagion of example, which tranſports men beyond all the uſual motives of conduct and behaviour, be anni⯑hilated.

The weaker ſex themſelves, naturally tender to their own ſufferings, and compaſſionate to thoſe of others, here emulated their more robuſt compa⯑nions in the practice of every cruelty. Even chil⯑dren, taught by the example, and encouraged by the exhortation, of their parents, aſſayed their feeble blows on the dead carcaſes or defenceleſs children of the Engliſh. The very avarice of the Iriſh was not a ſufficient reſtraint to their cruelty. Such was their frenzy, that the cattle which they had ſeized, and by rapine had made their own, yet, becauſe they bore the name of Engliſh, were wantonly ſlaughtered, or, when covered with wounds, turned looſe into the woods and deſerts.

[118] The ſtately buildings or commodious habitations of the planters, as if upbraiding the ſloth and ignorance of the natives, were conſumed with ſire, or laid level with the ground. And where the miſerable owners, ſhut up in their houſes, and preparing for defence, periſhed in the flames, to⯑gether with their wives and children, a double triumph was afforded to theſe inſulting butchers.

If any where a number aſſembled together, and, aſſuming courage from deſpair, were reſolved to ſweeten death by a revenge of their aſſaſſins; they were diſarmed by capitulations, and promiſes of ſafety, confirmed by the moſt ſolemn oaths; but no ſooner had they ſurrendered, than the rebels, with [...] equal to their cruelty, made them ſhare the fate of their unhappy countrymen.

Others, more ingenious ſtill in their barbarity, tempted their priſoners, by the fond love of life, to imbrue their hands in the blood of friends, bro⯑thers, parents; and, having thus rendered them accomplices in their guilt, gave them that death which they ſought to ſhun by deſerving it.

Amidſt all theſe enormities, the ſacred name of religion reſounded on every ſide, not to ſtop the hands of theſe ſavages, but to enforce their blows, and to ſteel their hearts againſt every movement of human or ſocial ſympathy. The Engliſh, as here⯑tics, abhorred of God, and deteſtable to all holy [119] men, were marked out by the prieſts for ſlaughter; and of all actions, to rid the world of theſe de⯑clared enemies to Catholic faith and piety, was repreſented as the moſt meritorious. Nature, which, in that rude people, was ſufficiently in⯑clined to atrocious deeds, was farther ſtimulated by precept; and national prejudices impoiſoned by thoſe averſions, more deadly and incurable, which aroſe from an enraged ſuperſtition. While death finiſhed the ſufferings of each victim, the bigoted aſſaſſins, with joy and exultation, ſtill echoed in his expiring ears, that theſe agonies were but the commencement of torments infinite and eternal.

From Ulſter, the flames of rebellion diffuſed themſelves, in an inſtant, over the other three provinces of Ireland. In all places, death and ſlaughter were not uncommon; though the Iriſh, in theſe other provinces, pretended to act with more moderation and humanity: but cruel and barbarous was their humanity! Not contented with expelling the Engliſh their houſes, with deſpoiling them of their goodly manors, with waſting their cultivated fields, they ſtripped them of their very clothes, and turned them out, naked and defence⯑leſs, to all the ſeverities of the ſeaſon. The hea⯑vens themſelves, as if conſpiring againſt that un⯑happy people, were armed with cold and tempeſt, unuſual to the climate, and executed what the mercileſs ſword of the barbarians had left un⯑finiſhed. [120] The roads were covered with crouds of naked Engliſh, haſtening towards Dublin, and the other cities which yet remained in the hands of their countrymen. The feeble age of children, the tender ſex of women, ſoon ſunk under the multiplied rigours of cold and hunger. Here, the huſband, bidding a final adieu to his expiring fa⯑mily, envied them that fate which he himſelf ex⯑pected ſo ſoon to ſhare: there, the ſon, having long ſupported his aged parent, with reluctance obeyed his laſt commands, and, abandoning him in this uttermoſt diſtreſs, reſerved himſelf to the hopes of avenging that death, which all his efforts could not prevent nor delay. The aſtoniſhing greatneſs of the calamity deprived the ſufferers of any relief from the view of companions in afflic⯑tion. With ſilent tears, or lamentable cries, they hurried on through the hoſtile territories; and found every heart, which was not ſteeled by native barbarity, guarded by the more implacable furies of miſtaken piety and religion.

The ſaving of Dublin preſerved in Ireland the remains of the Engliſh name. The gates of that city, though timorouſly opened, received the wretched ſupplicants, and diſcovered to the view a ſcene of human miſery beyond what any eye had ever before beheld. Compaſſion ſeized the amazed inhabitants, aggravated with the fear of like cala⯑mities; while they obſerved the numerous foes, without and within, which every where environed [121] them, and reflected on the weak reſources by which they were themſelves ſupported. The more vigo⯑rous of the unhappy fugitives, to the number of three thouſand, were inliſted into three regiments: the reſt were diſtributed into the houſes; and all care was taken, by diet and warmth, to recruit their feeble and torpid limbs. Diſeaſes of unknown name and ſpecies, derived from theſe multiplied diſtreſſes, ſeized many of them, and put a ſpeedy period to their lives: others, having no leiſure to reflect on their mighty loſs of friends and fortune, curſed that being which they had ſaved. Aban⯑doning themſelves to deſpair, refuſing all ſuccour, they expired; without other conſolation, than that of receiving among their countrymen the honours of a grave, which to their ſlaughtered companions had been denied by the inhuman barbarians.

KINGCRAFT.

TO allure the nobility to court; to engage them in expenſive pleaſures or employments, which diſ⯑ſipate their fortune; to increaſe their ſubjection to miniſters, by attendance; to weaken their autho⯑rity in the provinces, by abſence; have been the common arts of arbitrary government.

ANCIENT LITERATURE.

ON the origin of letters among the Greeks, the genius of poets and orators, as might naturally be expected, was diſtinguiſhed by an amiable ſimpli⯑city, [122] which, whatever rudeneſs may ſometimes at⯑tend it, is ſo fitted to expreſs the genuine move⯑ments of nature and paſſion, that the compoſitions poſſeſſed of it muſt for ever appear valuable to the diſcerning part of mankind. The glaring figures of diſcourſe, the pointed antitheſis, the unnatural conceit, the jingle of words; ſuch falſe ornaments were not employed by early writers, not becauſe they were rejected, but becauſe they ſcarce ever occurred to them. An eaſy unforced ſtrain of ſentiment runs through their compoſitions; though at the ſame time, amidſt the moſt elegant ſimpli⯑city of thought and expreſſion, one is ſometimes ſurpriſed to meet with a poor conceit, which had preſented itſelf unſought for, and which the au⯑thor had not acquired critical obſervation enough to condemn. A bad taſte ſeizes with avidity theſe frivolous beauties, and even perhaps a good taſte, ere ſurfeited by them. They multiply every day more and more in the faſhionable compoſitions: nature and good-ſenſe are neglected; laboured or⯑naments ſtudied and admired; and a total degene⯑racy of ſtyle and language prepares the way for barbariſm and ignorance. Hence the Aſiatic man⯑ner was found to depart ſo much from the ſimple purity of Athens: hence that tinſel eloquence, which is obſervable in many of the Roman writers; from which Cicero himſelf is not wholly exempted, and which ſo much prevails in Ovid, Seneca, Lu⯑can, Martial, and the Plinys.

SHAKESPEAR.

IF Shakeſpear be conſidered as a man born in a rude age, and educated in the loweſt manner, without any inſtruction, either from the world or from books, he may be regarded as a prodigy: if repreſented as a poet, capable of furniſhing a pro⯑per entertainment to a refined or intelligent au⯑dience, we muſt abate ſomewhat of this eulogy. In his compoſitions, we regret that many irregula⯑rities, and even ſometimes abſurdities, ſhould ſo frequently disfigure the animated and paſſionate ſcenes intermixed with them; and, at the ſame time, we perhaps admire the more thoſe beauties, on account of their being ſurrounded with ſuch deformities. A ſtriking peculiarity of ſentiment, adapted to a ſingular character, he frequently hits, as it were, by inſpiration; but a reaſonable pro⯑priety of thought he cannot, for any time, uphold. Nervous and pictureſque expreſſions, as well as de⯑ſcriptions, abound in him; but 'tis in vain we look either for continued purity or ſimplicity of diction. This total ignorance of all theatrical art and conduct, however material a defect, yet, as it affects the ſpectator rather than the reader, we can more readily excuſe, than that want of taſte which often prevails in his productions, and which gives way, only by intervals, to the irradiation of ge⯑nius. A great and fertile genius he certainly poſ⯑ſeſſed, and one enriched equally with a tragic and comic vein; but he ought to be cited as a proof, [124] how dangerous it is to rely on theſe advantages alone for the attaining an excellence in the finer arts. And there may even remain a ſuſpicion, that we over-rate, if poſſible, the greatneſs of his ge⯑nius; in the ſame manner as bodies often appear more gigantic, on account of their being diſpro⯑portionate and mis-ſhapen.

CARDINAL WOLSEY.

HENRY entered into all the views of Wolſey; and finding no one ſo capable of executing his plan of adminiſtration as the perſon who propoſed it, he ſoon advanced his favourite, from being the companion of his careleſs hours, to be a member of his council; and, from being a member of his council, to be his abſolute miniſter. By this rapid advancement and uncontrouled authority, the cha⯑racter and genius of Wolſey had full opportunity to diſplay itſelf. Inſatiable in his acquiſitions, but ſtill more magnificent in his expence; of extenſive capacity, but ſtill more unbounded enterpriſe; am⯑bitious of power, but ſtill more deſirous of glory; inſinuating, engaging, perſuaſive, and, by turns, lofty, elevated, commanding; haughty to his equals, but affable to his dependants; oppreſſive to the people, but liberal to his friends; more generous than grateful; leſs moved by injuries than by contempt; he ſeemed framed to take the aſcendant in every intercourſe with others, but exerted this ſuperiority of nature with ſuch often⯑tation as expoſed him to envy, and made every one [125] willing to recall the original inferiority, or rather meanneſs, of his fortune.

RICHARD I. OF ENGLAND, AND PHILIP OF FRANCE, COMPARED.

RICHARD and PHILIP were, by the ſitua⯑tion and extent of their dominions, rivals in power; by their age and inclinations, competitors for glory; and theſe cauſes of emulation, which, had the princes been employed in the field againſt the common enemy, might have ſtimulated them to martial enterpriſes, ſoon excited, during the preſent leiſure and repoſe, quarrels between mo⯑narchs of ſuch a fiery character. Equally haughty, ambitious, intrepid, and inflexible, they were ir⯑ritated with the leaſt appearance of injury, and were incapable, by mutual condeſcenſions, to ef⯑face thoſe cauſes of complaint which unavoidably aroſe between them. Richard, candid, ſincere, undeſigning, impolitic, violent, laid himſelf open, on every occaſion, to the deſigns of his antagoniſt; who, provident, intereſted, deceitful, failed not to take all advantages againſt him: and thus, both the circumſtances of their diſpoſitions, in which they were ſimilar, and thoſe in which they differed, rendered it impoſſible for them to perſevere in that harmony which was ſo eſſential to the ſucceſs of their undertaking.

BACON AND GALILEO.

THE great glory of literature in this iſland during the reign of James I. was my Lord Bacon. Moſt of his performances were compoſed in Latin, though he poſſeſſed neither the elegance of that, nor of his native tongue. If we conſider the va⯑riety of talents employed by this man, as a public ſpeaker, a man of buſineſs, a wit, a courtier, a companion, an author, a philoſopher, he is juſtly the object of great admiration: if we conſider him merely as an author and philoſopher, the light in which we view him at preſent, though very eſti⯑mable, he was yet inferior to his cotemporary Galileo, perhaps even to Kepler. Bacon pointed out at a diſtance the road to true philoſophy: Ga⯑lileo both pointed it out to others, and made him⯑ſelf conſiderable advances in it. The Engliſhman was ignorant of geometry: the Florentine revived that ſcience, excelled in it, and was the firſt who applied it, together with experiment, to natural philoſophy. The former rejected, with the moſt poſitive diſdain, the ſyſtem of Copernicus: the lat⯑ter fortified it with new proofs, derived both from reaſon and the ſenſes. Bacon's ſtyle is ſtiff and rigid: his wit, though often brilliant, is ſome⯑times unnatural and far-fetched; and he ſeems to be the original of thoſe pointed ſimiles, and long⯑ſpun allegories, which ſo much diſtinguiſh the Engliſh authors: Galileo is a lively and agreeable, though ſomewhat a prolix writer; but Italy, not [127] united in any ſingle government, and perhaps ſa⯑tiated with that literary glory which it has poſſeſſed both in ancient and modern times, has too much neglected the renown it has acquired by giving birth to ſo great a man. That national ſpirit, which prevails among the Engliſh, and which forms their great happineſs, is the cauſe why they beſtow on all their eminent writers, and on Bacon among the reſt, ſuch praiſes and acclamations, as may often appear partial and exceſſive.

HENRY I. OF ENGLAND.

THIS prince was one of the moſt accompliſhed that has filled the Engliſh throne, and poſſeſſed all the qualities, both of body and mind, natural and acquired, which could ſit him for the high ſtation to which he attained. His perſon was manly, his countenance engaging, his eyes clear, ſerene, and penetrating. The affability of his addreſs encou⯑raged thoſe who might be over-awed by the ſenſe of his dignity, or of his wiſdom; and though he often indulged his facetious humour, he knew how to temper it with diſcretion, and ever kept at a diſtance from all indecent familiarities with his courtiers. His ſuperior eloquence and judgment would have given him an aſcendant, even had he been born in a private ſtation; and his perſonal bravery would have procured him reſpect, even though it had been leſs ſupported by art and po⯑licy. By his great progreſs in literature, he ac⯑quired [128] the name of Beau-clerc, or the Scholar; but his application to theſe ſedentary purſuits abated nothing of the activity and vigilance of his go⯑vernment; and though the learning of that age was better fitted to corrupt than improve the un⯑derſtanding, his natural good-ſenſe preſerved itſelf untainted, both from the pedantry and ſuperſtition which were then ſo prevalent among men of let⯑ters. His temper was very ſuſceptible of the ſen⯑timents as well of friendſhip as of reſentment; and his ambition, though high, might be eſteemed moderate and reaſonable, had not his conduct to⯑wards his brother and nephew ſhewed that he was too much diſpoſed to ſacrifice to it all the maxims of juſtice and equity. But the total incapacity of Robert for government afforded his younger brother a reaſon or pretence for ſeizing the ſceptre both of Normandy and England; and when violence and uſurpation are once begun, neceſſity obliges a prince to continue in the ſame criminal courſe, and engages him in meaſures which his better judgment and ſounder principles would otherwiſe have induced him to reject with warmth and in⯑dignation.

MILTON.

MILTON's poems are admirable, though liable to ſome objections; his proſe writings diſagreeable, though not altogether defective in genius. Nor are all his poems equal. His Paradiſe Loſt, his Comus, and a few others, ſhine out amidſt ſome [129] flat and inſipid compoſitions. Even in the Para⯑diſe Loſt, his capital performance, there are very long paſſages, amounting to near a third of the work, almoſt wholly devoid of harmony and elo⯑quence, nay, of all vigour of imagination. The natural inequality in Milton's genius was much increaſed by the inequalities in his ſubject; of which ſome parts are, of themſelves, the moſt lofty that can enter into human conception, others would have required the moſt laboured elegance of compoſition to ſupport them. It is certain, that this author, when in an happy mood, and employed on a noble ſubject, is the moſt wonder⯑fully ſublime of any poet, in any language; Ho⯑mer, and Lucretius, and Taſſo, not excepted. More conciſe than Homer, more ſimple than Taſſo, more nervous than Lucretius; had he lived in a later age, and learned to poliſh ſome rudeneſs in his verſes; had he enjoyed better fortune, and poſſeſſed leiſure to watch the returns of genius in himſelf; he had attained the pinnacle of human perfection, and borne away the palm of epic poetry.

It was during a ſtate of poverty, blindneſs, diſ⯑grace, danger, and old-age, that Milton compoſed his wonderful poem, which not only ſurpaſſed all the performances of his cotemporaries, but all the compoſitions which had flowed from his pen during the vigour of his age and the height of his proſperity. This circumſtance is not the leaſt remarkable of all thoſe which attend that great genius.

HOBBES.

NO author was more celebrated in his own age, both abroad and at home, than Hobbes: in our time he is much neglected.—A lively inſtance, how precarious all reputations founded on reaſon⯑ing and philoſophy. A pleaſant comedy, which paints the manners of the age, and expoſes a faith⯑ful picture of nature, is a deſirable work, and is tranſmitted to the lateſt poſterity; but a ſyſtem, whether phyſical or metaphyſical, owes commonly its ſucceſs to its novelty, and is no ſooner can⯑vaſſed with impartiality than its weakneſs is diſ⯑covered. Hobbes's politics are fitted only to pro⯑mote tyranny, and his ethics to encourage licen⯑tiouſneſs. Though an enemy to religion, he par⯑takes nothing of the ſpirit of ſcepticiſm; but is as poſitive and dogmatical as if human reaſon, and his reaſon in particular, could attain a tho⯑rough conviction on theſe ſubjects. Clearneſs, and propriety of ſtyle, are the chief excellencies of Hobbes's writings. In his own perſon, he is re⯑preſented to have been a man of virtue; a cha⯑racter no wiſe ſurpriſing, notwithſtanding his li⯑bertine ſyſtem of ethics. Timidity is the princi⯑pal fault with which he is reproached: he lived to an extreme old-age, yet could never reconcile himſelf to the thoughts of death. The boldneſs of his ſentiments and opinions form a remarkable contraſt to this part of his character.

COMMENCEMENT OF WHIG AND TORY.

THE year Sixteen-hundred-and-eighty is re⯑markable for being the epoch of the well-known epithets of Whig and Tory, by which, and ſome⯑times without any material difference, this iſland has been ſo long divided. The court party re⯑proached their antagoniſts with their affinity to the fanatical conventiclers in Scotland, who were known by the name of Whigs: the country party found a reſemblance between the courtiers and the Popiſh banditti in Ireland, to whom the appellation of Tory was affixed. And after this manner theſe fooliſh names of reproach came into public and general uſe; and even at preſent ſeem not nearer their end, than when they were firſt invented.

HISTORY.

NEW parties aroſe, under the appellation of Whig and Tory, which have continued ever ſince to confound and diſtract our government. To de⯑termine the nature of thoſe parties, is, perhaps, one of the moſt difficult problems that can be met with, and is a proof that hiſtory may contain queſtions as uncertain as any to be found in the moſt abſtract ſciences. We have ſeen the conduct of the two parties, during the courſe of a whole century, in a vaſt variety of circumſtances, poſ⯑ſeſſed of power, and deprived of it, during peace and war: perſons who profeſs themſelves of one [132] ſide or other, we meet with every hour, in com⯑pany, in our pleaſures, in our ſerious occupations: we ourſelves are conſtrained, in a manner, to take party; and being in a country of the higheſt li⯑berty, every one may openly declare all his ſenti⯑ments and opinions: yet are we at a loſs to tell the nature, pretenſions, and principles, of the dif⯑ferent factions.

OF THE PARTIES OF GREAT-BRITAIN.

AS no party, in the preſent age, can well ſupport itſelf without a philoſophical or ſpeculative ſyſtem of principles, annexed to its political or practical one; we accordingly find that each of the factions, into which this nation is divided, has reared up a fabric of the former kind, in order to protect and cover that ſcheme of actions which it purſues. The people being commonly very rude builders, eſpecially in this ſpeculative way, and more eſpe⯑cially ſtill when actuated by party zeal; it is na⯑tural to imagine, that their workmanſhip muſt be a little unſhapely, and diſcover evident marks of that violence and hurry in which it was raiſed. The one party, by tracing up government to the Deity, endeavour to render it ſo ſacred and invio⯑late, that it muſt be little leſs than ſacrilege, how⯑ever tyrannical it may become, to touch or invade it in the ſmalleſt article. The other party, by founding government altogether on the conſent of the people, ſuppoſe, that there is a kind of ori⯑ginal [133] contract, by which the ſubjects have reſerved the power of reſiſting their ſovereign, whenever they find themſelves aggrieved by that authority, with which they have, for certain purpoſes, volun⯑tarily entruſted him. Theſe are the ſpeculative principles of the two parties; and theſe, too, are the practical conſequences deduced from them.

THE TEMPLARS MASSACRED IN FRANCE.

