Yorick's meditations: upon various interesting and important subjects. Viz. Upon nothing. Upon something. Upon the thing. ...

Table of contents

- [titlepage]

- MEDITATION upon NOTHING.

- MEDITATION upon SOMETHING.

- MEDITATION upon the THING.

- MEDITATION upon CONSTITUTION.

- MEDITATION on TOBACCO.

- MEDITATION on NOSES.

- MEDITATION upon QUACKS.

- MEDITATION upon MIDWIVES.

- MEDITATION upon the HOMUNCULUS.

- MEDITATION upon HOBBY-HORSES.

- MEDITATION upon MOMUS'S GLASS.

- MEDITATION upon DIGRESSIONS.

- MEDITATION on OBSCURITY in WRITING.

- MEDITATION upon NONSENSE.

- MEDITATION upon the ASSOCIATION of IDEAS.

- MEDITATION upon CUCKOLDS.

- MEDITATION upon the MAN in the MOON.

- MEDITATION upon the MONADES of LEIBNITZ.

- MEDITATION upon Virtú.

- MEDITATION upon CONSCIENCE.

- MEDITATION upon DRUNKENNESS.

- MEDITATION upon a CLOSE-STOOL.

- MEDITATION the Last, or a MEDI TATION upon MEDITATIONS.

YORICK's MEDITATIONS.

FINIS.

YORICK's MEDITATIONS UPON VARIOUS Interesting and Important SUBJECTS. VIZ.

- Upon NOTHING.

- Upon SOMETHING.

- Upon the THING.

- Upon the CONSTITUTION.

- On TOBACCO.

- On NOSES.

- Upon QUACKS.

- Upon MIDWIVES.

- Upon the HOMUNCULUS.

- Upon HOBBY-HORSES.

- Upon MOMUS'S GLASS.

- Upon DIGRESSIONS.

- On OBSCURITY in Writing.

- On NONSENSE.

- Upon the ASSOCIATION of IDEAS.

- Upon CUCKOLDS.

- Upon the MAN in the MOON.

- Upon the MONADES of LEIBNITZ.

- Upon Virtú.

- Upon CONSCIENCE.

- Upon DRUNKENNESS.

- Upon a CLOSE-STOOL

- MEDITATION upon MEDITATIONS.

Nec cum porticus aut, me lectica excipit, desum mihi.
HOR. Sat.

LONDON: Printed for R. STEVENS, at Pope's-Head, in PATER-NOSTER-ROW. 1760.