THE order of Knights Templars had riſen during the firſt ſervour of the Cruſades; and, uniting the two qualities the moſt popular in that age, devotion and valour, and exerciſing both in the moſt popular of all enterpriſes, the defence of the Holy Land, they had made rapid advances to credit and authority, and had acquired, from the piety of the faithful, very ample poſſeſſions in every country in Europe, eſpecially in France. Their great riches, joined to the courſe of time, had, by degrees, relaxed the ſeverity of theſe vir⯑tues; and the Templars, in a great meaſure, loſt that popularity which firſt raiſed them to honour and diſtinction. Acquainted, by experience, with the fatigues and dangers of thoſe fruitleſs expedi⯑tions to the Eaſt, they choſe rather to enjoy in eaſe their opulent revenues in Europe; and being all of them men of birth, educated, according to the cuſtom of the age, without any tincture of let⯑ters, they ſcorned the ignoble occupations of a [134] monaſtic life, and paſſed their time wholly in the faſhionable amuſements of hunting, gallantry, and the pleaſures of the table. Their rival order, that of St. John of Jeruſalem, whoſe poverty had as yet preſerved them from like corruption, ſtill di⯑ſtinguiſhed themſelves by their enterpriſes againſt the infidels, and ſucceeded to all the popularity which was loſt by the indolence and luxury of the Templars. But though theſe cauſes had weakened the foundation of this order, once ſo celebrated and revered, the immediate ſource of their deſtruc⯑tion proceeded from the cruel and vindictive ſpirit of Philip the Fair, who, having entertained a pri⯑vate diſguſt againſt ſome eminent Templars, deter⯑mined to gratify at once his avidity and revenge, by involving the whole order in one undiſtinguiſhed ruin. On no better information, than that of two Knights, condemned by their ſuperiors to perpe⯑tual impriſonment, for their vices and proſligacy, he ordered, on one day, all the Templars of France to be committed to priſon, and imputed to them ſuch enormous and abſurd crimes, as are ſufficient of themſelves to deſtroy all the credit of the accu⯑ſation. Beſides their being univerſally charged with murder, robbery, and vices the moſt ſhocking to nature; every one, it was pretended, whom they received into their order, was obliged to re⯑nounce our Saviour, to ſpit upon the croſs, and to join to this impiety the ſuperſtition of worſhip⯑ping a gilded head, which was ſecretly kept in one of their houſes at Marſeilles. They alſo ini⯑tiated, [135] it was ſaid, every candidate, by ſuch infa⯑mous rites, as could ſerve to no other purpoſe, than to degrade the order in his eyes, and deſtroy for ever the authority of all his ſuperiors over him. Above an hundred of theſe unhappy gentlemen were put to the torture, in order to extort from them a confeſſion of their guilt: the more obſti⯑nate periſhed in the hands of their tormentors: ſeveral, to procure themſelves immediate eaſe in the violence of their agonies, acknowledged what⯑ever was required of them: forged confeſſions were imputed to others: and Philip, as if their guilt were now certain, proceeded to a confiſcation of all their treaſures. But no ſooner had the Templars recovered from their tortures, than, preferring the moſt cruel execution to a life with infamy, they diſavowed their confeſſions, exclaimed againſt the forgeries, juſtified the innocence of their order, and appealed to all the gallant actions performed by them, in ancient or latter times, as a full apo⯑logy for their conduct. The barbarous tyrant, enraged at this diſappointment, and thinking him⯑ſelf now engaged in honour to proceed to extremi⯑ties, ordered fifty-four of them, whom he branded as relapſed heretics, to periſh by the puniſhment of fire, in his capital: great numbers expired after a like manner in other parts of the kingdom: and when he found that the perſeverance of theſe un⯑happy victims, in juſtifying to the laſt their inno⯑cence, had made deep impreſſion on the ſpectators, he endeavoured to overcome the conſtancy of the [136] Templars by new inhumanities. The Grand Maſ⯑ter of the order, John de Molay, and another great officer, brother to the ſovereign of Dauphiné, were conducted to a ſcaffold, erected before the church of Notre Dame, at Paris: a full pardon was offered them on the one hand: the fire, deſtined for their execution, was ſhewn to them on the other: theſe gallant nobles ſtill perſiſted in the proteſtation of their own innocence, and that of their order; and were inſtantly hurried into the flames by the exe⯑cutioner.

In all this barbarous injuſtice, Clement V. who was the creature of Philip, and then reſided in France, fully concurred; and, without examining a witneſs, or making any enquiry into the truth of facts, he ſummarily, by the plenitude of his apoſtolic power, aboliſhed the whole order. The Templars, all over Europe, were thrown into pri⯑ſon; their conduct underwent a ſtrict ſcrutiny; the power of their enemies ſtill purſued and op⯑preſſed them; but no where, except in France, were the ſmalleſt traces of their guilt pretended to be found. England ſent back an ample teſtimony of their piety and morals; but as the order was now annihilated, the Knights were diſtributed into ſeve⯑ral convents, and their poſſeſſions were, by com⯑mand of the Pope, transferred to the order of St. John.

COLONEL KIRK.

THE following inſtances will give an idea of the ſavage nature of Colonel Kirk, a ſoldier of for⯑tune, who had long ſerved at Tangiers, and had contracted, from his habitudes with the Moors, an inhumanity leſs known in European and free countries. At his firſt entry into Bridgewater, he hanged nineteen without the leaſt enquiry into the merits of their cauſe. As if to make ſport with death, he ordered a certain number to be executed, while he and his company ſhould drink to the King's health, or to the Queen's, or to Judge Jef⯑feries. Obſerving their feet to ſhake, in the ago⯑nies of death, he cried, that he would give them muſic to their dancing; and he immediately com⯑manded the drums to beat, and the trumpets to ſound. By way of experiment, he ordered one man to be hung up three times, queſtioning him, at every interval, whether he repented of his crime? But the man obſtinately aſſerting, that, notwithſtanding all the paſt, he would ſtill will⯑ingly engage in the ſame cauſe, Kirk ordered him to be hung in chains. One ſtory commonly told of him, is memorable for the treachery, as well as barbarity, which attended it. A young maid pleaded for the life of her brother, and flung her⯑ſelf at Kirk's feet, armed with all the charms which beauty and innocence, bathed in tears, could beſtow upon her. The tyrant was inflamed with deſire, not ſoftened into love or clemency. [138] He promiſed to grant her requeſt, provided that ſhe, in her turn, would be equally compliant to him. The maid yielded to the conditions: but after ſhe had paſſed the night with him, the wan⯑ton ſavage next morning ſhewed her from the win⯑dow her brother, the darling object for whom ſhe had ſacrificed her virtue, hanged on a gibbet, which he had ſecretly ordered to be there erected for his execution. Rage, and deſpair, and indig⯑nation, took poſſeſſion of her mind, and deprived her for ever of her ſenſes. All the inhabitants of that country, innocent as well as guilty, were ex⯑poſed to the ravages of this barbarian. The ſol⯑diery were let looſe to live on free quarter; and his own regiment, inſtructed by his example, and encouraged by his exhortations, diſtinguiſhed them⯑ſelves in a more particular manner by their out⯑rages. By way of pleaſantry, he uſed to denomi⯑nate them his lambs; an appellation which was long remembered with horror in the Weſt of Eng⯑land.

JEFFERIES.

LADY Liſle was widow of one of the regicides, who had enjoyed great favour and authority under Cromwell, and who having fled, after the Reſtora⯑tion, to Lauſanne in Swiſſerland, was there aſſaſ⯑ſinated by three Iriſh ruffians, who hoped to make their fortune by this infamous piece of ſervice. His widow was now proſecuted for harbouring two rebels the day after the battle of Sedgemoor; and [139] Jefferies puſhed on the trial with the moſt unre⯑lenting violence. In vain did the aged priſoner plead, that theſe criminals had been put into no proclamation, had been convicted by no verdict, nor could any man be denominated a traitor, till the ſentence of ſome legal court was paſſed upon him; that it appeared not by any proof, that ſhe was ſo much as acquainted with the guilt of the perſons, or had heard of their joining the rebel⯑lion of Monmouth; that, though ſhe might be ob⯑noxious, on account of her family, it was well known that her heart was ever loyal, and that no perſon in England had ſhed more tears for that fa⯑tal event, in which her huſband had unfortunately bore too great a ſhare; and that the ſame princi⯑ples, which ſhe herſelf had ever embraced, ſhe had carefully inſtilled into her ſon, and had at that very time ſent him to fight againſt thoſe rebels whom ſhe was now accuſed of harbouring. Though theſe arguments did not move Jefferies, they had influence on the jury. Twice they ſeemed inclined to bring in a favourable verdict: they were as often ſent back with menaces and reproaches; and at laſt were conſtrained to give ſentence againſt the pri⯑ſoner. Notwithſtanding all application for par⯑don, the cruel ſentence was executed.

AN ANECDOTE.

THE moſt remarkable incident in the war be⯑tween Richard I. and Philip King of France, was the taking priſoner, in battle, the Biſhop of Beau⯑vais, [140] a martial prelate, who was of the family of Dreux, and a near relation of the French king. Richard, who hated that biſhop, threw him into priſon, and loaded him with irons; and when the Pope demanded his liberty, and claimed him as his ſon, the King ſent his Holineſs the coat of mail which the prelate had worn in battle, and which was all beſmeared with blood: and he replied to him, in the terms employed by Jacob's ſons to that patriarch, This have we found: know now whether it be thy ſon's coat or no.

ADMIRAL BLAKE

HE was conſumed with a dropſy and ſcurvy, and haſtened home, that he might yield up his laſt breath in his native country, which he ſo paſ⯑ſionately loved, and which he had ſo much adorned by his valour. As he came within ſight of land, he expired. Never man ſo zealous for a faction, was ſo much reſpected and eſteemed, even by the oppoſite factions. He was by principle an inflexi⯑ble republican; and the late uſurpations, amidſt all the truſt and careſſes which he received from the ruling powers, were thought to be very little grateful to him. It is ſtill our duty, he ſaid to the ſeamen, to fight for our country, into whatever hands the government may fall. Diſintereſted, generous, liberal; ambitious only of true glory, dreadful only to his avowed enemies; he forms one of the moſt perfect characters of that age, and the leaſt [141] ſtained with thoſe errors and violences which were then ſo predominant. The Protector ordered him a pompous funeral, at the public charge: but the tears of his countrymen were the moſt honourable panegyric on his memory.

THE FATE OF MONTROSE.

WHEN he was carried before the Parliament, which was then ſitting at Loudon, the Chancellor, in a violent declamation, reproached him with the breach of the national covenant, which he had ſubſcribed; his rebellion againſt God, the King, and the kingdom; and the many horrible murders, treaſons, and impieties, for which he was now to be brought to condign puniſhment. Montroſe, in his anſwer, maintained the ſame ſuperiority above his enemies, to which, by his fame and great ac⯑tions, as well as by the conſcience of a good cauſe, he was juſtly entitled.

CROMWELL.

ALL compoſure of mind was now for ever fled from the Protector: he found, that the grandeur which he had attained with ſo much guilt and courage, could not inſure him that tranquillity which it belongs to virtue alone, and moderation, fully to aſcertain. Overwhelmed with the load of public affairs, dreading perpetually ſome fatal ac⯑cident in his diſtempered government, ſeeing no⯑thing around him but treacherous friends or en⯑raged enemies, poſſeſſing the confidence of no party, reſting his title on no principle civil or religious, his power he found to depend on ſo de⯑licate a poiſe of faction and intereſt, as the ſmalleſt event was able, without any preparation, in a mo⯑ment to overturn. Death too, which with ſuch ſignal intrepidity he had braved in the field, be⯑ing inceſſantly threatened by the poniards of fana⯑tical or intereſted aſſaſſins, was ever preſent to his terrified apprehenſions, and haunted him in every ſcene of buſineſs or repoſe. Each action of his life betrayed the terrors under which he laboured. The aſpect of ſtrangers was uneaſy to him. With a piercing and anxious eye he ſurveyed every face to which he was not daily accuſtomed. He never moved a ſtep without ſtrong guards attending him: he wore armour under his clothes, and farther ſe⯑cured himſelf by offenſive weapons, a ſword, fal⯑chion, and piſtols, which he always carried about him. He returned from no place by the direct [145] road, or by the ſame way which he went. Every journey he performed with hurry and precipi⯑tation. Seldom he ſlept above three nights in the ſame chamber: and he never let it be known before-hand what chamber he intended to chooſe, nor entruſted himſelf in any which was not pro⯑vided with back-doors, at which centinels were carefully placed. Society terrified him, while he reflected on his numerous, unknown, implacable enemies: ſolitude aſtoniſhed him, by withdrawing that protection which he found ſo neceſſary for his ſecurity.

THE SACK OF ROME BY THE GERMANS.

FRANCIS was extremely deſirous that the appearance of this great confederacy ſhould engage the Emperor to relax ſomewhat of the extreme rigour of the treaty of Madrid: and while he en⯑tertained theſe hopes, he was the more remiſs in his warlike preparations; nor did he ſend in due time reinforcements to his allies in Italy. The Duke of Bourbon had got poſſeſſion of the whole Milaneſe, of which the Emperor intended to grant him the inveſtiture; and having levied a conſidera⯑ble army in Germany, he became formidable to all the Italian potentates; and not the leſs ſo, becauſe Charles, deſtitute of money, had not been able to remit any pay to the forces. The general was ex⯑tremely beloved by his troops; and, in order to prevent thoſe mutinies which were ready to break [144] [...] [145] [...] [146] out every moment, and which their affection for him had hitherto reſtrained, he led them to Rome, and promiſed to enrich them by the plunder of that opulent city. He was himſelf killed, as he was planting a ladder to ſcale the walls; but his ſoldiers, rather enraged than diſcouraged by his death, mounted to the aſſault by the utmoſt valour, and, entering the city ſword in hand, exerciſed all thoſe brutalities which may be expected from fero⯑city excited by reſiſtance, and inſolence which takes place when that reſiſtance is no more. This renowned city, expoſed, by her renown alone, to ſo many calamities, never endured in any age, even from the barbarians by whom ſhe was often ſubdued, ſuch indignities as ſhe was now con⯑ſtrained to ſuffer. The unreſtrained maſſacre and pillage, which continued for ſeveral days, were the leaſt ills to which the unhappy Romans were expoſed. Whatever was reſpectable in modeſty, or ſacred in religion, ſeemed but the more to pro⯑voke the inſults of the ſoldiery. Virgins ſuffered violation in the arms of their parents, and upon thoſe very altars to which they had fled for pro⯑tection. Aged prelates, after enduring every in⯑dignity, and even every torture, were thrown into dungeons, and menaced each moment with the moſt cruel death, in order to engage them to re⯑veal their ſecret treaſures, or purchaſe liberty by exorbitant ranſoms. Clement himſelf, who had truſted for protection to the ſacredneſs of his cha⯑racter, and neglected to make his eſcape in time, [147] was taken captive, and found that his dignity, which procured him no regard from the Spaniſh ſoldiers, did but draw on him the inſolent mock⯑ery of the German, who, being generally attached to the Lutheran principles, were pleaſed to gratify their animoſity by the abaſement of the ſovereign pontiff.

IMPUDENCE AND MODESTY, AN ALLEGORY.

JUPITER, in the beginning, joined Virtue, Wiſdom, and Confidence together; and Vice, Folly, and Diffidence: and in that ſociety ſet them upon the earth. But though he thought he had matched them with great judgment, and ſaid that Confidence was the natural companion of Virtue, and that Vice deſerved to be attended with Diffidence, they had not gone far before diſ⯑ſenſion aroſe among them. Wiſdom, who was the guide of the one company, was always accuſ⯑tomed, before ſhe ventured upon any road, how⯑ever beaten, to examine it carefully, to enquire whither it led, what dangers, difficulties, and hin⯑drances might poſſibly or probably occur in it. In theſe deliberations ſhe uſually conſumed ſome time; which delay was very diſpleaſing to Confi⯑dence, who was always inclined to hurry on, with⯑out much forethought or deliberation, in the firſt road he met. Wiſdom and Virtue were inſepara⯑ble; but Confidence one day, following his impe⯑tuous [148] nature, advanced a conſiderable way before his guides and companions; and, not feeling any want of their company, he never enquired after them, nor ever met with them more. In like manner, the other ſociety, though joined by Ju⯑piter, diſagreed and ſeparated. As Folly ſaw very little way before her, ſhe had nothing to de⯑termine concerning the goodneſs of roads, nor could give the preference to one above another; and this want of reſolution was increaſed by Diffi⯑dence, who, with her doubts and ſcruples, always retarded the journey. This was a great annoy⯑ance to Vice, who loved not to hear of difficulties and delays, and was never ſatisfied without his full career, in whatever his inclinations led him to. Folly, he knew, though ſhe hearkened to Diffi⯑dence, would be eaſily managed when alone; and therefore, as a vicious horſe throws his rider, he openly beat away this controller of all his plea⯑ſures, and proceeded in his journey with Folly, from whom he is inſeparable. Confidence and Diffidence being, after this manner, both thrown looſe from their reſpective companies, wandered for ſome time, till at laſt chance led them at the ſame time to one village. Confidence went di⯑rectly up to the great houſe, which belonged to Wealth, the lord of the village; and, without ſtaying for a porter, intruded himſelf immediately into the innermoſt apartments, where he found Vice and Folly well received before him. He joined the train, recommended himſelf very quick⯑ly [149] to his landlord, and entered into ſuch familia⯑rity with Vice, that he was enliſted in the ſame company along with Folly. They were frequent gueſts of Wealth, and from that moment inſepa⯑rable. Diffidence, in the mean time, not daring to approach the great houſe, accepted of an invi⯑tation from Poverty, one of the tenants; and, en⯑tering the cottage, found Wiſdom and Virtue, who, being repulſed by the landlord, had retired thither. Virtue took compaſſion of her, and Wiſ⯑dom found, from her temper, that ſhe would ea⯑ſily improve: ſo they admitted her into their ſo⯑ciety. Accordingly, by their means, ſhe altered in a little time ſomewhat of her manner, and be⯑coming much more amiable and engaging, was now called by the name of Modeſty. As ill com⯑pany has a greater effect than good, Confidence, though more refractory to counſel and example, degenerated ſo far by the ſociety of Vice and Fol⯑ly, as to paſs by the name of Impudence. Man⯑kind, who ſaw theſe ſocieties as Jupiter firſt joined them, and know nothing of theſe mutual deſer⯑tions, are led into ſtrange miſtakes by thoſe, means, and wherever they ſee Impudence, make account of Virtue and Wiſdom, and wherever they obſerve Modeſty call her attendants Vice and Folly.

OF THE STUDY OF HISTORY.

THERE is nothing I would recommend more earneſtly to my female readers than the Study of Hiſtory, as an occupation, of all others, the beſt ſuited both to their ſex and education; much more inſtructive than their ordinary books of amuſe⯑ment, and more entertaining than thoſe ſerious compoſitions which are uſually to be found in their cloſets. Among other important truths, which they may learn from hiſtory, they may be informed of two particulars, the knowledge of which may contribute very much to their quiet and repoſe; That our ſex, as well as theirs, are far from being ſuch perfect creatures as they are apt to imagine; and, That Love is not the only paſſion that governs the male world, but is often overcome by avarice, ambition, vanity, and a thouſand other paſſions. Whether they be the falſe repreſentations of mankind in thoſe two par⯑ticulars that endear romances and novels ſo much so the fair ſex, I know not; but muſt confeſs, I am ſorry to ſee them have ſuch an averſion to matter of fact, and ſuch an appetite for falſehood. I remember I was once deſired by a young beauty, for whom I had ſome paſſion, to ſend her ſome novels and romances for her amuſement in the country; but was not ſo ungenerous as to take the advantage which ſuch a courſe of reading might have given me, being reſolved not to make [151] uſe of poiſoned arms againſt her. I therefore ſent her Plutarch's Lives, aſſuring her, at the ſame time, that there was not a word of truth in them from beginning to end. She peruſed them very attentively till ſhe came to the Lives of Alexander and Caeſar, whoſe names ſhe had heard of by acci⯑dent; and then returned me the book, with many, reproaches for deceiving her.

I may indeed be told, that the fair ſex have no ſuch averſion to hiſtory as I have repreſented, pro⯑vided it be ſecret hiſtory, and contain ſome memo⯑rable tranſaction proper to excite their curioſity. But as I do not find that truth, which is the baſis of hiſtory, is at all regarded in thoſe anecdotes, I cannot admit of this as a proof of their paſſion for that ſtudy. However this may be, I ſee not why the ſame curioſity might not receive a more proper direction, and lead them to deſire accounts of thoſe who lived in paſt ages, as well as of their contemporaries. What is it to Cleora, whether Fulvia entertains a ſecret commerce of love with Philander or not? Has ſhe not equal reaſon to be pleaſed, when ſhe is informed, (what is whiſpered about among hiſtorians) that Cato's ſiſter had an intrigue with Caeſar, and palmed her ſon, Marcus Brutus, upon her huſband for his own, though in reality he was her gallant's? And are not the loves of Meſſalina or Julia as proper ſubjects of diſcourſe as any intrigue that this city has pro⯑duced of late years?

[152] But I know not whence it comes that I have been thus ſeduced into a kind of raillery againſt the ladies; unleſs, perhaps, it proceed from the ſame cauſe that makes the perſon who is the fa⯑vourite of the company, be often the object of their good-natured jeſts and pleaſantries. We are pleaſed to addreſs ourſelves after any manner to a perſon that is agreeable to us; and, at the ſame time, preſume that nothing will be taken amiſs by one who is ſecure of the good opinion and affec⯑tions of every one preſent. I ſhall now proceed to handle my ſubject more ſeriouſly, and ſhall point out the many advantages that flow from the Study of Hiſtory, and ſhow how well ſuited it is to every one, but particularly to thoſe who are debarred the ſeverer ſtudies, by the tenderneſs of their com⯑plexion, and the weakneſs of their education. The advantages found in hiſtory ſeem to be of three kinds, as it amuſes the fancy, as it improves the underſtanding, and as it ſtrengthens virtue.

In reality, what more agreeable entertainment to the mind, than to be tranſported into the remoteſt ages of the world, and to obſerve human ſociety, in its infancy, making the firſt faint eſſays towards the arts and ſciences? To ſee the policy of go⯑vernment and the civility of converſation ref [...]ning by degrees, and every thing that is ornamental to human life advancing towards its perfection? To mark the riſe, progreſs, declenſion, and final ex⯑tinction of the moſt flouriſhing empires; the vir⯑tues [153] which contributed to their greatneſs, and the vices which drew on their ruin? In ſhort, to ſee all human race, from the beginning of time, paſs, as it were, in review before us, appearing in their true colours, without any of thoſe diſguiſes which, during their life-time, ſo much perplexed the judgments of the beholders? What ſpectacle can be imagined ſo magnificent, ſo various, ſo inte⯑reſting? What amuſement, either of the ſenſes or imagination, can be compared with it? Shall thoſe trifling paſtimes, which engroſs ſo much of our time, be preferred as more ſatisfactory, and more ſit to engage our attention? How perverſe muſt that taſte be, which is capable of ſo wrong a choice of pleaſures!

But hiſtory is a moſt improving part of know⯑ledge, as well as an agreeable amuſement; and in⯑deed a great part of what we commonly call eru⯑dition, and value ſo highly, is nothing but an acquaintance with hiſtorical facts. An extenſive knowledge of this kind belongs to Men of Let⯑ters; but I muſt think it an unpardonable igno⯑rance in perſons, of whatever ſex or condition, not to be acquainted with the hiſtory of their own country along with the hiſtories of ancient Greece and Rome. A woman may behave herſelf with good-manners, and have even ſome vivacity in her turn of wit; but, where her mind is ſo unfurniſh⯑ed, 'tis impoſſible her converſation can afford any entertainment to men of ſenſe and reflection.

[154] I muſt add, that hiſtory is not only a valuable part of knowledge, but opens the door to many other parts of knowledge, and affords materials to [...] of the ſciences. And indeed, if we con⯑ſider the ſhortneſs of human life, and our limited knowledge, even of what paſſes in our own time, we muſt be ſenſible that we ſhould be for ever chil⯑dren in underſtanding, were it not for this inven⯑tion, which extends our experience to all paſt ages, and to the moſt diſtant nations; making them con⯑tribute as much to our improvement in wiſdom as if they had actually lain under our obſervation. A man acquainted with hiſtory may, in ſome re⯑ſpect, be ſaid to have lived from the beginning of the world, and to have been making continual ad⯑ditions to his ſtock of knowledge in every cen⯑tury.

There is alſo an advantage in that knowledge which is acquired by hiſtory, above what is learn⯑ed by the practice of the world, that it brings us acquainted with human affairs, without diminiſh⯑ing in the leaſt from the moſt delicate ſenti⯑ments of virtue. And, to tell the truth, I know not any ſtudy or occupation ſo unexceptionable as hiſtory in this particular. Poets can paint virtue in the moſt charming colours; but, as they addreſs themſelves entirely to the paſſions, they often be⯑come advocates for vice. Even philoſophers are apt to bewilder themſelves in the ſubtilty of their ſpeculations; and we have ſeen ſome go ſo far as [155] to deny the reality of all moral diſtinctions. But I think it a remark worthy the attention of the ſpeculative reader, that the hiſtorians have been, almoſt without exception, the true friends of vir⯑tue, and have always repreſented it in its proper colours, however they may have erred in their judgments of particular perſons. Machiavel him⯑ſelf diſcovers a true ſentiment of virtue in his Hiſ⯑tory of Florence. When he talks as a politician, in his general reaſonings, he conſiders poiſoning, aſſaſſination, and perjury, as lawful arts of power; but when he ſpeaks as an hiſtorian, in his particu⯑lar narrations, he ſhows ſo keen an indignation againſt vice, and ſo warm an approbation of vir⯑tue, in many paſſages, that I could not forbear applying to him that remark of Horace, That if you chaſe away nature, though with never ſo great indignity, ſhe will always return upon you. Nor is this combination of hiſtorians in favour of virtue at all difficult to be accounted for. When a man of buſineſs enters into life and action, he is more apt to conſider the characters of men as they have relation to his intereſt than as they ſtand in them⯑ſelves, and has his judgment warped on every oc⯑caſion by the violence of his paſſion. When a philoſopher contemplates characters and manners in his cloſet, the general abſtract view of the ob⯑jects leaves the mind ſo cold und unmoved that the ſentiments of nature have no room to play, and he ſcarce feels the difference betwixt vice and virtue. Hiſtory keeps in a juſt medium betwixt theſe ex⯑tremes, [156] and places the objects in their true point of view. The writers of hiſtory, as well as the readers, are ſufficiently intereſted in the characters and events, to have a lively ſentiment of blame or praiſe; and, at the ſame time, have no particular intereſt or concern to pervert their judgment.

AVARICE.

A MISER being dead, and fairly interred, came to the banks of the Styx, deſiring to be ferry'd over along with the other ghoſts. Charon de⯑mands his fare, and is ſurpriſed to ſee the Miſer, rather than pay it, throw himſelf into the river, and ſwim over to the other ſide, notwithſtanding all the clamour and oppoſition that could be made to him. All hell was in an uproar; and each of the judges was meditating ſome puniſhment ſuit⯑able to a crime of ſuch dangerous conſequence to the infernal revenues. Shall he be chained to the rock along with Prometheus? or tremble below the precipice in company with the Danaides? or aſſiſt Siſyphus in rolling his ſtone? No, ſays Minos; none of theſe. We muſt invent ſome ſeverer pu⯑niſhment. Let him be ſent back to the earth, to ſee the uſe his heirs are making of his riches.

ON THE SAME.

OUR old mother Earth once laid an indictment againſt Avarice before the courts of heaven, for her wicked and malicious counſel and advice, in tempting, inducing, perſuading, and traiterouſly ſeducing the children of the plaintiff to commit the deteſtable crime of parricide upon her, and, mangling her body, ranſack her very bowels for hidden treaſure. The indictment was very long and verboſe; but we muſt omit a great part of the repetitions and ſynonymous terms, not to tire our reader too much with our tale. Avarice, be⯑ing called before Jupiter to anſwer to this charge, had not much to ſay in her own defence. The injury was clearly proved upon her. The fact, indeed, was notorious, and the injury had been frequently repeated. When therefore the plain⯑tiff demanded juſtice, Jupiter very readily gave ſentence in her favour; and his decree was to this purpoſe, That ſince Dame Avarice, the defen⯑dant, had thus grievouſly injured Dame Earth, the plaintiff, ſhe was hereby ordered to take that treaſure of which ſhe had feloniouſly robbed the ſaid plaintiff by ranſacking her boſom, and in the ſame manner as before, opening her boſom, re⯑ſtore it back to her, without diminution or reten⯑tion. From this ſentence, it ſhall follow, ſays Jupiter to the by-ſtanders, that, in all future ages, the retainers of Avarice ſhall bury and conceal their riches, and thereby reſtore to the Earth what they took from her.

LOVE AND MARRIAGE. AN ALLEGORY.

MANKIND were not, as at preſent, originally divided into male and female; but each individual was a compound of both ſexes, and was in himſelf both Huſband and Wife, melted down into one living creature. This union was doubtleſs very entire, and the parts well adjuſted together, ſince there ſubſiſted the moſt perfect harmony between male and female, though obliged to continue in⯑ſeparable companions. But ſo great was the hap⯑pineſs flowing from this union, that the men-women became inſolent on their proſperity, and rebelled againſt the gods. To puniſh them for this teme⯑rity, Jupiter could contrive no better expedient, than to divorce the male part from the female, and make two imperfect beings of the compound, which was before ſo perfect. Hence the origin of men and women, as diſtinct creatures. But, not⯑withſtanding our diviſion, ſo lively is our remem⯑brance of the happineſs enjoyed in our primaeval ſtate, that we are never at reſt in the preſent. Each of theſe halves is continually ſearching through the whole ſpecies to find the other half, which was broken from it: and when they meet, they join again with the greateſt fondneſs and ſympathy. But it often happens, that they are miſtaken in this particular; that they take for their half what no way correſponds to them; and that the parts do not meet nor join in with each other, as is uſual [159] with fractures. In this caſe, the union is ſoon, diſſolved, and each part is ſet looſe again, to hunt for its loſt half; joining itſelf to every one it meets, by way of trial, and enjoying no reſt, till its per⯑fect ſympathy with its partner ſhews that it has at laſt been ſucceſsful in its endeavours.

When Jupiter had ſeparated the male from the female, and had quelled their pride and ambition by ſo ſevere an operation, he could not but repent him of the cruelty of his vengeance, and take compaſſion on poor mortals, who were now become incapable of any repoſe or tranquillity. Such cravings, ſuch anxieties, ſuch neceſſities, aroſe, as made them curſe their creation, and think ex⯑iſtence itſelf a puniſhment. In vain had they re⯑courſe to every other occupation and amuſement. In vain did they ſeek after every pleaſure of ſenſe, and every refinement of reaſon. Nothing could fill that void, which they felt in their hearts, or ſupply the loſs of their partner, who was ſo fatally ſeparated from them. To remedy this diſorder, and to beſtow ſome comfort, at leaſt, on human race in their forlorn ſituation, Jupiter ſent down Love and Hymen to collect the broken halves of human kind, and piece them together, in the beſt manner poſſible. Theſe two deities found ſuch a prompt diſpoſition in mankind to unite again in their primitive ſtate, that they proceeded on their work with wonderful ſucceſs for ſome time; till at laſt, from many unlucky accidents, diſſenſion aroſe [160] betwixt them. The chief counſellor and favourite of Hymen was Care, who was continually filling his patron's head with proſpects of futurity; a ſettle⯑ment, family, children, ſervants; ſo that little elſe was regarded in all the matches they made. On the other hand, Love had choſen Pleaſure for his favourite, who was as pernicious a counſellor as the other, and would never allow Love to look be⯑yond the preſent momentary gratification, or the ſatisfying of the prevailing inclination. Theſe two favourites became, in a little time, irrecon⯑cileable enemies, and made it their chief buſineſs to undermine each other in all their undertakings. No ſooner had Love fixed upon two halves, which he was cementing together, and forming to a cloſe union, but Care inſinuates himſelf, and, bringing Hymen along with him, diſſolves the union pro⯑duced by Love, and joins each half to ſome other half, which he had provided for it. To be re⯑venged of this, Pleaſure creeps in upon a pair al⯑ready joined by Hymen; and calling Love to his aſſiſtance, they under-hand contrive to join each half, by ſecret links, to halves which Hymen was wholly unacquainted with. It was not long before this quarrel was felt in its pernicious conſequences; arid ſuch complaints aroſe before the throne of Jupiter, that he was obliged to ſummon the offend⯑ing parties to appear before him, in order to give an account of their proceedings. After hearing the pleadings on both ſides, he ordered an imme⯑diate reconcilement betwixt Love and Hymen, as the [161] only expedient for giving happineſs to mankind: and that he might be ſure this reconcilement ſhould be durable, he laid his ſtrict injunctions on them, never to join any halves without conſulting their favourites, Care and Pleaſure, and obtaining the conſent of both to the conjunction. Where this order is ſtrictly obſerved, the Androgyne ^* is perfectly reſtored, and human race enjoy the ſame happineſs as in their primaeval ſtate. The ſeam is ſcarce perceived that joins the two beings together; but both of them combine to form one perfect and happy creature.

A CURIOUS LETTER.

I KNOW you are more curious of accounts of men than of buildings, and are more deſirous of being informed of private hiſtory than of public tranſactions; for which reaſon, I thought the following ſtory, which is the common topic of converſation in this city, would be no unacceptable entertainment to you.

A young lady of birth and fortune, being left entirely at her own diſpoſal, perſiſted long in a re⯑ſolution of leading a ſingle life, notwithstanding ſeveral advantageous offers that had been made to her. She had been determined to embrace this reſolution, by obſerving the many unhappy mar⯑riages [162] among her acquaintance, and by hearing the complaints which her female friends made of the tyranny, inconſtancy, jealouſy, or indifference of their huſbands. Being a woman of ſtrong ſpi⯑rit, and an uncommon way of thinking, ſhe found no difficulty either in forming or maintaining this reſolution, and could not ſuſpect herſelf of ſuch weakneſs, as ever to be induced, by any tempta⯑tion, to depart from it. She had, however, en⯑tertained a ſtrong deſire of having a ſon, whoſe education ſhe was reſolved to make the principal concern of her life, and by that means ſupply the place of thoſe other paſſions, which ſhe was re⯑ſolved for ever to renounce. She puſhed her phi⯑loſophy to ſuch an uncommon length, as to find no contradiction betwixt ſuch a deſire and her former reſolution; and accordingly looked about, with great deliberation, to find, among all her male acquaintance, one whoſe character and per⯑ſon were agreeable to her, without being able to ſatisfy herſelf on that head. At length, being in the play-houſe one evening, ſhe ſees, in the par⯑terre, a young man of a moſt engaging countenance and modeſt deportment; and feels ſuch a pre-poſ⯑ſeſſion in his favour, that ſhe had hopes this muſt be the perſon ſhe had long ſought for in vain. She immediately diſpatches a ſervant to him; deſiring his company, at her lodgings, next morning. The young man was over-joyed at the meſſage, and could not command his ſatisfaction, upon receiv⯑ing ſuch an advance from a lady of ſo great beau⯑ty, [163] reputation, and quality. He was, therefore, much diſappointed, when he found a woman who would allow him no freedoms, and, amidſt all her obliging behaviour, confined and over-awed him to the bounds of rational diſcourſe and converſa⯑tion. She ſeemed, however, willing to commence a friendſhip with him; and told him, that his company would always be acceptable to her, when⯑ever he had a leiſure hour to beſtow. He needed not much intreaty to renew his viſits; being ſo ſtruck with her wit and beauty, that he muſt have been unhappy, had he been debarred her company. Every converſation ſerved only the more to inflame his paſſion, and gave him more occaſion to admire her perſon and underſtanding, as well as to rejoice in his own good fortune. He was not, however, without anxiety, when he conſidered the diſpro⯑portion of their birth and fortune; nor was his uneaſineſs allayed, even when he reflected on the extraordinary manner in which their acquaintance had commenced. Our philoſophical heroine, in the mean time, diſcovered that her lover's perſo⯑nal qualities did not belie his phyſiognomy; ſo that, judging there was no occaſion for any farther trial, ſhe takes a proper opportunity of communi⯑cating to him her whole intention. Their inter⯑courſe continued for ſome time, till at laſt her wiſhes were crowned, and ſhe was now mother of a boy, who was to be the object of her future care and concern. Gladly would ſhe have continued her friendſhip with the father; but finding him [164] too paſſionate a lover to remain within the bounds of friendſhip, ſhe was obliged to put a violence upon herſelf. She ſends him a letter, in which ſhe had incloſed a bond of annuity for a thouſand crowns; deſiring him, at the ſame time, never to ſee her more, and to forget, if poſſible, all paſt favours and familiarities. He was thunder-ſtruck at receiving this meſſage; and, having tried, in vain, all the arts that might win upon the reſolu⯑tion of a woman, reſolved at laſt to attack her by her foible. He commences a law-ſuit againſt her before the parliament of Paris; and claims his ſon, whom he pretends a right to educate as he pleaſed, according to the uſual maxims of the law in ſuch caſes. She pleads, on the other hand, their expreſs agreement before their commerce, and pretends, that he had renounced all claim to any offspring that might ariſe from their embraces. It is not yet known, how the parliament will de⯑termine in this extraordinary caſe, which puzzles all the lawyers, as much as it does the philoſophers. As ſoon as they come to any iſſue, I ſhall inform you of it; and ſhall embrace any opportunity of ſubſcribing myſelf, as I do at preſent,

A FABLE.

ONE rivulet meeting another, with whom he had been long united in ſtricteſt amity, with noiſy haughtineſs and diſdain thus beſpoke him: "What, brother! ſtill in the ſame ſtate! ſtill [165] low and creeping! Are you not aſhamed, when you behold me, who, though lately in a like con⯑dition with you, am now become a great river, and ſhall ſhortly be able to rival the Danube or the Rhine, provided thoſe friendly rains continue, which have favoured my banks, but neglected yours?" "Very true," replies the humble rivulet; "you are now, indeed, ſwoln to great ſize: but methinks you are become, withal, ſomewhat tur⯑bulent and muddy. I am contented with my low condition and my purity."

CHARACTER OF A GREAT MINISTER.

THERE never was a man, whoſe actions and character have been more earneſtly and openly can⯑vaſſed, than thoſe of the preſent Miniſter, who, having governed a learned and free nation for ſo long a time, amidſt ſuch mighty oppoſition, may make a large library of what has been wrote for and againſt him, and is the ſubject of above half the paper that has been blotted in this nation within theſe twenty years. I wiſh, for the honour of our country, that any one character of him had been drawn with ſuch judgment and impartia⯑lity, as to have ſome credit with poſterity, and to ſhew, that our liberty has, once at leaſt, been employed to good purpoſe. I am only afraid of failing in the former quality of judgment: but if it ſhould be ſo, 'tis but one page more thrown away, after an hundred thouſand, upon the ſame ſubject, that have periſhed, and become uſeleſs. [166] In the mean time, I ſhall flatter myſelf with the pleaſing imagination, that the following character will be adopted by future hiſtorians.

Sir Robert Walpole, Prime Miniſter of Great-Britain, is a man of ability, not a genius; good-natured, not virtuous; conſtant, not magnani⯑mous; moderate, not equitable^*. His virtues, in ſome inſtances, are free from the allay of thoſe vices which uſually accompany ſuch virtues: he is a generous friend, without being a bitter enemy. His vices, in other inſtances, are not compenſated by thoſe virtues which are nearly allied to them: his want of enterpriſe is not attended with fruga⯑lity. The private character of the man is better than the public; his virtues more than his vices; his fortune greater than his fame. With many good qualities, he has incurred the public hatred: with good capacity, he has not eſcaped ridicule. He would have been eſteemed more worthy of his high ſtation, had he never poſſeſſed it; and is bet⯑ter qualified for the ſecond than for the firſt place in any government. His miniſtry has been more advantageous to his family than to the public, better for this age than for poſterity, and more pernicious by bad precedents than by real griev⯑ances. During his time, trade has flouriſhed, liberty declined, and learning gone to ruin. As I [167] am a man, I love him; as I am a ſcholar, I hate him; as I am a Briton, I calmly wiſh his fall. And were I a Member of either Houſe, I would give my vote for removing him from St. James's; but ſhould be glad to ſee him retire to Houghton-Hall, to paſs the remainder of his days in eaſe and pleaſure.

MINISTERIAL RESPONSIBILITY.

THOUGH our Kings can do no wrong, and though they cannot be called to account by any form our conſtitution preſcribes, their Miniſters may. They are anſwerable for the adminiſtration of the government: each for his particular part; and the prime or ſole Miniſter, when there hap⯑pens to be one, for the whole. He is ſo the more, and the more juſtly, if he hath affected to render himſelf ſo by uſurping on his fellows; by wrig⯑gling, intriguing, whiſpering, and bargaining himſelf into this dangerous poſt, to which he was not called by the general ſuffrage, nor perhaps by the deliberate choice of his maſter himſelf.

A KING.

HE is really nothing more than a ſupreme Ma⯑giſtrate, inſtituted for the ſervice of the commu⯑nity, [170] which requires that the executive power ſhould be veſted in a ſingle perſon. He hath, indeed, a crown on his head, a ſceptre in his hand, and velvet robes on his back; and he ſits elevated on a throne, whilſt others ſtand on the ground about him; and all this to denote that he is a King, and to draw the attention and reverence of the vulgar. Juſt ſo another man wears a mitre on his head, a croſier in his hand, and lawn ſleeves, and ſits in a purple elbow-chair; to denote that he is a Biſhop, and to excite the devotion of the mul⯑titude, who receive his benediction very thank⯑fully on their knees. But ſtill the King, as well as the Biſhop, holds an office, and owes a ſervice. The King, when he commands, diſcharges a truſt, and performs a duty, as well as the ſubject when he obeys.

SAXON KINGS.

THE manner in which the Saxons eſtabliſhed themſelves, and the long wars they waged for and againſt the Britons, led to and maintained monar⯑chical rule amongſt them. But theſe Kings were, in their firſt inſtitution, no doubt, ſuch as Tacitus deſcribes the German Kings and Princes to have been; Chiefs, who perſuaded, rather than com⯑manded; and who were heard in the public aſſem⯑blies of the nation, according as their age, their nobility, their military fame, or their eloquence, gave them authority. How many doughty Mo⯑narchs, [171] in later and more polite ages, would have ſlept in cottages, and have worked in ſtalls, in⯑ſtead of inhabiting palaces, and being cuſhioned up in thrones, if this rule of government had con⯑tinued in force!

THE BRITISH KING.

A KING of Britain is now, ſtrictly and pro⯑perly, what Kings ſhould always be, a member, but the ſupreme member, or the head, of a poli⯑tical body. Part of one individual, ſpecific whole, in every reſpect; diſtinct from it, or independent of it, in none; he can move no longer in another orbit from his people, and, like ſome ſuperior planet, attract, repel, influence, and direct their motions by his own. He and they are parts of the ſame ſyſtem intimately joined and co-operating to⯑gether, acted and acting upon, limiting and limit⯑ed, controuling and controuled, by one another; and when he ceaſes to ſtand in this relation to them, he ceaſes to ſtand in any. The ſettlements, by virtue of which he governs, are plainly original contracts: his inſtitution is plainly conditional: and he may forſeit his right to allegiance as unde⯑niably and effectually, as the ſubject may forſeit his right to protection. There are no longer any hidden reſerves of authority, to be let out on oc⯑caſion, and to overflow the rights and privileges of the people. The laws of the land are known; [172] and they are the ſole ſprings, from whence the Prince can derive his pretenſions, and the people theirs.

A BAD MINISTER.

A MINISTER who made his adminiſtration hateful in ſome reſpects, and deſpicable in others; who ſought that ſecurity by ruining the conſtitu⯑tion, which he had forfeited by diſhonouring the government; who encouraged the profligate, and ſeduced the unwary, to concur with him in this deſign, by affecting to explode all public ſpirit, and to ridicule every form of our conſtitution; ſuch a Miniſter would be looked upon moſt juſtly as the ſhame and ſcourge of his country; ſooner or later he would fall without pity; and it is hard to ſay what puniſhment would be proportionable to his crimes.

NATIONAL UNANIMITY.

TO divide, can never be an expedient for good purpoſes, any more than to corrupt; ſince the peace and proſperity of a nation will always de⯑pend on uniting, as far as poſſible, the heads, hearts, and hands, of the whole people; and on improving, not debauching, their morals. Divide et impera, is a maxim often quoted. How are we to apply it? There is no place for it in arbitrary [173] governments; for in them the intereſt of the go⯑vernors requires that a ſervile union, if it may be called an union, ſhould be maintained by the weight of power, like that of ſlaves in a galley, who are united by their chains, and who tug the oar together at the ſound of a whiſtle.

PROSCRIPTIONS.

PROSCRIPTIONS are abominable, and in⯑human, when they are backed by a fullneſs of ar⯑bitrary power. But to hang up the tables of pro⯑ſcription, without the power of ſending centurions to cut off every-head that wears a face diſliked at court, would be madneſs in a Prince. Such a con⯑duct cannot ſuit his intereſt, however it may his paſſions, in any circumſtance whatever.

THE DEPENDENCE OF PARLIAMENT.

WHO could have expected to hear a dependency, a corrupt dependency, of the Parliament on the Crown, contended for, and aſſerted to be a neceſ⯑ſary expedient to ſupply a want of power which is falſely ſuppoſed in the Crown; as if our fathers had oppoſed, and at length deſtroyed, that chi⯑mera, called Prerogative, formerly ſo dangerous to our liberties, for no other reaſon but to furniſh arguments for letting looſe upon us another mon⯑ſter, more dangerous to our liberties!

PUBLIC RUIN.

IT will always be trifling and fooliſh, to aſk what laws have been broken, what invaſions on the conſtitution have been made? becauſe, as nothing of this ſort will be done when there are no deſigns dangerous to the conſtitution carried on; ſo, when there are ſuch deſigns, whatever is done of this ſort will be private, indirect, and ſo covered, that the greateſt moral certainty may be deſtitute of proof. Whenever any of theſe things are done publicly, directly, and in a manner to be eaſily proved, the danger will be over, the conſti⯑tution will be deſtroyed; and all fear for it, and concern about it, will be impertinent, becauſe they will come too late.

ERROR.

NOTHING can give ſtability and durable uni⯑formity to error. Indolence, or ignorance, may keep it floating, as it were, on the ſurface of the mind, and ſometimes hinder truth from penetra⯑ting; or force may maintain it in poſſeſſion, when the mind aſſents to it no longer. But ſuch opi⯑nions, like; human bodies, tend to their diſſolution from their birth. They will be ſoon rejected in theory, where men can think; and in practice, where men can act with freedom. They maintain themſelves no longer, than the ſame means of ſe⯑duction which firſt introduced them, or the ſame [175] circumſtances which firſt impoſed them, attend and continue to ſupport them. Men are dragged into them, and held down in them, by chains of cir⯑cumſtances. Break but theſe chains, and the mind returns with a kind of intellectual elaſticity to its proper object, truth.

KNOWLEDGE OF CHARACTER.

NOTHING is more uſeful, nothing more ne⯑ceſſary, in the conduct of public affairs, than a juſt diſcernment of ſpirits. I mean, here, not only that natural private ſagacity, which is con⯑verſant about individuals, and enables ſome men to pry, as it were, into the heads and hearts of others, and to diſcover within them thoſe latent principles which conſtitute their true characters, and are often diſguiſed in outward action; but I mean, principally, that acquired, public, political ſagacity, which is of the ſame kind, though I think not altogether the ſame thing, as the former; which flows from nature too, but requires more to be aſſiſted by experience, and formed by art. This is that ſuperior talent of Miniſters of State, which is ſo rarely found in thoſe of other countries, and which abounds ſo happily, at preſent, in thoſe of Great-Britain. It is by this, that they diſcover the moſt ſecret diſpoſitions of other courts, and, diſcovering thoſe diſpoſitions, prevent their de⯑ſigns, or never ſuffer themſelves to be ſurpriſed by [176] them. It is by this, that they watch over the public tranquillity at home; foreſee what effects every event that happens, and, much more, every ſtep they make themſelves, will have on the ſenti⯑ments and paſſions of mankind. This part of hu⯑man wiſdom is, therefore, every where of uſe; but is of indiſpenſible neceſſity in free countries, where a greater regard is to be conſtantly had to the va⯑rious fluctuations of parties; to the temper, hu⯑mour, opinion, and prejudices, of the people. Without ſuch a regard as this, thoſe combinations of peculiar circumſtances, which we commonly call conjunctures, can never be improved to the beſt advantage, by acting in conformity and in propor⯑tion to them; and without improving ſuch con⯑junctures to the beſt advantage, it is impoſſible to atchieve any great undertaking, or even to conduct affairs ſucceſsfully in their ordinary courſe.

MINISTERIAL PREROGATIVE.

IT is certainly an eaſier talk, and there is ſome⯑what leſs provoking, as well as leſs dangerous, in it, to ſtruggle even with a great Prince, who ſtands on prerogative, than with a weak but profligate Miniſter, if he hath the means of corruption in his power, and if the luxury and proſtitution of the age have enabled him to bring it into faſhion. Nothing, ſurely, could provoke men, who had the ſpirit of liberty in their ſouls, more than to figure [177] to themſelves one of theſe ſaucy creatures of For⯑tune, whom ſhe raiſes in the extravagance of her caprice, diſpatching his emiſſaries, eccleſiaſtical and ſecular, like ſo many evil daemons, to the North and to the South, to buy the votes of the people with the money of the people, and to chuſe a repreſentative body, not of the people, but of the enemy of the people, of himſelf!

THE ETIQUETTE OF GOVERNMENT IMMEDIATELY PRIOR TO THE RE⯑VOLUTION.

THIS was not the caſe in the reign of James the Second. It was prerogative, not money, which had like to have deſtroyed our liberties then. Go⯑vernment was not then carried on by undertakers, to whom ſo much power was farmed out for re⯑turns of ſo much money, and ſo much money in⯑truſted for returns of ſo much power. But though the caſe was not ſo deſperate, yet was it bad enough in all conſcience; and among all the exceſſes, into which the Tories ran, in favour of the Crown, and in hopes of fixing dominion in their own party, their zeal to ſupport the methods of gar⯑bling corporations, was, in my opinion, that which threatened public liberty the moſt. It hath been reproached to them by many; but if, among thoſe who reproached them, there ſhould be ſome who have ſhared ſince that time in the more dangerous practice of corrupting corporations, ſuch men muſt [178] have fronts of braſs, and deſerve all the indigna⯑tion which is due to iniquity aggravated by im⯑pudence.

A COALITION OF PARTIES AT THE REVOLUTION.

MANY of the moſt diſtinguiſhed Tories, ſome of thoſe who carried higheſt the doctrines of paſ⯑ſive obedience and non-reſiſtance, were engaged in, and the whole nation was ripe for, the Revolution. The Whigs were zealous in the ſame cauſe; but their zeal was not ſuch as, I think, it had been ſome years before, a zeal without knowledge; I mean, that it was better tempered, and more pru⯑dently conducted. Though the King was not the better for his experience, parties were. Both ſaw their errors. The Tories ſtopped ſhort in the pur⯑ſuit of a bad principle. The Whigs reformed the abuſe of a good one. Both had ſacrificed their country to their party. Both ſacrificed, on this occaſion, their party to their country. When the Tories and the Whigs were thus coalited, the lat⯑ter ſtood no longer in need of any adventitious help. If they did not refuſe the aſſiſtance of thoſe who had weakened their cauſe more by the jealou⯑ſies and fears, to which they gave both occaſion and pretence, than they had ſtrengthened it by their numbers, yet they ſuffered them to have no influence in their counſels, no direction of their conduct. The cauſe of liberty was no longer made [179] the [...] of a party, by being ſet on ſuch a bot⯑tom and puſhed in ſuch a manner, as one party alone approved. The Revolution was plainly de⯑ſigned to reſtore and ſecure our government, eccle⯑ſiaſtical and civil, on true foundations; and what⯑ever may happen to the King, there was no room to expect any change of the conſtitution. There were ſome, indeed, concerned in this great and glorious undertaking, who had obſtinately pre⯑ſerved or lightly taken up, the republican and other whimſies, that reigned in the days of uſur⯑pation and confuſion. If they could have pre⯑vailed, and it was no fault of theirs they did not, the coalition of parties had been broken; and in⯑ſtead of a revolution we might have had a civil war; perhaps not even that ſad chance for our re⯑ligion and liberty. But this leaven was ſo near worn out, that it could neither corrupt, nor ſeem any longer to corrupt, the maſs of the Whig party. The party never had been Preſbyterians, nor Republicans, any more than they had been Quakers; any more than the Tory party had been Papiſts, when, notwithſtanding their averſion to Popery, they were undeniably under the accidental influence of Popiſh councils. But even the ap⯑pearances were now rectified. The Revolution was a fire which purged off the droſs of both par⯑ties; and, the droſs being purged off, they ap⯑peared to be the ſame metal, and anſwered the ſame ſtandard.

THE EFFECT OF GOVERNMENT ON THE SPIRIT OF NATIONS.

AS the natural diſpoſitions of men are altered, and formed into different moral characters, by education, ſo the ſpirit of a conſtitution of go⯑vernment, which is confirmed, improved, and ſtrengthened, by the courſe of events, and eſpe⯑cially by thoſe of fruitleſs oppoſition, in a long tract of time, will have a proportionable influence on the reaſoning, the ſentiments, and the conduct, of thoſe who are ſubject to it. A different ſpirit, and contrary prejudices, may prevail for a time; but the ſpirit and principles of the conſtitution will prevail at laſt. If one be unnatural, and the other abſurd, and that is the caſe of many govern⯑ments, a vigorous exerciſe of power, ſignal re⯑wards, ſignal puniſhments, and variety of other ſecondary means, which in ſuch conſtitutions are never wanting, will however maintain, as long as they are employed, both the ſpirit and the princi⯑ples. But if the ſpirit and principles of a conſti⯑tion be agreeable to nature, and the true ends of government, which is the caſe of the preſent con⯑ſtitution of the Britiſh government, they want no ſuch means to make them prevail. They not only flouriſh without them, but they would fade and die away with them. As liberty is nouriſhed and ſupported by ſuch a ſpirit and ſuch principles, ſo they are propagated by liberty. Truth and reaſon [181] are often able to get the better of authority in particular minds; but truth and reaſon, with au⯑thority on their ſide, will carry numbers, bear down prejudices, and become the very genius of a people. The progreſs they make is always ſure, but ſometimes not obſervable by every eye. Con⯑trary prejudices may ſeem to maintain themſelves in vigour, and theſe prejudices may be kept up long by paſſion and by artifice; but when truth and reaſon continue to act without reſtraint, a lit⯑tle ſooner, or a little later, and often when this turn is leaſt expected, the prejudices vaniſh at once, and truth and reaſon triumph without any rival.

THE LINEAL DESCENT OF LIBERTY.

A SPIRIT of liberty, tranſmitted down from our Saxon anceſtors, and the unknown ages of our government, preſerved itſelf, through an almoſt continual ſtruggle, againſt the uſurpations of our princes, and the vices of our people; and they whom neither the Plantagenets nor the Tudors could enſlave, were incapable of ſuffering their rights and privileges to be raviſhed from them by the Stuarts. They bore with the laſt King of this unhappy race, till it was ſhameful, as it muſt have been fatal, to bear any longer; and while they aſſerted their liberties, they refuted and antici⯑pated, by their temper and their patience, all the objections which foreign and domeſtic abettors of [182] tyranny are apt to make againſt the conduct of our nation towards our Kings. Let us juſtify thi [...] conduct, by perſiſting in it, and continue to our⯑ſelves the peculiar honour of maintaining the free⯑dom of our Gothic inſtitution of government, when ſo many other nations, who enjoyed the ſame. have loſt theirs!

THE CONSTITUTION AND GOVERN⯑MENT DISTINGUISHED.

IT may be aſked, perhaps, how men who are friends to a government, can be enemies, at the ſame time, to the conſtitution on which that go⯑vernment is founded? But the anſwer will be eaſy, if we conſider theſe two things; firſt, the true di⯑ſtinction, ſo often confounded in writing, and al⯑moſt always in converſation, between Conſtitution and Government. By Conſtitution we mean, when⯑ever we ſpeak with propriety and exactneſs, the aſſemblage of laws, inſtitutions, and cuſtoms, de⯑rived from certain fixed principles of reaſon di⯑rected to certain fixed objects of public good, that compoſe the general ſyſtem, according to which the community hath agreed to be governed. By Government we mean, whenever we ſpeak in the ſame manner, that particular tenor of conduct, which a chief magiſtrate, and inferior magiſtrates under his direction and influence, hold in the ad⯑miniſtration of public affairs. We call this a Good Government, when the execution of the laws, the [183] obſervation of the inſtitutions and cuſtoms, in ſhort, the whole adminiſtration of public affairs, is wiſely purſued, and with a ſtrict conformity to the principles and objects of the conſtitution. We call it a Bad Government, when it is adminiſtered on other principles, and directed to other objects, either wickedly or weakly, either by obtaining new laws which want this conformity, or by per⯑verting old ones which had it; and when this is done without law, or in open violation of the laws, we term it a Tyrannical Government. In a word, and to bring this home to our own caſe, Conſtitution is the rule by which our Princes ought to govern at all times; Government is that by which they actually do govern at any particular time. One may remain immutable; the other may, and, as human nature is conſtituted, muſt vary. One is the criterion by which we are to try the other; for, ſurely, we have a right to do ſo; ſince, if we are to live in ſubjection to the government of our Kings, our Kings are to govern in ſubjec⯑tion to the conſtitution; and the conformity or non-conformity of their government to it, preſcribes the meaſure of our ſubmiſſion to them, according to the principles of the Revolution, and of our preſent ſettlement: in both of which, though ſome remote regard war had to blood, yet the preſerva⯑tion of the conſtitution manifeſtly determined the community to the choice then made of the perſons who ſhould govern.

ROYAL POPULARITY.

A PRINCE tolerably honeſt, or tolerably wiſe, will know, that to unite himſelf to bad men is to diſunite himſelf from his people, and that he makes a ſtupid bargain if he prefers trick to policy, ex⯑pedient to ſyſtem, and a cabal to the nation. Rea⯑ſon and experience will teach him, that a Prince who does ſo, muſt govern weakly, ignominiouſly, and precariouſly; whilſt he who engages and em⯑ploys all the heads and hands of his people, go⯑verns with ſtrength, with ſplendor, and with ſafety, and is ſure of riſing to a degree of abſolute power by maintaining liberty, which the moſt ſucceſsful tyrant could never reach by impoſing ſlavery.

A DESPOT.

TO govern a ſociety of freemen by a conſtitu⯑tion founded on the eternal rules of right reaſon, and directed to promote the happineſs of the whole, and of every individual, is the nobleſt prerogative which can belong to humanity; and if any man may be ſaid, without profaneneſs, to imitate God in any caſe, this is the caſe. But, ſure I am, he imitates the Devil, who is ſo far from promoting the happineſs of others, that he makes his own happineſs to conſiſt in the miſery of others; who governs by no rule but that of his paſſions, what⯑ever appearances he is forced ſometimes to put on; who endeavours to corrupt the innocent, and to [185] enſlave the free; whoſe buſineſs is to ſeduce and betray, whoſe pleaſure is to damn, and whoſe tri⯑umph is to torment. Odious and execrable as this character is, it is the character of every prince or miniſter who makes uſe of his power to ſubvert, or even to weaken, that conſtitution which ought to be the rule of his government.

PARLIAMENTARY DESPOTISM.

TO deſtroy Britiſh liberty with an army of Bri⯑tons, is not a meaſure ſo ſure of ſucceſs as ſome people may believe. To corrupt the parliament is a flower, but might prove a more effectual method; and two or three hundred mercenaries in the two houſes, if they could be lifted there, would be more fatal to the conſtitution, than ten times as many thouſands, in red and in blue, out of them. Par⯑liaments are the true guardians of liberty: for this principally they were inſtituted; and this is the principal article of that great and noble truſt which the collective body of the people of Britain repoſes in the repreſentative. But then no ſlavery can be ſo effectually brought and fixed upon us as parlia⯑mentary ſlavery. By the corruption of parliament, and the abſolute influence of a King or his mini⯑ſter on the two houſes, we return into that ſtate, to deliver us, or ſecure us, from which, parliaments were inſtituted, and are really governed by the ar⯑bitrary will of one man. Our whole conſtitution is at once diſſolved. Many ſecurities to liberty are [186] provided; but the integrity which depends on the freedom and the independency of parliament, is the key-ſtone which keeps the whole together. If this be ſhaken, our conſtitution totters; if it be quite removed, our conſtitution falls into ruin: that noble fabric, the pride of Britain, the envy of her neighbours, raiſed by the labour of ſo many cen⯑turies, repaired at the expence of ſo many mil⯑lions, and cemented by ſuch a profuſion of blood; that noble fabric, I ſay, which was able to reſiſt the united efforts of ſo many races of giants, may be demoliſhed by a race of pigmies. The integrity of parliament is a kind of palladium, a tutelary goddeſs who protects our ſtate. When ſhe is once removed, we may become the prey of any ene⯑mies. No Agamemnon, no Achilles, will be wanted to take our city: Therſites himſelf will be ſufficient for ſuch a conqueſt.

HOW LIBERTY MAY BE LOST.

WE do not read, I think, of more than one ^* nation who refuſed liberty when it was offered to them; but we read of many, and have almoſt ſeen ſome, who loſt it through their own fault, by the plain and neceſſary conſequences of their own con⯑duct, when they were in full poſſeſſion of it, and had the means of ſecuring it effectually in their own power. A wiſe and brave people will neither [187] be cozened nor bullied out of their liberty: but a wiſe and brave people may ceaſe to be ſuch; they may degenerate, they may ſink into ſloth and luxu⯑ry; they may reſign themſelves to a treacherous conduct, or abet the enemies of the conſtitution, under a notion of ſupporting the friends of the government; they may want the ſenſe to diſcern their danger in time, or the courage to reſiſt when it ſtares them in the face.

As all government began, ſo all government muſt end, with the people; tyrannical governments by their virtue and courage, and even free govern⯑ments by their vice and baſeneſs. Our conſtitution, indeed, makes it impoſſible to deſtroy liberty by any ſudden blaſt of popular fury, or by the trea⯑chery of a few; for, though the many cannot hurt, they may eaſily ſave themſelves: but, if the many will concur with the few, if they will adviſedly and deliberately ſuffer their liberty to be taken away by thoſe to whom they delegate power to preſerve it, this no conſtitution can prevent. God could not even ſupport his own theocracy againſt the concurrent deſire of the children of Iſrael, but gave them a King in his anger: how then could our human conſtitution ſupport itſelf againſt this univerſal change in the temper and character of our people? It cannot be. We may give ourſelves a tyrant in our folly, if we pleaſe: but this can never happen till the whole nation falls into a ſtate of political reprobation Then, and not till then, political damnation will be our lot.

[188] If the people of this iſland ſhould ſuffer their liberties to be at any time raviſhed or ſtolen from them, they would incur greater blame, and deſerve, by conſequence, leſs pity, than any enſlaved and oppreſſed people ever did. By how much true li⯑berty had been more boldly aſſerted, more wiſely or more ſucceſsfully improved, and more firmly eſtabliſhed, in this than in other countries, by ſo much the more heavy would our juſt condemnation prove in the caſe that is here ſuppoſed. The vir⯑tue of our anceſtors, to whom all theſe advantages are owing, would aggravate the guilt and the in⯑famy of their degenerate poſterity. There have been ages of gold, and of ſilver, of braſs, and of iron, in our little world, as in the great world, though not in the ſame order. In which of theſe ages we are at preſent, let others determine. This, at leaſt, is certain, that, in all theſe ages, Britain hath been the temple, as it were, of Liberty. Whilſt her ſacred fires have been extinguiſhed in ſo many countries, here they have been religiouſly kept alive. Here ſhe hath her ſaints, her confeſ⯑ſors, and a whole army of martyrs; and the gates of hell have not hitherto prevailed againſt her: ſo that, if a fatal reverſe is to happen, if ſervility and ſervitude are to over-run the whole world, like injuſtice, and liberty is to retire from it, like Aſtraea, our portion of the abandoned globe will have at leaſt the mournful honour, whenever it happens, of ſhewing her laſt, her parting ſteps.

[189] Some nations have received the yoke of ſervitude with little or no ſtruggle; but, if ever it is impoſed upon us, we muſt not only hold out our necks to receive it, we muſt help to put it on. Now, to be paſſive in ſuch a caſe, is ſhameful; but to be active, is ſupreme and unexampled infamy. In order to become ſlaves, we of this nation muſt be, before-hand, what other people have been rendered by a long courſe of ſervitude; we muſt become the moſt corrupt, moſt profligate, the moſt ſenſeleſs, the moſt ſervile nation of wretches that ever diſ⯑graced humanity; for a force ſufficient to raviſh liberty from us, ſuch as a great ſtanding army is in time of peace, cannot be continued unleſs we continue it; nor can the means neceſſary to ſteal liberty from us be long enough employed with ef⯑fect, unleſs we give a ſanction to their iniquity who call good evil, and evil good.

THE FALL OF ROME.

THE grandeur of Rome was the work of many centuries, the effect of much wiſdom, and the price of much blood. She maintained her gran⯑deur whilſt ſhe preſerved her virtue; but when luxury grew up to favour corruption, and corrup⯑tion to nouriſh luxury, then Rome grew venal; the election of her magiſtrates, the ſentences of her judges, the decrees of her ſenate, all was ſold: for her liberty was ſold when theſe were ſold; [190] and her riches, her power, her glory, could not long ſurvive her liberty. She who had been the envy, as well as the miſtreſs, of nations, fell to be an object of their ſcorn, or their pity. They had ſeen, and felt, that ſhe governed other people by will, and her own by law. They beheld her go⯑vern herſelf by will, by the arbitrary will of the worſt of her own citizens; of the worſt of both ſexes; of the worſt of human kind; by Caligula, by Claudius, by Nero, by Meſſalina, by Agrippina, by Poppaea, by Narciſſus, by Caliſtus, by Pallas; by Princes that were ſtupid or mad; by women that were abandoned to ambition and to luſt; by miniſters that were emancipated ſlaves, paraſites and panders, inſolent and rapacious. In this mi⯑ſerable ſtate, the few that retained ſome ſparks of the old Roman ſpirit, had double cauſe to mourn in private; for it was not ſafe even to mourn in public. They mourned the loſs of the liberty and grandeur of Rome; and they mourned that both ſhould be ſacrificed to wretches, whoſe crimes would have been puniſhed, and whoſe talents would ſcarce have recommended them to the meaneſt offices, in the virtuous and proſperous ſtate of the common⯑wealth.

Into ſuch a ſtate, at leaſt into a ſtate as miſerable as this, will the people of Britain both fall, and deſerve to fall, if they ſuffer, under any pretence, or by any hands, that conſtitution to be deſtroyed, which cannot be deſtroyed unleſs they ſuffer it, [191] unleſs they co-operate with the enemies of it, by renewing an exploded diſtinction of parties; by electing thoſe to repreſent them who are hired to betray them; or by ſubmitting tamely, when the maſk is taken off, or falls off, and the attempt to bring beggary or ſlavery is avowed, or can be no longer concealed. If ever this happens, the friends of liberty, ſhould any ſuch remain, will have one option ſtill left; and they will rather chooſe, no doubt, to die the laſt of Britiſh freemen, than bear to live the firſt of Britiſh ſlaves.

THE EPILOGUE TO THE DISSERTATION ON PARTIES.

A CERTAIN pragmatical fellow, in a certain village, took it into his head to write the names of the 'Squire, of all his family, of the principal pariſh officers, and of ſome of the notable mem⯑bers of the veſtry, in the margin of The Whole Duty of Man, over-againſt every ſin which he found mentioned in that moſt excellent treatiſe. The clamour was great, and all the neighbourhood was in an uproar. At laſt, the miniſter was called in, upon this great emergency. He heard them with patience; with ſo much, that he brought them to talk one after the other. When he had heard them, he pronounced that they were all in the wrong; that the book was written againſt ſins of all kinds, whoever ſhould be guilty of them; [192] but that the innocent would give occaſion to un⯑juſt ſuſpicions by all this clamour, and that the guilty would convict themſelves. They took his advice. The Whole Duty of Man hath been read ever ſince, with much edification, by all the pa⯑riſhioners. The innocent have been moſt certainly confirmed in virtue; and, we hope, the guilty have been reformed from vice.

THE WORST MINISTERS COULD DO LITTLE MISCHIEF, BUT FOR THE PROFLIGACY OF THE PEOPLE.

THERE have been monſters in other ages, and other countries, as well as ours; but they have never continued their devaſtations long, when there were heroes to oppoſe them. We will ſup⯑poſe a man impudent, raſh, preſumptuous, un⯑gracious, inſolent, and profligate, in ſpeculation as well as practice: he can bribe, but he cannot ſeduce; he can buy, but he cannot gain; he can lie, but he cannot deceive. From whence, then, has ſuch a man his ſtrength? From the general corruption of the people, nurſed up to a full ma⯑turity under his adminiſtration; from the venality of all orders and all ranks of men; ſome of whom are ſo proſtitute, that they ſet themſelves to ſale, and even prevent application.

MINISTERIAL FACTION.

MINISTERIAL factions would have as little ability to do hurt, as they have inclination to do good, if they were not formed and conducted by one of better parts than they; nor would ſuch a miniſter be able to ſupport, at the head of this truſty phalanx, the ignominious tyranny impoſed on his country, if other men, of better parts, and much more conſequence, than himſelf, were not drawn in to miſapply theſe parts to the vileſt drudgery imaginable; the daily drudgery of ex⯑plaining nonſenſe, covering ignorance, diſguiſing folly, concealing and even juſtifying fraud and corruption, inſtead of employing their knowledge, their elocution, their ſkill, experience, and au⯑thority, to correct the adminiſtration, and to guard the conſtitution.

THE SITE OF VIRTUE.

VIRTUE is not placed on a rugged mountain of difficult and dangerous acceſs, as they who would excuſe the indolence of their temper, or the perverſeneſs of their will, deſire to have it believed; but ſhe is ſeated, however, on an eminence. We may go up to her with eaſe; but we muſt go up gradually, according to the natural progreſſion of Reaſon, who is to lead the way, and to guide our ſteps. On the other hand, if we fall from thence, we are ſure to be hurried down the hill with a [194] blind impetuoſity, according to the natural vio⯑lence of thoſe appetites and paſſions that cauſed our fall at firſt, and urge it on the faſter, the further they are removed from the controul that before reſtrained them.

A PATRIOT KING THE PUBLIC SAVIOUR.

DISTRESS from abroad, bankruptcy at home, and other circumſtances of like nature and ten⯑dency, may beget univerſal confuſion. Out of confuſion order may ariſe: but it may be the order of a wicked tyranny, inſtead of the order of a juſt monarchy. Either may happen; and ſuch an al⯑ternative, at the diſpoſition of fortune, is ſuffi⯑cient to make a Stoic tremble! We may be ſaved, indeed, by means of a very different kind; but theſe means will not offer themſelves, this way of ſalvation will not be opened to us, without the concurrence and the influence of a patriot King, the moſt uncommon of all phaenomena in the phy⯑ſical or moral world.

GOOD GOVERNMENT ONLY A DIVINE RIGHT.

A PEOPLE may chooſe, or hereditary right may raiſe, a bad Prince to the throne; but a good King alone can derive his right to govern from God. The reaſon is plain: good government [195] alone can be in the divine intention. God has made us to deſire happineſs; he has made our happineſs dependent on ſociety; and the happineſs of ſociety dependent on good or bad government. His intention, therefore, was, that government ſhould be good.

LIMITED MONARCHY.

THIS I preſume to ſay, and can demonſtrate, that all the limitations neceſſary to preſerve liberty, as long as the ſpirit of it ſubſiſts, and longer than that no limitations of monarchy, nor any other form of government, can preſerve it, are compa⯑tible with monarchy. I think on theſe ſubjects neither as the Tories nor as the Whigs have thought: at leaſt I endeavour to avoid the exceſſes of both. I neither dreſs up Kings like ſo many bur⯑leſque Jupiters, weighing the fortunes of mankind in the ſcales of Fate, darting thunderbolts at the heads of rebellious giants; nor do I ſtrip them naked, as it were, and leave them at moſt a few tattered rags to clothe their majeſty, but ſuch as can ſerve really as little for uſe as for ornament. My aim is to ſix this principle, that limitations on a crown ought to be carried as far as it is neceſſary to ſecure the liberties of a people, and that all ſuch limitations may ſubſiſt without weakening or en⯑dangering monarchy.

THE USE TO BE MADE OF A GOOD REIGN.

ALL that can be done to prolong the duration of a good government, is to draw it back, on every favourable occaſion, to the firſt good principles on which it was founded. When theſe occaſions hap⯑pen often, and are well improved, ſuch govern⯑ments are proſperous and durable. And improved in this manner they will certainly be, under the reign of every true patriot King, like ſnatches of fair weather at ſea, to repair the damages ſuſtained in the laſt ſtorm, and to prepare it to reſiſt the next. For ſuch a King cannot ſecure to his peo⯑ple a ſucceſſion of Princes like himſelf. He will do all he can towards it, by his example, and by his inſtruction. But, after all, the royal mantle will not convey the ſpirit of patriotiſm into another King, as the mantle of Elijah did the gift of pro⯑phecy into another prophet. The utmoſt he can do, and that which deſerves the utmoſt gratitude from his ſubjects, is to reſtore good government, to revive the ſpirit of it, and to maintain and con⯑firm both during the whole courſe of his reign. The reſt his people muſt do for themſelves: if they do not, they will have none but themſelves to blame: if they do, they will have the principal obligation to him. In all events they will have been freemen one reign the longer by his means, and perhaps more; ſince he will leave them much [197] better prepared and diſpoſed to defend their liber⯑ties than he found them.

THE COURT OF A GOOD KING REFORMED.

HIS firſt care will, no doubt, be to purge his court. The men in power will be ſome of thoſe adventurers, buſy and bold, who thruſt and crowd themſelves early into the intrigue of party, and the management of affairs of ſtate, often without true ability, always without true ambition, or even the appearance of virtue; who mean nothing more than what is called making a fortune, the acquiſi⯑tion of wealth to ſatisfy avarice, and of titles and ribbands to ſatisfy vanity. Such as theſe are ſure to be employed by a weak or a wicked King. They impoſe on the firſt, and are choſen by the laſt. Nor is it marvellous that they are ſo; ſince every other want is ſupplied in them by the want of good principles and a good conſcience; and ſince theſe defects become miniſterial perfections, in a reign when meaſures are purſued, and deſigns carried on, that every honeſt man will diſapprove. All the proſtitutes who ſet themſelves to ſale, all the locuſts who devour the land, with crowds of ſpies, paraſites, and ſycophants, will ſurround the throne under the patronage of ſuch miniſters; and whole ſwarms of little noiſome, nameleſs infects will hum and buzz in every corner of the court. Such miniſters will be caſt off, and ſuch abettors [198] of miniſtry will be chaced away together, and at once, by a patriot King. Some of them, perhaps, will be abandoned by him, not to party fury, but to national juſtice; not to ſate private reſentments, and to ſerve particular intereſts, but to make ſatiſ⯑faction for wrongs done to their country, and to ſtand as examples of terror to future adminiſtra⯑tions. Clemency makes, no doubt, an amiable part of the character I attempt to draw; but cle⯑mency, to be a virtue, muſt have its bounds, like other virtues; and ſurely theſe bounds are extended enough by a maxim I have read ſomewhere, that frailties, and even vices, may be paſſed over, but not enormous crimes.

MERE COURTIERS.

AMONG the bad company with which ſuch a court will abound, may be reckoned a ſort of men too low to be much regarded, and too high to be quite neglected; the lumber of every admi⯑niſtration, the furniture of every court. Theſe gilt, carved things are ſeldom anſwerable for more than the men on a cheſs-board, who are moved about at will, and on whom the conduct of the game is not to be charged. Some of theſe every prince muſt have about him. The pageantry of a court requires that he ſhould: and this pageantry, like many other deſpicable things, ought not to be laid aſide. But as much ſameneſs as there may appear in the characters of this ſort of men, there [199] is one diſtinction that will be made, whenever a good prince ſucceeds to the throne after an iniqui⯑tous adminiſtration: the diſtinction I mean, is, between thoſe who have affected to dip themſelves deeply in precedent iniquities, and thoſe who have had the virtue to keep aloof from them, or the good luck not to be called to any ſhare in them.

WISDOM AND CUNNING DIS⯑TINGUISHED.

MY Lord Bacon ſays, that cunning is left-handed or crooked wiſdom. I would rather ſay, that it is a part, but the loweſt part, of wiſdom; employed alone by ſome, becauſe they have not the other parts to employ; and by ſome, becauſe it is as much as they want within thoſe bounds of action which they preſcribe to themſelves, and ſufficient to the ends that they propoſe. The difference ſeems to conſiſt in degree and application, rather than in kind. Wiſdom is neither left-handed nor crooked: but the heads of ſome men contain little, and the hearts of others employ it wrong. To uſe my Lord Bacon's own compariſon, the cunning man knows how to pack the cards, the wiſe man how to play the game better: but it would be of no uſe to the firſt, to pack the cards, if his know⯑ledge ſtopped here, and he had no ſkill in the game; nor to the ſecond, to play the game better, if he did not know how to pack the cards, that he [200] might unpack them by new ſhuffling. Inferior wiſdom, or cunning, may get the better of folly; but ſuperior wiſdom will get the better of cunning. Wiſdom and cunning have often the ſame objects; but a wiſe man will have more and greater in his view. The leaſt will not fill his ſoul, nor ever become the principal theme; but will be purſued in ſubſerviency, in ſubordination at leaſt, to the other. Wiſdom and cunning may employ ſome⯑times the ſame means too; but the wiſe man ſtoops to theſe means, and the other cannot riſe above them.

SIMULATION AND DISSIMULATION.

SIMULATION and diſſimulation are the chief arts of cunning: the firſt will be eſteemed always, by a wiſe man, unworthy of him, and will be therefore avoided by him, in every poſſible caſe; for ſimulation is put on, that we may look into the cards of another, whereas diſſimulation intends nothing more than to hide our own. Simulation is a ſtiletto, not only an offenſive but an unlawful weapon; and the uſe of it may be rarely, very rarely, excuſed, but never juſtified. Diſſimulation is a ſhield, as ſecrecy is armour; and it is no more poſſible to preſerve ſecrecy in the adminiſtration of public affairs, without ſome degree of diſſimula⯑tion, than it is to ſuccced in it without ſecrecy.

Thoſe two arts of cunning are like the alloy min⯑gled with pure ore: a little is neceſſary, and will [201] not debaſe the coin below its proper ſtandard; but if more than that little be employed, the coin loſes its currency, and the coiner his credit.

THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN A CUN⯑NING AND A WISE MINISTER.

THE cunning miniſter neither ſees, nor is con⯑cerned to ſee, any further than his perſonal inte⯑reſt, and the ſupport of his adminiſtration, require. If ſuch a man overcomes any actual difficulty, avoids any immediate diſtreſs, or, without doing either of theſe effectually, gains a little time, by all the low artifice which cunning is ready to ſug⯑geſt, and baſeneſs of mind to employ, he triumphs, and is flattered by his mercenary train, on the great event, which amounts often to no more than this, that he got into diſtreſs by one ſeries of faults, and out of it by another. The wiſe miniſter ſees, and is concerned to ſee, further, becauſe govern⯑ment has a further concern: he ſees the objects that are diſtant, as well as thoſe that are near, and all their remote relations, and even their indirect tendencies. He thinks of ſame as well as applauſe, and prefers that which, to be enjoyed, muſt be given, to that which may be bought. He con⯑ſiders his adminiſtration as a ſingle day in the great year of government; but as a day that is affected by thoſe which went before, and that muſt affect thoſe which are to follow. He combines, there⯑fore, [202] and compares, all theſe objects, relations, and tendencies; and the judgment he makes on an entire, not a partial, ſurvey of them, is the rule of his conduct. That ſcheme of the reaſon of ſtate which lies open before a wiſe miniſter, contains all the great principles of government, and all the great intereſts of his country; ſo that, as he prepares ſome events, he prepares againſt others, whether they be likely to happen during his adminiſtration, or in ſome future time.

AN ANECDOTE.

HENRY the Fourth, of France, aſked a Spaniſh ambaſſador, What miſtreſſes the King of Spain had? The ambaſſador replied, like a formal pedant, That his maſter was a Prince who feared God, and had no miſtreſs but the Queen. Henry the Fourth felt the reflection; and aſked him in re⯑turn, with ſome contempt, "Whether his maſter had not virtues enough to cover one vice?"

THE COMMERCIAL SITUATION OF ENGLAND, FRANCE, AND THE UNITED PROVINCES.

THE ſituation of Great-Britain, the character of her people, and the nature of her government, fit her for trade and commerce. Her climate and her ſoil make them neceſſary to her well-being. [203] By trade and commerce we grew a rich and power⯑ful nation, and by their decay we are growing poor and impotent. As trade and commerce en⯑rich, ſo they fortify our country. The ſea is our barrier, ſhips are our fortreſſes, and the mariners, that trade and commerce alone can furniſh, are the garriſons to defend them. France lies under great diſadvantages in trade and commerce, by the na⯑ture of her government. Her advantages in ſitua⯑tion are as great, at leaſt, as ours. Thoſe that ariſe from the temper and character of her people are a little different perhaps, and yet upon the whole equivalent. Thoſe of her climate and her ſoil are ſuperior to ours, and indeed to thoſe of any European nation. The United Provinces have the ſame advantages that we have in the nature of their government, more perhaps in the temper and character of their people; leſs, to be ſure, in their ſituation, climate, and ſoil. But without deſcend⯑ing into a longer detail of the advantages and diſ⯑advantages attending each of theſe nations, in trade and commerce, it is ſufficient for my preſent purpoſe to obſerve, that Great-Britain ſtands in a certain middle between the other two, with regard to wealth and power ariſing from theſe ſprings. A leſs, and a leſs conſtant, application to the im⯑provement of theſe may ſerve the ends of France; a greater is neceſſary in this country; and a greater ſtill in Holland. The French may improve their natural wealth and power by the improvement of trade and commerce. We can have no wealth, nor [204] power, by conſequence, as Europe is now conſtituted, without the improvement of them, nor in any degree but proportionably to this improvement. The Dutch cannot ſubſiſt without them. They bring wealth to other nations, and are neceſſary to the well-being of them; but they ſupply the Dutch with food and raiment, and are neceſſary even to their being.

The reſult of what has been ſaid, is, in general, that the wealth and power of all nations depend⯑ing ſo much on their trade and commerce, and every nation being, like the three I have men⯑tioned, in ſuch different circumſtances of advan⯑tage or diſadvantage in the purſuit of this com⯑mon intereſt; a good government, and therefore the government of a patriot King, will be directed conſtantly to make the moſt of every advantage that nature has given, or art can procure, towards the improvement of trade and commerce. And this is one of the principal criterions, by which we are to judge whether governors are in the true intereſt of the people or not.

It reſults, in particular, that Great-Britain might improve her wealth and power in a proportion ſu⯑perior to that of any nation who can be deemed her rival, if the advantages ſhe has were as wiſely cultivated, as they will be in the reign of a patriot King. To be convinced more thoroughly of this truth, a very ſhort proceſs of reaſoning will ſuffice. [205] Let any man, who has knowledge enough for it, firſt compare the natural ſtate of Great-Britain, and of the United Provinces, and then their artifi⯑cial ſtate, together; that is, let him conſider mi⯑nutely the advantages we have by the ſituation, extent, and nature, of our iſland, over the inha⯑bitants of a few ſalt-marſhes gained on the ſea, and hardly defended from it: and, after that, let him conſider how nearly theſe provinces have raiſed themſelves to an equality of wealth and power with the kingdom of Great-Britain. From whence ariſes this difference of improvement? It ariſes plainly from hence: the Dutch have been, from the foundation of their common-wealth, a nation of patriots and merchants. The ſpirit of that people has not been diverted from theſe two objects, the defence of their liberty, and the im⯑provement of their trade and commerce; which have been carried on by them with uninterrupted and unſlackened application, induſtry, order, and oeconomy.

THE PRIVATE CHARACTER OF ALEX⯑ANDER THE GREAT.

ALEXANDER had violent paſſions, and thoſe for wine and women were predominant, after his ambition. They were ſpots in his character before they prevailed by the force of habit: as ſoon as they began to do ſo, the king and the hero ap⯑peared leſs, the rake and bully more. Perſepolis [206] was burnt at the inſtigation of Thais, and Clytus was killed in a drunken brawl. He repented indeed of theſe two horrible actions, and was again the King and Hero upon many occaſions; but he had not been enough on his guard, when the ſtrongeſt in⯑citements to vanity and to ſenſual pleasures offered themſelves at every moment to him: and when he ſtood in all his eaſy hours ſurrounded by women and eunuchs, by the pandars, paraſites, and buffoons of a voluptuous court, they who could not ap⯑proach the King, approached the man, and by ſe⯑ducing the man they betrayed the King. His faults became habits. The Macedonians, who did not or would not ſee the one, ſaw the other; and he fell a ſacrifice to their reſentments, to their fears, and to thoſe factions that will ariſe under an odious government, as well as under one that grows in⯑to contempt.

OF SCIPIO THE ROMAN GENERAL.

OTHER characters might be brought to con⯑traſt with this; the firſt Scipio Africanus, for ex⯑ample, or the eldeſt Cato: and there will be no ob⯑jection to a compariſon of ſuch citizens of Rome as theſe were with Kings of the firſt magnitude. Now the reputation of the firſt Scipio was not ſo clear and uncontroverted in private as in public life; nor was he allowed, by all, to be a man of ſuch ſevere virtue as he affected, and as that age required. Naevius was thought to mean him in ſome verſes [207] Gellius has preſerved: and Valerius Antias made no ſcruple to aſſert, that, far from reſtoring the fair Spaniard to her family, he debauched and kept her. Notwithſtanding this, what authority did he not maintain? In what eſteem and veneration did he not live and die? With what panegyrics has not the whole torrent of writers rolled down his repu⯑tation even to theſe days? This could not have hap⯑pened, if the vice imputed to him had ſhewn itſelf in any ſcandalous appearances, to eclipſe the luſtre of the general, the conſul, or the citizen. The ſame reflection might be extended to Cato, who loved wine as well as Scipio loved women. Men did not judge in the days of the elder Cato, perhaps, as Seneca was ready to do in thoſe of the younger, that drunkenneſs could be no crime if Cato drank: but Cato's paſſion, as well as that of Scipio, was ſubdued and kept under by his public charac⯑ter. His virtue warmed, inſtead of cooling, by this indulgence to his genius or natural temper: and one may gather from what Tully puts into his mouth in the treatiſe concerning old-age, that even his love of wine was rendered ſubſervient, inſtead of doing hurt, to the meaſures he purſued in his public character.

OF THE FIRST TWO CAESARS AND MARC ANTHONY.

OLD Curio called Julius Caeſar the huſband of every wife, and the wife of every huſband, referring [208] to his own adulteries, and to the compliances that he was ſuſpected of in his youth for Nicomedes. Even his own ſoldiers, in the licence of a triumph, ſung lampoons on him for his profusion, as well as lewd⯑neſs. The youth of Auguſtus was defamed as much as that of Julius Caeſar, and both as much as that of Anthony. When Rome was ranſacked by the pandars of Auguſtus, and matrons and virgins were ſtripped and ſearched like ſlaves in a market, to chooſe the fitteſt to ſatisfy his luſt, did Anthony do more? When Julius ſet no bounds to his debauches in Egypt, except thoſe that ſatiety impoſed, poſt⯑quam epulis bacchoque modum laſſata voluptas im⯑poſuit; when he trifled away his time with Cleopa⯑tra in the very criſis of the civil war, and till his troops refuſed to follow him any further in his effeminate progreſs up the Nile—did Anthony do more? No, all three had vices which would have been ſo little borne in any former age of Rome, that no man could have raiſed himſelf under the weight of them to popularity, and to power. But we muſt not wonder that the people, who bore the tyrants, bore the libertines; nor that indulgence was ſhewn to the vices of the great, in a city where univerſal corruption and profligacy of manners were eſta⯑bliſhed: and yet even in this city, and among theſe degenerate Romans, certain it is that different ap⯑pearances, with the ſame vices, helped to main⯑tain the Caeſars, and ruined Anthony.

OF LEWIS THE FOURTEENTH.

LEWIS the Fourteenth was King in an abſo⯑lute monarchy, and reigned over a people whoſe genius makes it as fit perhaps to impoſe on them by admiration and awe, as to gain and hold them by affection. Accordingly he kept great ſtate; was haughty, was reſerved; and all he ſaid or did ap⯑peared to be forethought and planned. His regard to appearances was ſuch, that when his miſtreſs was the wife of another man, and he had children by her every year, he endeavoured to cover her con⯑ſtant reſidence at court by a place ſhe filled about the Queen; and he dined and ſupped and cohabited with the latter, in every apparent reſpect, as if he had no miſtreſs at all. Thus he raiſed a great reputa⯑tion; he was revered by his ſubjects, and admired by his neighbours: and this was due principally to the art with which he managed appearances, ſo as to ſet off his virtues, to diſguiſe his failings and his vices, and by his example and authority to keep a veil drawn over the futility and debauch of his court.

OF QUEEN ELIZABETH.

OUR Elizabeth was Queen in a limited monar⯑chy, and reigned over a people at all times more eaſily led than driven; and at that time capable of being attached to their prince and their country, by a more generous principle than any of thoſe [210] which prevail in our days, by affection. There was a ſtrong prerogative then in being, and the crown was in poſſeſſion of greater legal power. Popula⯑rity was however then, as it is now, and as it muſt be always in mixed government, the ſole true foun⯑dation of that ſufficient authority and influence, which other conſtitutions give the Prince gratis and and independently of the people, but which a King of this nation muſt acquire. The wiſe Queen ſaw it; and ſhe ſaw too how much popularity depends on thoſe appearances, that depend on the decorum, the decency, the grace, and the propriety of beha⯑viour of which we were ſpeaking. A warm con⯑cern for the intereſt and honour of the nation, a tenderneſs for her people, and a confidence in their affections, were appearances that run through her whole public conduct, and gave life and colour to it. She did great things, and ſhe knew how to ſet them off according to their full value, by her manner of doing them. In her private behaviour ſhe ſhewed great affability, ſhe deſcended even to familiarity; but her familiarity was ſuch as could not be imputed to her weakneſs, and was therefore moſt juſtly aſcribed to her goodneſs. Though a woman, ſhe hid all that was womaniſh about her; and if a few equivocal marks of coquettry appeared on ſome occaſions, they paſſed like flaſhes of lightning, vaniſhed as ſoon as they were diſcerned, and imprinted no blot on her character. She had private friendſhips, ſhe had favourites: but ſhe never ſuffered her friends to forget ſhe was their [211] Queen; and when her favourites did, ſhe made them feel that ſhe was ſo.

OF JAMES THE FIRST.

HER ſucceſſor had no virtues to ſet off; but he had failings and vices to conceal. He could not conceal the latter; and, void of the former, he could not compenſate for them. His failings and his vices therefore ſtanding in full view, he paſſed for a weak Prince and an ill Man; and fell into all the contempt wherein his memory remains to this day. The methods he took to preſerve himſelf from it, ſerved but to confirm him in it. No man can keep the decorum of manners in life, who is not free from every kind of affectation, as it has been ſaid already: but he who affects what he has no pretenſions to, or what is improper to his character and rank in the world, is guilty of moſt conſummate folly; he becomes doubly ungracious, doubly indecent, and quite ridiculous. James the Firſt, not having one quality to conciliate the eſteem or affection of his people to him, endeavoured to impoſe on their underſtandings; and to create a reſpect for himſelf, by ſpreading the moſt extravagant notions about Kings in general, as if they were middle beings be⯑tween God and other men, and by comparing the extent and [...]nſearchable myſteries of their power and prerogative to thoſe of the divine providence. His language and his behaviour were commonly ſuited to ſuch fooliſh pretenſions; and thus, by aſ⯑ſuming [212] a claim to ſuch reſpect and ſubmiſſion as were not due to him, he loſt a great part of what was due to him. In ſhort he began at the wrong end; for, though the ſhining qualities of the King may cover, ſome failings and ſome vices that do not grow up to ſtrong habits in the Man, yet muſt the character of a great and good King be founded in that of a great and a good Man. A King who lives out of the ſight of his ſubjects, or is never ſeen by them except on his throne, can ſcarce be deſpiſed as a Man, though he may be hated as a King. But the King who lives more in their ſight, and more under their obſervation, may be deſpiſed before he is hated, and even without being hated. This hap⯑pened to King James: a thouſand circumſtances brought it to paſs, and none more than the inde⯑cent weakneſſes he had for his minions. He did not endeavour to cure this contempt, and raiſe his cha⯑racter, only by affecting what he had no pretenſions to, as in the former caſe; but he endeavoured like⯑wiſe moſt vainly to do it by affecting what was im⯑proper to his character and rank. He did not en⯑deavour indeed to diſguiſe his natural puſillanimity and timidity under the maſk of a bully, whilſt he was impoſed upon and inſulted by all his neigh⯑bours, and above all by the Spaniards; but he re⯑tailed the ſcraps of Buchanan, affected to talk much, figured in church controverſies, and put on all the pedantic appearances of a ſcholar, whilſt he neglected all thoſe of a great and good Man, as well as King.

THE PICTURE OF A PATRIOT REIGN.

ON this ſubject let the imagination range through the whole glorious ſcene of a patriot reign: the beauty of the idea will inſpire thoſe tranſports, which Plato imagined the viſion of virtue would inſpire; if virtue could be ſeen. What in truth can be ſo lovely, what ſo venerable, as to contem⯑plate a King, on whom the eyes of a whole people are fixed, filled with admiration, and glowing with affection? a King, in the temper of whoſe govern⯑ment, like that of Nerva, things ſo ſeldom allied as empire and liberty are intimately mixed; co-exiſt together inſeparably, and conſtitute one real eſſence? What ſpectacle can be preſented to the view of the mind ſo rare, ſo nearly divine, as a King poſſeſſed of abſolute power, neither uſurped by fraud, nor maintained by force, but the genuine effect of eſteem, of confidence, and affection; the free gift of Liberty, who finds her greateſt ſecurity in this power, and would deſire no other if the Prince on the throne could be, what his people wiſh him to be, immortal? Of ſuch a Prince, and of ſuch a Prince alone, it may be ſaid with ſtrict propriety and truth, ‘Volentes per Populos dat jura, viamque affectat Olympi.’ Civil fury will have no place in this draught: or, if the monſter is ſeen, he muſt be ſeen as Virgil de⯑ſcribes him, [214] ‘Centum vinctus catenis Poſt tergum nodis, fremit horridus ore cruento.’

He muſt be ſeen ſubdued, bound, chained, and de⯑prived entirely of power to do hurt. In this place, concord will appear, brooding peace and proſperity on the happy land; joy ſitting in every face, con⯑tent in every heart; a people unoppreſſed, undiſ⯑turbed, unalarmed; buſy to improve their private property and the public ſtock; fleets covering the ocean, bringing home wealth by the returns of induſtry, carrying aſſiſtance or terror abroad by the direction of wiſdom, and aſſerting triumphantly the right and the honour of Great Britain, as far as waters roll, and as winds can waft them.

GENERAL MAXIMS.

THE miniſter who grows leſs by his eleva⯑tion, is like a little ſtatue placed on a mighty pedeſtal.

I cannot help being ſurpriſed that a man ſhould expect to be truſted with a crown, becauſe he is born a prince, in a country where he could not be truſted by law with a conſtable's ſtaff, if only born a private perſon.

Miniſters who puniſh what they might prevent, are more culpable than thoſe who offend.

[215] When a free people crouch like camels to be loaded, the next at hand, no matter who, mounts them, and they ſoon feel the whip and ſpur of their tyrant.

A tyrant, whether prince or miniſter, reſembles the devil in many reſpects, particularly in this,— He is often both the tempter and tormentor: he makes the criminal, and he puniſhes the crime.

To know when to yield, in government, is at leaſt as neceſſary as to know when to loſe in trade; and he who cannot do the firſt is ſo little likely to govern a kingdom well, that it is more than probable he would govern a ſhop ill.

Experience continually ſhews us, that they who made kings what they are, are apt to take them for what they are not.

The very ſame miniſter who exalts his maſter's throne on the ruins of the conſtitution, that he may govern without controul, or retire without danger, would do juſt the reverſe, if any turn of affairs enabled him to compound in that manner the better for himſelf.

The laughers are for thoſe who have moſt wit, and the ſerious part of mankind, for thoſe who have moſt reaſon on their ſide.

[216] There is a plain and real difference between jealouſy and diſtruſt. Men may be jealous on ac⯑count of their liberties, even when they have no immediate diſtruſt that the perſons who govern de⯑ſign to invade them.

It would be highly unjuſt to impute the ſcurri⯑lities of ſcurrilous authors to any prompter, be⯑cauſe they have in themſelves all that is neceſſary to conſtitute a ſcold; ill manners, impudence, a ſoul mouth, and a fouler heart.

Real friendſhip can never exiſt among thoſe whoſe actions have baniſhed virtue and truth.

Whilſt a great event is in ſuſpenſe, the action warms; and the very ſuſpenſe, made up of hope and fear, maintains no unpleaſing agitation in the mind.

When a houſe, which is old and quite decayed, though often repaired, not only cracks, but tot⯑ters even from the foundation, every man in his ſenſes runs out of it, and takes ſhelter where he can.

The government of Britain has in ſome ſort the appearance of an oligarchy; and monarchy is ra⯑ther hid behind it than ſhewn, rather weakened than ſtrengthened, rather impoſed upon than obeyed.

[217] No human inſtitution can arrive at perfection; and the moſt human wiſdom can do, is to pro⯑cure the ſame or greater good at the expence of leſs evil.

Cunning pays no regard to virtue, and is but the low mimic of wiſdom.

According to the preſent form of our conſtitu⯑tion, every member of either Houſe of Parliament is a member of a national ſtanding council, born, or appointed by the people, to promote good, and to oppoſe bad government; and if not veſted with the power of a miniſter of ſtate, yet veſted with the ſuperior power of controuling thoſe who are appointed ſuch by the crown.

Demoſthenes uſed to compare eloquence to a wea⯑pon, aptly enough; for eloquence, like every other weapon, is of little uſe to the owner, un⯑leſs he have the force and the ſkill to uſe it.

No ſecrets are ſo important to be known, no hearts deſerve to be pried into with more curioſity and attention, than thoſe of princes.

The miniſter preaches corruption aloud, and conſtantly, like an impudent miſſionary of vice; and ſome there are who not only inſinuate, but teach the ſame occaſionally.

[218] As well might we ſay, that a ſhip is built, and loaded, and manned, for the ſake of any parti⯑cular pilot, inſtead of acknowledging that the pi⯑lot is made for the ſake of the ſhip, her lading, and her crew, who are always the owners in the political veſſel, as to ſay that kingdoms were in⯑ſtituted for kings, not kings for kingdoms.

Our conſtitution is brought, or almoſt brought, to ſuch a point of perfection, that no King, who is not in the true meaning of the word a Patriot, can govern Britain with eaſe, ſecurity, honour, dig⯑nity, or indeed with ſufficient power and ſtrength.

To conſtitute a patriot, whether king or ſubject, there muſt be ſomething more ſubſtantial than a deſire of ſame, in the compoſition: and, if there be not, this deſire of fame will never riſe above that ſentiment which may be compared to the co⯑quettry of women; a fondneſs of tranſient ap⯑plauſe, which is courted by vanity, given by flat⯑tery, and ſpends itſelf in ſhew, like the qualities that acquire it.

Liberty is, to the collective body, what health is to every individual body. Without health, no pleaſure can be taſted by man; without liberty, no happineſs can be enjoyed by ſociety.

The utmoſt private men can do, who remain untainted by the general contagion in a degenerate [219] age, is to keep the ſpirit of liberty alive in a few breaſts, to proteſt againſt what they cannot hin⯑der, and to claim on every occaſion what they cannot by their own ſtrength recover.

A ſtanding parliament is, in the nature of it, as dangerous as a ſtanding army, and may be⯑come, in ſome conjunctures, much more fatal to liberty.

The ſight of the mind differs very much from the ſight of the body, and its operations are fre⯑quently the reverſe of the other: objects at a di⯑ſtance are ſeen but imperfectly by the latter, while they appear to the former in their true magni⯑tude, and diminiſh as they are brought nearer.

Tyranny and ſlavery do not ſo properly conſiſt in the ſtripes that are given, as in the power of giving them at pleaſure, and the neceſſity of re⯑ceiving them whenever and for whatever they are inflicted.

The collective body of the people of Great-Bri⯑tain, delegate but do not give up, truſt but do not alienate, their right and their power, and can⯑not be undone, by having beggary or ſlavery brought upon them, unleſs they co-operate to their own undoing, or, in one word, betray them⯑ſelves.

[220] He who undertakes to govern a free people by corruption, and to lead them, by a falſe intereſt, againſt their true intereſt, cannot boaſt the honour of the invention: the expedient is as old as the world; and he can pretend to no other honour than that of being an humble imitator of the devil.

Fortune maintains a kind of rivalſhip with Wiſ⯑dom, and piques herſelf often in favour of fools as well as knaves.

Neither Montagne in writing his Eſſays, nor Des Cartes in building new worlds, nor Burnet in framing an antediluvian earth, no, nor Newton in diſcovering and eſtabliſhing the true laws of na⯑ture on experiment and a ſublime geometry, felt more intellectual joys than he feels who is a real patriot, who bends all the force of his underſtand⯑ing, and directs all his thoughts and actions, to the good of his country.

Eloquence, that leads mankind by the ears, gives a nobler ſuperiority than power that every dunce may uſe, or fraud that every knave may employ, to lead them by the noſe. But eloquence muſt flow like a ſtream that is fed by an abundant ſpring, and not ſpout forth a little frothy water on ſome gaudy day, and remain dry the reſt of the year.

[221] The true image of a free people, governed by a patriot King, is that of a patriarchal family, where the head and all the members are united by one common intereſt, and animated by one common ſpirit; and where, if any are perverſe enough to have another, they will be ſoon borne down by the ſuperiority of thoſe who have the ſame; and, far from making a diviſion, they will but confirm the union of the little ſtate.

Faction is to party what the ſuperlative is to the poſitive: party is a political evil, and faction is the worſt of all evils.

Parties, even before they degenerate into abſo⯑lute factions, are ſtill numbers of men aſſociated together for certain purpoſes, and certain intereſts, which are not, or which are not allowed to be, thoſe of the community, by others.

From the miſapplication of ſuperior parts to the hurt, no argument can be drawn againſt this po⯑ſition, that they were given for the good of man⯑kind.

In our country, many undertake oppoſition, not as a duty, but as an adventure; and looking on themſelves like volunteers, not like men enliſted in the ſervice, they deem themſelves at liberty to take as much or as little of this trouble, and to [222] continue in it as long or end it as ſoon as they pleaſe.

Superior talents, and ſuperior rank, among our fellow creatures, whether acquired by birth, or by the courſe of accidents, and the ſucceſs of our own induſtry, are noble prerogatives: but ſhall he who poſſeſſes them repine at the obligations they lay him under of paſſing his whole life in the nobleſt occupation of which human nature is capable?

A life dedicated to the ſervice of our country admits the full uſe, and no life ſhould admit the abuſe, of pleaſures: the leaſt are conſiſtent with a conſtant diſcharge of our public duty, the great⯑eſt ariſe from it.

Cato's virtue often glowed with wine; and the love of women did not hinder Caeſar from forming and executing the greateſt projects that ambition ever ſuggeſted.

Our's does all that a conſtitution can do, all that can be done by legal proviſions, to ſecure the intereſts of the people, by maintaining the inte⯑grity of their truſtees; and, leſt all this ſhould fail, it gives frequent opportunities to the people to ſecure their intereſt themſelves, by mending their choice: ſo that, as a bad king muſt ſtand in awe of an honeſt parliament, a corrupt houſe of [223] commons muſt ſtand in awe of an honeſt peo⯑ple.

Danger commences when the breach is made, not when the attack is begun. He who neglects to ſtop the leak as ſoon as it is diſcovered, in hopes to ſave his ſhip by pumping when the water guſhes in by violence, deſerves to be drowned. Our conſtitution is not, like the ſchemes of ſome politicians, a jumble of disjointed, incoherent whimſies, but a noble and wiſe ſyſtem, the eſſen⯑tial parts of which are ſo proportioned, and ſo intimately connected, that a change in one begets a change in the whole.

A free people may be ſometimes betrayed; but no people will betray themſelves, and ſacrifice their liberty, unleſs they fall into a ſtate of univerſal corruption; and, when they are once fallen into ſuch a ſtate, they will be ſure to loſe what they deſerve no longer to enjoy.

Whatever political ſpeculations, inſtead of pre⯑paring us to be uſeful to ſociety, and to promote the happineſs of mankind, are only ſyſtems for gratifying private ambition, and promoting pri⯑vate intereſts, at the public expence, deſerve to be burnt, and the authors of them to ſtarve, like Machiavel, in a jail.

[224] In all reſpects, a wiſe man looks on himſelf as a citizen of the world; and, when you aſk him where his country lies, points, like Anaxagoras, to the heavens.

Naked facts, without the cauſes that produced them, and the circumſtances that accompanied them, are not ſufficient to characteriſe actions or counſels.

The powers of earth, like thoſe of heaven, have two diſtinct motions. Each of them rolls in his own political orb; but each of them is hurried, at the ſame time, round the great vortex of his re⯑ligion.

Wiſe men are able to do a great deal with a little: every knave or fool is ready to do a little with a great deal.

The landed men are the true owners of our po⯑litical veſſel: the monied men, as ſuch, are no more than paſſengers in it.

I never met the mad woman at Brentford, decked out in old and new rags, and nice and fantaſtical in the manner of wearing them, without reflect⯑ing on many of the profound ſcholars and ſublime philoſophers of our own and of former ages.

[225] The ocean which environs us is an emblem of our government: and the pilot and the miniſter are in ſimilar circumſtances.

You know the nature of that aſſembly [the Houſe of Commons]: they grow, like hound [...], fond of the man who ſhews them game, and by whoſe halloo they are uſed to be encouraged.

The merit of preſerving our country from beg⯑gary, is little inferior to that of preſerving it from ſlavery.

Similis, a captain of great reputation under Trajan and Adrian, having obtained leave to re⯑tire, paſſed ſeven years in his retreat, and then dying, ordered this inſcription to be put on his tomb:—That he had been many years on earth, but that he had lived only ſeven.

Regret your ſeparation from your friends; but regret it like a man who deſerves to be theirs. This is ſtrength, not weakneſs of mind; it is vir⯑tue, not vice.

Truth lies within a little and certain compaſs, but error is immenſe.

When virtue has ſteeled the mind on every ſide, we are invulnerable on every ſide: but Achilles was wounded in the heel.

[226] Every thing becomes intolerable to the man who is once ſubdued by grief.

Brutus thought it enough, that thoſe who go into baniſhment cannot be hindered from carrying their virtue along with them.

The world is a great wilderneſs, wherein man⯑kind have wandered and joſtled one another about from the beginning of the creation. Some have removed by neceſſity, and others by choice. One nation has been fond of ſeiſing what another was tired of poſſeſſing: and it will be difficult to point out the country which is to this day in the hands of its original inhabitants.

No man ſuffers by bad fortune, but he who has been deceived by good.

The citizens of Rome placed the images of their anceſtors in the veſtibules of their houſes; ſo that, whenever they went in or out, theſe vene⯑rable buſtos met their eyes, and recalled the glo⯑rious actions of the dead to fire the living, to ex⯑cite them to imitate, and even to emulate their great fore-fathers. The ſucceſs anſwered the de⯑ſign. The virtue of one generation was trans⯑fuſed, by the magic of example, into ſeveral; and a ſpirit of heroiſm was maintained through many ages of that commonwealth.

[227] We are apt to carry ſyſtems of philoſophy be⯑yond all our ideas, and ſyſtems of hiſtory beyond all our memorials.

There cannot be a greater abſurdity than to af⯑firm, that the people have a remedy in reſiſtance when their prince attempts to enſlave them, but that they have none when their repreſentatives ſell themſelves and them.

The obligations under which we lie to ſerve our country, increaſe in proportion to the ranks we hold, and the other circumſtances of birth, fortune, and ſituation, that call us to this ſervice, and, above all, to the talents which God has given us to perform it.

Every man's reaſon is every man's oracle.

To ſet about acquiring the habits of meditation and ſtudy late in life, is like getting into a go⯑cart with a grey beard, and learning to walk when we have loſt the uſe of our legs.

Uninterrupted miſery has this good effect; as it continually torments, it finally hardens.

He muſt bluſh to ſink under the anguiſh of one wound, who ſurveys a body ſeamed over with the ſcars of many.

[228] Nature and truth are the ſame every where, and reaſon ſhews them every where alike.

HISTORY THE UNIVERSAL TASTE.

THE love of hiſtory ſeems inſeparable from human nature, becauſe it ſeems inſeparable from ſelf-love. The ſame principle in this inſtance carries us forward and backward, to future and to paſt ages. We imagine that the things which af⯑fect us, muſt affect poſterity: this ſentiment runs through mankind, from Caeſar down to the pariſh⯑clerk in Pope's Miſcellany. We are fond of pre⯑ſerving, as far as it is in our frail power, the me⯑mory of our own adventures, of thoſe of our own time, and of thoſe that preceded it. Rude heaps of ſtones have been raiſed, and ruder hymns have been compoſed, for this purpoſe, by nations who had not yet the uſe of arts and letters. To go no further back, the triumphs of Odin were cele⯑brated in Runic ſongs, and the feats of our Britiſh anceſtors were recorded in thoſe of their bards. The ſavages of America have the ſame cuſtom at this day: and long hiſtorical ballads of their hunt⯑ings and their wars are ſung at all their feſtivals. There is no need of ſaying how this paſſion grows among civilized nations, in proportion to the means of gratifying it: but let us obſerve that the ſame principle of nature directs us as ſtrongly, and more generally as well as more early, to indulge our own curioſity, inſtead of preparing to gratify [229] that of others. The child hearkens with delight to the tales of his nurſe; he learns to read, and he devours with eagerneſs fabulous legends and no⯑vels. In riper years, he applies himſelf to hiſtory, or to that which he takes for hiſtory, to authoriſed romance: and even in age, the deſire of knowing what has happened to other men, yields to the de⯑ſire alone of relating what has happened to our⯑ſelves. Thus hiſtory, true or falſe, ſpeaks to our paſſions always. What pity is it, that even the beſt ſhould ſpeak to our underſtandings ſo ſeldom! That it does ſo, we have none to blame but our⯑ſelves. Nature has done her part. She has opened this ſtudy to every man who can read and think: and what ſhe has made the moſt agreeable, reaſon can make the moſt uſeful, application of our minds. But if we conſult our reaſon, we ſhall be far from following the examples of our fellow-creatures, in this as in moſt other caſes, who are ſo proud of being rational. We ſhall neither read to ſoothe our indolence, nor to gratify our vanity: as little ſhall we content ourſelves to drudge like gram⯑marians and critics, that others may be able to ſtudy, with greater eaſe and profit, like philoſo⯑phers and ſtateſmen: as little ſhall we affect the ſlender merit of becoming great ſcholars at the expence of groping all our lives in the dark mazes of antiquity. All theſe miſtake the true drift of ſtudy, and the true uſe of hiſtory. Nature gave us curioſity to excite the induſtry of our minds; [230] but ſhe never intended it ſhould be made the prin⯑cipal, much leſs the ſole, object of their applica⯑tion. The true and proper object of this applica⯑tion, is a conſtant improvement in private and in public virtue. An application to any ſtudy, that tends neither directly nor indirectly to make us better men and better citizens, is at beſt but a ſpecious and ingenious ſort of idleneſs, to uſe an expreſſion of Tillotſon: and the knowledge we ac⯑quire by it is a creditable kind of ignorance, no⯑thing more. This creditable kind of ignorance is, in my opinion, the whole benefit which the gene⯑rality of men, even of the moſt learned, reap from the ſtudy of hiſtory: and yet the ſtudy of hiſtory ſeems to me, of all other, the moſt proper to train us up to private and public virtue.

GENIUS, HISTORY, AND EXPERIENCE.

THE ſchool of example is the world: and the maſters of this ſchool are hiſtory and experience. I am far from contending that the former is pre⯑ferable to the latter. I think, upon the whole, otherwiſe: but this I ſay, that the former is abſo⯑lutely neceſſary to prepare us for the latter, and to accompany us whilſt we are under the diſcipline of the latter, that is, through the whole courſe of our lives. No doubt, ſome few men may be quoted, to whom nature gave what art and induſtry can [231] give to no man. But ſuch examples will prove nothing againſt me, becauſe I admit that the ſtudy of hiſtory without experience is inſufficient, but aſſert that experience itſelf is ſo without genius. Genius is preferable to the other two; but I would wiſh to find the three together: for how great ſo⯑ever a genius may be, and how much ſoever he may acquire new light and heat as he proceeds in his rapid courſe, certain it is that he will never ſhine with the full luſtre, nor ſhed the full influ⯑ence he is capable of, unleſs to his own experience he adds the experience of other men and other ages. Genius, without the improvement at leaſt of ex⯑perience, is what comets once were thought to be, a blazing meteor, irregular in his courſe, and dan⯑gerous in his approach; of no uſe to any ſyſtem, and able to deſtroy any. Mere ſons of earth, if they have experience, without any knowledge of the hiſtory of the world, are but half ſcholars in the ſcience of mankind. And if they are conver⯑ſant in hiſtory, without experience, they are worſe than ignorant; they are pedants, always incapa⯑ble, ſometimes meddling and preſuming. The man who has all three, is an honour to his coun⯑try, and a public bleſſing.

EXAMPLE.

THERE is ſcarce any folly or vice more epide⯑mical among the ſons of men, than that ridicu⯑lous and hurtful vanity, by which the people of each country are apt to prefer themſelves to thoſe of every other, and to make their own cuſtoms, and manners, and opinions, the ſtandards of right and wrong, of true and falſe. The Chineſe Man⯑darins were ſtrangely ſurpriſed, and almoſt incre⯑dulous, when the Jeſuits ſhewed them how ſmall a figure their empire made in the general map of the world. The Samojedes wondered much at the Czar of Muſcovy for not living among them: and the Hottentott, who returned from Europe, ſtripped himſelf naked as ſoon as he came home, put on his bracelets of guts and garbage, and grew ſtink⯑ing and louſy as faſt as he could. Now nothing can contribute more to prevent us from being tainted with this vanity, than to accuſtom our⯑ſelves early to contemplate the different nations of the earth in that vaſt map which hiſtory ſpreads before us, in their riſe and their fall, in their bar⯑barous and civilized ſtates, in the likeneſs and un⯑likeneſs of them all to one another, and of each to itſelf. By frequently renewing this proſpect to the mind, the Mexican with his cap and coat of feathers, ſacrificing a human victim to his god, will not appear more ſavage to our eyes, than the Spaniard with an hat on his head, and a gonilla [233] round his neck, ſacrificing whole nations to his ambition, his avarice, and even the wantonneſs of his cruelty. I might ſhew, by a multitude of other examples, how hiſtory prepares us for expe⯑rience, and guides us in it: and many of theſe would be both curious and important. I might likewiſe bring ſeveral other inſtances, wherein hi⯑ſtory ſerves to purge the mind of thoſe national partialities and prejudices that we are apt to con⯑tract in our education, and that experience for the moſt part rather confirms than removes, be⯑cauſe it is for the moſt part confined, like our education.

HISTORICAL EXAMPLE ENTIRE.

THE examples which hiſtory preſents to us, both of men and of events, are generally com⯑plete: the whole example is before us, and con⯑ſequently the whole leſſon, or ſometimes the va⯑rious leſſons which philoſophy propoſes to teach us by this example. For firſt, as to men; we ſee them at their whole length in hiſtory, and we ſee them generally there through a medium leſs par⯑tial at leaſt than that of experience: for I ima⯑gine, that a Whig or a Tory, whilſt thoſe parties ſubſiſted, would have condemned in Saturninus the ſpirit of faction which he applauded in his own tribunes, and would have applauded in Druſus the ſpirit of moderation which he deſpiſed in thoſe [234] of the contrary party, and which he ſuſpected and hated in thoſe of his own party. The villain who has impoſed on mankind by his power or cunning, and whom experience could not unmaſk for a time, is unmaſked at length: and the honeſt man, who has been miſunderſtood or defamed, is juſtified be⯑fore his ſtory ends. Or if this does not happen, if the villain dies with his maſk on, in the midſt of applauſe and honour and wealth and power, and if the honeſt man dies under the ſame load of calumny and diſgrace under which he lived, driven perhaps into exile, and expoſed to want; yet we ſee hiſtorical juſtice executed, the name of one branded with infamy, and that of the other cele⯑brated with panegyric to ſucceeding ages.

DIFFERENCE BETWEEN HISTORY AND EXPERIENCE.

THUS again as to events that ſtand recorded in hiſtory: we ſee them all, we ſee them as they followed one another, or as they produced one another, cauſes or effects, immediate or remote. We are caſt back, as it were, into former ages: we live with the men who lived before us, and we inhabit countries that we never ſaw. Place is en⯑larged, and time prolonged, in this manner; ſo that the man who applies himſelf early to the ſtudy of hiſtory, may acquire in a few years, and before he ſets his foot abroad in the world, not [235] only a more extended knowledge of mankind, but the experience of more centuries, than any of the patriarchs ſaw. The events we are witneſſes of, in the courſe of the longeſt life, appear to us very often original, unprepared, ſingle, and un-rela⯑tive, if I may uſe ſuch an expreſſion for want of a better in Engliſh; in French I would ſay iſolés: they appear ſuch very often, are called accidents, and looked upon as the effects of chance; a word, by the way, which is in conſtant uſe, and has no determinate meaning. We get over the preſent difficulty, we improve the momentary advantage, as well as we can, and we look no farther. Ex⯑perience can carry us no farther: for experience can go a very little way back in diſcovering cauſes; and effects are not the objects of experi⯑ence till they happen. From hence many errors in judgment, and by conſequence in conduſt, ne⯑ceſſarily ariſe. And here too lies the difference we are ſpeaking of between hiſtory and experi⯑ence. The advantage on the ſide of the former is double. In ancient hiſtory, as we have ſaid al⯑ready, the examples are complete, which are in⯑complete in the courſe of experience. The begin⯑ning, the progreſſion, and the end appear, not of particular reigns, much leſs of particular enter⯑priſes, or ſyſtems of policy alone, but of govern⯑ments, of nations, of empires, and of all the va⯑rious ſyſtems that have ſucceeded one another in the courſe of their duration. In modern hiſtory, the examples may be, and ſometimes are, in⯑complete; [236] but they have this advantage when they are ſo, that they ſerve to render complete the examples of our own time. Experience is doubly defective; we are born too late to ſee the begin⯑ning, and we die too ſoon to ſee the end of many things. Hiſtory ſupplies both theſe defects. Mo⯑dern hiſtory ſhews the cauſes, when experience preſents the effects alone: and ancient hiſtory ena⯑bles us to gueſs at the effects, when experience preſents the cauſes alone.

EDUCATION.

WHAT now is education? that part, that principal and moſt neglected part of it, I mean, which tends to form the moral character? It is, I think, an inſtitution deſigned to lead men from their tender years, by precept and example, by argument and authority, to the practice, and to the habit of practiſing theſe rules. The ſtronger our appetites, deſires, and paſſions are, the harder indeed is the taſk of education; but, when the efforts of education are proportioned to this ſtrength, although our keeneſt appetites and de⯑ſires, and our ruling paſſions, cannot be reduced to a quiet and uniform ſubmiſſion, yet are not their exceſſes aſſuaged? are not their abuſes and miſapplications, in ſome degree, diverted or check⯑ed? Though the pilot cannot lay the ſtorm, can⯑not he carry the ſhip by his art better through it, [237] and often prevent the wreck that would always happen without him? If Alexander, who loved wine, and was naturally choleric, had been bred under the ſeverity of Roman diſcipline, it is pro⯑bable he would neither have made a bonfire of Perſepolis for his whore, nor have killed his friend. If Scipio, who was naturally given to women, for which anecdote we have, if I miſtake not, the authority of Polybius, as well as ſome verſes of Naevius preſerved by A. Gellius, had been edu⯑cated by Olympias at the court of Philip, it is im⯑probable that he would have reſtored the beautiful Spaniard. In ſhort, if the renowned Socrates had not corrected nature by art, this firſt apoſtle of the Gentiles had been a very profligate fellow by his own confeſſion; for he was inclined to all the vices Zopyrus imputed to him, as they ſay, on the obſervation of his phyſiognomy.

With him, therefore, who denies the effects of education, it would be in vain to diſpute; and with him who admits them, there can be no diſ⯑pute concerning that ſhare which I aſcribe to the ſtudy of hiſtory, in forming our moral characters, and making us better men. The very perſons who pretend that inclinations cannot be reſtrained, nor habits corrected, againſt our natural bent, would be the firſt perhaps to prove in certain caſes the contrary. A fortune at court, or the favours of a lady, have prevailed on many to conceal, and they could not conceal without reſtraining, [238] which is one ſtep towards correcting, the vices they were by nature addicted to the moſt. Shall we imagine now, that the beauty of virtue and the deformity of vice, the charms of a bright and laſt⯑ing reputation, the terror of being delivered over as criminals to all poſterity, the real benefit ari⯑ſing from a conſcientious diſcharge of the duty we owe to others, which benefit fortune can neither hinder nor take away, and the reaſonableneſs of conforming ourſelves to the deſigns of God, ma⯑nifeſted in the conſtitution of the human nature; ſhall we imagine, I ſay, that all theſe are not able to acquire the ſame power over thoſe who are continually called upon to a contemplation of them, and they who apply themſelves to the ſtudy of hiſtory are ſo called upon, as other motives, mean and ſordid in compariſon of theſe, can uſurp on other men?

A LITERARY MONSTER.

HISTORY muſt have a certain degree of pro⯑bability and authenticity, or the examples we find in it will not carry a force ſufficient to make due impreſſions on our minds, nor to illuſtrate nor to ſtrengthen the precepts of philoſophy and the rules of good policy. But beſides, when hiſtories have this neceſſary authenticity and probability, there is much diſcernment to be employed in the choice and the uſe we make of them. Some are to be [239] read, ſome are to be ſtudied, and ſome may be neglected entirely, not only without detriment, but with advantage. Some are the proper objects of one man's curioſity, ſome of others, and ſome of all men's; but all hiſtory is not an object of curioſity for any man. He who improperly, wan⯑tonly, and abſurdly makes it ſo, indulges a ſort of canine appetite: the curioſity of one, like the hunger of the other, devours ravenouſly and with⯑out diſtinction whatever falls in its way; but nei⯑ther of them digeſts. They heap crudity upon crudity, and nouriſh and improve nothing but their diſtemper. Some ſuch characters I have known, though it is not the moſt common ex⯑treme into which men are apt to fall. One of them I knew in this country. He joined, to a more than athletic ſtrength of body, a prodigious memory, and to both a prodigious induſtry. He had read almoſt conſtantly twelve or fourteen hours a day, for five-and-twenty or thirty years; and had heaped together as much learning as could be crouded into an head. In the courſe of my ac⯑quaintance with him, I conſulted him once or twice, not oftener; for I found this maſs of learn⯑ing of as little uſe to me as to the owner. The man was communicative enough, but nothing was diſtinct in his mind. How could it be otherwiſe? he had never ſpared time to think; all was em⯑ployed in reading. His reaſon had not the merit of common mechaniſm. When you preſs a watch, or pull a clock, they anſwer your queſtion with [240] preciſion; for they repeat exactly the hour of the day, and tell you neither more nor leſs than you deſire to know. But when you aſked this man a queſtion, he overwhelmed you by pouring forth all that the ſeveral terms or words of your queſ⯑tion recalled to his memory: and, if he omitted any thing, it was that very thing to which the ſenſe of the whole queſtion ſhould have led him and confined him. To aſk him a queſtion, was to wind up a ſpring in his memory, that rattled on with vaſt rapidity, and confuſed noiſe, till the force of it was ſpent: and you went away with all the noiſe in your ears, ſtunned and un-in⯑formed.

REASON AND INSTINCT.

THE far greateſt part of mankind appears re⯑duced to a lower ſtate than other animals, in that very reſpect, on account of which we claim ſo great ſuperiority over them; becauſe inſtinct, that has its due effect, is preferable to reaſon that has not. I ſuppoſe in this place, with philoſophers, and the vulgar, that which I am in no wiſe ready to affirm, that other animals have no ſhare of hu⯑man reaſon: for, let me ſay by the way, it is much more likely other animals ſhould ſhare the human, which is denied, than that man ſhould ſhare the divine reaſon, which is affirmed, But, ſuppoſing our monopoly of reaſon, would not your lordſhip chuſe to walk upon four legs, to wear a [241] long tail, and to be called a beaſt, with the ad⯑vantage of being determined by irreſiſtible and unerring inſtinct to thoſe truths that are neceſſary to your well-being; rather than to walk on two legs, to wear no tail, and to be honoured with the title of man, at the expence of deviating from them perpetually? Inſtinct acts ſpontaneouſly, whenever its action is neceſſary, and directs the animal according to the purpoſe for which it was implanted in him. Reaſon is a nobler and more extenſive faculty; for it extends to the unneceſſary as well as neceſſary, and to ſatisfy our curioſity as well as our wants: but reaſon muſt be excited, or ſhe will remain unactive; ſhe muſt be left free, or ſhe will conduct us wrong, and carry us farther aſtray from her own precincts than we ſhould go without her help: in the firſt caſe, we have no ſufficient guide; and in the ſecond, the more we employ our reaſon, the more unreaſonable we are.

Now if all this be ſo, if reaſon has ſo little, and ignorance, paſſion, intereſt, and cuſtom, ſo much to do, in forming our opinions and our ha⯑bits, and in directing the whole conduct of human life; is it not a thing deſirable by every thinking man, to have the opportunity, indulged to ſo few by the courſe of accidents, the opportunity "ſe⯑cum eſſe, et ſecum vivere," of living ſome years at leaſt to ourſelves, and for ourſelves, in a ſtate of freedom, under the laws of reaſon, inſtead of paſſing our whole time in a ſtate of vaſſalage under [242] thoſe of authority and cuſtom? Is it not worth our while to contemplate ourſelves, and others, and all the things of this world, once before we leave them, through the medium of pure, and, if I may ſay ſo, of undefiled reaſon.? Is it not worth our while to approve or condemn, on our own authority, what we receive in the beginning of life on the au⯑thority of other men, who were not then better able to judge for us, than we are now to judge for ourſelves?

ABSTRACTION FROM THE WORLD.

WHILST we remain in the world, we are all fettered down, more or leſs, to one common level, and have neither all the leiſure, nor all the means and advantages, to ſoar above it, which we may procure to ourſelves by breaking theſe fetters in re⯑treat. To talk of abſtracting ourſelves from mat⯑ter, laying aſide body, and being reſolved, as it were, into pure intellect, is proud, metaphyſical, unmeaning jargon: but to abſtract ourſelves from the prejudices, and habits, and pleaſures, and bu⯑ſineſs of the world, is no more than many are, though all are not, capable of doing. They who can do this, may elevate their ſouls in retreat to an higher ſtation, and may take from thence ſuch a view of the world, as the ſecond Scipio took in his dream, from the ſeats of the bleſſed, when the whole earth appeared ſo little to him, that he could [243] ſcarce diſcern that ſpeck of dirt, the Roman em⯑pire. Such a view as this will increaſe our know⯑ledge by ſhewing us our ignorance; will diſtinguiſh every degree of probability from the loweſt to the higheſt, and mark the diſtance between that and certainty; will diſpel the intoxicating fumes of philoſophical preſumption, and teach us to eſta⯑bliſh our peace of mind, where alone it can reſt ſecurely, in reſignation: in ſhort, ſuch a view will render life more agreeable, and death leſs terrible. Is not this buſineſs, my lord? Is not this plea⯑ſure too, the higheſt pleaſure? The world can afford us none ſuch; we muſt retire from the world to taſte it with a full guſt; but we ſhall taſte it the better for having been in the world.

THE IMPROVEMENT OF TIME.

YOUR Lordſhip may think this perhaps a little too ſanguine, for one who has loſt ſo much time already: you may put me in mind, that human life has no ſecond ſpring, no ſecond ſummer: you may aſk me what I mean by ſowing in autumn, and whether I hope to reap in winter? My anſwer will be, that I think very differently from moſt men, of the time we have to paſs, and the buſineſs we have to do in this world. I think we have more of one, and leſs of the other, than is commonly ſuppoſed. Our want of time, and the ſhortneſs of human life, are ſome of the principal common-place [244] complaints, which we prefer againſt the eſta⯑bliſhed order of things: they are the grumblings of the vulgar, and the pathetic lamentations of the philoſopher; but they are impertinent and impious in both. The man of buſineſs deſpiſes the man of pleaſure, for ſquandering his time away; the man of pleaſure pities or laughs at the man of buſineſs, for the ſame thing: and yet both concur ſuperci⯑liouſly and abſurdly to find fault with the Supreme Being, for having given them ſo little time. The philoſopher, who miſpends it very often as much as the others, joins in the ſame cry, and authoriſes this impiety. Theophraſtus thought it extremely hard to die at ninety, and to go out of the world when he had juſt learned how to live in it. His maſter Ariſtotle found fault with nature, for treat⯑ing man in this reſpect worſe than ſeveral other animals: both very unphiloſophically! and I love Seneca the better for his quarrel with the Stagirite on this head. We ſee, in ſo many inſtances, a juſt proportion of things, according to their ſeveral relations to one another, that philoſophy ſhould lead us to conclude this proportion preſerved even where we cannot diſcern it; inſtead of leading us to conclude that it is not preſerved where we do not diſcern it, or where we think that we ſee the contrary. To conclude otherwiſe, is ſhocking preſumption. It is to preſume that the ſyſtem of the univerſe would have been more wiſely con⯑trived, if creatures of our low rank among intel⯑lectual natures had been called to the councils of [245] the Moſt High; or that the Creator ought to mend his work by the advice of the creature. That life which ſeems to our ſelf-love ſo ſhort, when we compare it with the ideas we frame of eternity, or even with the duration of ſome other beings, will appear ſufficient, upon a leſs partial view, to all the ends of our creation, and of a juſt proportion in the ſucceſſive courſe of generations. The term itſelf is long: we render it ſhort; and the want we complain of flows from our profuſion, not from our poverty. We are all arrant ſpend thrifts; ſome of us diſſipate our eſtates on the trifles, ſome on the ſuperfluities, and then we all complain that we want the neceſſaries, of life. The much greateſt part never reclaim, but die bankrupts to God and man. Others reclaim late; and they are apt to imagine, when they make up their accounts and ſee how their fund is diminiſhed, that they have not enough remaining to live upon, becauſe they have not the whole. But they deceive themſelves: they were richer than they thought, and they are not yet poor. If they huſband well the remainder, it will be found ſufficient for all the neceſſaries, and for ſome of the ſuperfluities, and trifles too perhaps, of life: but then the former order of expence muſt be inverted; and the neceſſaries of life muſt be pro⯑vided, before they put themſelves to any coſt for the trifles or ſuperfluities.

THE TRUE CURE OF AFFLICTION.

DISSIPATION of mind, and length of time, are the remedies to which the greateſt part of man⯑kind truſt in their afflictions. But the firſt of theſe works a temporary, the ſecond a flow, effect: and both are unworthy of a wiſe man. Are we to fly from ourſelves that we may fly from our misfor⯑tunes, and fondly to imagine that the diſeaſe is cured becauſe we find means to get ſome moments of reſpite from pain? Or ſhall we expect from time, the phyſician of brutes, a lingering and un⯑certain deliverance? Shall we wait to be happy till we can forget that we are miſerable, and owe to the weakneſs of our faculties a tranquillity which ought to be the effect of their ſtrength? Far otherwiſe. Let us ſet all our paſt and our preſent afflictions at once before our eyes. Let us reſolve to overcome them, inſtead of flying from them, or wearing out the ſenſe of them by long and igno⯑minious patience. Inſtead of palliating remedies, let us uſe the inciſion-knife and the cauſtic, ſearch the wound to the bottom, and work an immediate and radical cure.

CHANGE OF PLACE IN THE ORDER OF NATURE.

There are ſome perſons who are of opinion that, as the whole univerſe ſuffers a continual rota⯑tion, [247] and Nature ſeems to delight in it; or to pre⯑ſerve herſelf by it, ſo there is in the minds of men a natural reſtleſſneſs, which inclines them to change of place, and to the ſhifting their habitations. This opinion has at leaſt an appearance of truth, which the other [a prepoſſeſſion in favour of ſome particular country] wants; and is countenanced, as the other is contradicted, by experience. But, whatever the reaſons be, which muſt have varied infinitely in an infinite number of caſes, and an immenſe ſpace of time; true it is in fact, that the families and na⯑tions of the world have been in a continual fluctu⯑ation, roaming about on the face of the globe, driving and driven out by turns. What a number of colonies has Aſia ſent into Europe! The Phoe⯑nicians planted the coaſt of the Mediterranean ſea, and puſhed their ſettlements even into the Ocean. The Etrurians were of Aſiatic extraction; and, to mention no more, the Romans, thoſe lords of the world, acknowledged a Trojan exile for the founder of their empire How many migrations have there been, in return to theſe, from Europe into Aſia! They would be endleſs to enumerate; for, beſides the AEolic, the Ionic, and others of almoſt equal fame, the Greeks, during ſeveral ages, made con⯑tinual expeditions, and built cities in ſeveral parts of Aſia. The Gauls penetrated thither too, and eſtabliſhed a kingdom. The European Scythians over-run theſe vaſt provinces, and carried their arms to the conſines of Egypt. Alexander ſubdued all from the Helleſpont to India, and built towns, [248] and eſtabliſhed colonies, to ſecure his conqueſts, and to eterniſe his name. From both theſe parts of the world Africa has received inhabitants and maſters; and what ſhe has received ſhe has given. The Tyrians built the city, and founded the repub⯑lic, of Carthage; and Greek has been the language of Egypt. In the remoteſt antiquity we hear of Belus in Chaldaea, and of Seſ [...]ſtris planting his tawny colonies in Colchos: and Spain has been, in theſe later ages, under the dominion of the Moors. If we turn to Runic hiſtory, we find our fathers, the Goths, led by Woden and by Thor, their heroes firſt and their divinities afterwards, from the Aſiatic Tartary into Europe: and who can aſſure us that this was their firſt migration? They came into Aſia perhaps by the eaſt, from that continent to which their ſons have lately ſailed from Europe by the weſt: and thus, in the proceſs of three or four thouſand years, the ſame race of men have puſhed their conqueſt and their habitations round the globe: at leaſt this may be ſuppoſed, as reaſonably as it is ſuppoſed, I think by Grotius, that America was peopled from Scandinavia. The world is a great wilderneſs, wherein mankind have wandered and joſtled one another about from the creation. Some have removed by neceſſity, and others by choice. One nation has been fond of ſeizing what another was tired of poſſeſſing: and it will be difficult to point out the country which is to this day in the hands of its firſt inhabitants.

CONSCIOUS FREEDOM THE TRUEST DIGNITY.

Believe me, the providence of God has eſta⯑bliſhed ſuch an order in the world, that of all which belongs to us the leaſt valuable parts can alone fall under the will of others. Whatever is beſt is ſafeſt; lies out of the reach of human power; can neither be given nor taken away. Such is this great and beautiful work of nature, the world. Such is the mind of man, which contemplates and admires the world whereof it makes the nobleſt part. Theſe are inseparably ours, and as long as we re⯑main in one we ſhall enjoy the other. Let us march therefore intrepidly wherever we are led by the courſe of human accidents. Wherever they lead us, on what coaſt ſoever we are thrown by them, we ſhall not find ourſelves abſolutely ſtrangers. We ſhall meet with men and women, creatures of the ſame figure, endowed with the ſame faculties, and born under the ſame laws of nature. We ſhall ſee the ſame virtues and vices, flowing from the ſame general principles, but varied in a thouſand different and contrary modes, according to that infinite variety of laws and cuſtoms which is eſta⯑bliſhed for the ſame univerſal end, the preſervation of ſociety. We ſhall feel the ſame revolution of ſeaſons, and the ſame ſun and moon will guide the courſe of our year. The ſame azure vault, beſpangled with ſtars, will be every where ſpread [250] over our heads. There is no part of the world from whence we may not admire thoſe planets which roll, like ours, in different orbits round the ſame central ſun; from whence we may not diſco⯑ver an object ſtill more ſtupendous, that army of fixed ſtars hung up in the immenſe ſpace of the univerſe, innumerable ſuns whoſe beams enlighten and cheriſh the unknown worlds which roll around them: and whilſt I am raviſhed by ſuch contem⯑plations as theſe, whilſt my ſoul is thus raiſed up to heaven, it imports me little what ground I tread upon.

POVERTY REPUTABLE.

HOW great a part of mankind bear poverty with chearfulneſs, becauſe they have been bred in it, and are accuſtomed to it! Shall we not be able to acquire, by reaſon and by reflection, what the mean⯑eſt artiſan poſſeſſes by habit? Shall thoſe who have ſo many advantages over him be ſlaves to wants and neceſſities of which he is ignorant? The rich, whoſe wanton appetites neither the produce of one country, nor of one part of the world, can ſatisfy, for whom the whole habitable globe is ranſacked, for whom the caravans of the eaſt are continually in march, and the remoteſt ſeas are covered with ſhips; theſe pampered creatures, ſated with ſuper⯑fluity, are often glad to inhabit an humble cot, and to make an homely meal. They run for re⯑fuge [251] into the arms of frugality. Madmen that they are, to live always in fear of what they ſome⯑times wiſh for, and to fly from that life which they find it luxury to imitate! Let us caſt our eyes backwards on thoſe great men who lived in the ages of virtue, of ſimplicity, of frugality; and let us bluſh to think that we enjoy in baniſhment more than they were maſters of in the midſt of their glory, in the utmoſt affluence of their fortune. Let us imagine that we behold a great dictator gi⯑ving audience to the Samnit? ambaſſadors, and pre⯑paring on the hearth his mean repaſt with the ſame hand which had ſo often ſubdued the enemies of the commonwealth, and borne the triumphal lau⯑rel to the Capitol. Let us remember that Plato had but three ſervants, and that Zeno had none. Socrates, the reformer of his country, was main⯑tained, as Menenius Agrippa, the arbiter of his country, was buried, by contribution. While At⯑tilius Regulus beat the Carthaginians in Afric, the flight of his ploughman reduced his family to di⯑ſtreſs at home, and the tillage of his little farm became the public care. Scipio died without lea⯑ving enough to marry his daughters, and their portions were paid out of the treaſury of the ſtate; for ſure it was juſt that the people of Rome ſhould once pay tribute to him, who had eſtabliſhed a per⯑petual tribute on Carthage. After ſuch examples ſhall we be afraid of poverty? ſhall we diſdain to be adopted into a family which has ſo many illuſtrious anceſtors? ſhall we complain of baniſhment for [252] taking from us what the greateſt philoſophers, and the greateſt heroes of antiquity, never enjoyed?

RESIGNATION.

THE darts of adverſe fortune are always level⯑led at our heads. Some reach us; ſome graze againſt us, and fly to wound our neighbours. Let us therefore impoſe an equal temper on our minds, and pay without murmuring the tribute which we owe to humanity. The winter brings cold, and we muſt freeze. The ſummer returns with heat, and we muſt melt. The inclemency of the air diſorders our health, and we muſt be ſick. Here we are expoſed to wild beaſts, and there to men more ſavage than the beaſts: and if we eſcape the inconveniencies and dangers of the air and the earth, there are perils by water and perils by fire. This eſtabliſhed courſe of things it is not in our power to change; but it is in our power to aſſume ſuch a greatneſs of mind as becomes-wiſe and vir⯑tuous men; as may enable us to encounter the ac⯑cidents of, life with fortitude, and to conform our⯑ſelves to the order of Nature, who governs her great kingdom, the world, by continual mutations. Let us ſubmit to this order; let us be perſuaded that whatever does happen ought to happen, and never be ſo fooliſh as to expoſtulate with Nature. The beſt reſolution we can take is to ſuffer what we can⯑not alter, and to purſue, without repining, the [253] road which Providence, who directs every thing, has marked out to us: for it is not enough to fol⯑low; and he is but a bad ſoldier who ſighs, and marches on with reluctancy. We muſt receive the orders with ſpirit and chearfulneſs, and not endea⯑vour to ſlink out of the poſt which is aſſigned us in this beautiful diſpoſition of things, whereof even our ſufferings make a neceſſary part. Let us ad⯑dreſs ourſelves to God, who governs all, as Clean⯑thes did in thoſe admirable verſes, which are going to loſe part of their grace and energy in my tranſ⯑lation of them.

Thus let us ſpeak, and thus let us act. Reſigna⯑tion to the will of God is true magnanimity. But the ſure mark of a puſillanimous and baſe ſpirit, is to ſtruggle againſt, to cenſure the order of Pro⯑vidence, and, inſtead of mending our own conduct, to ſet up for correcting that of our Maker.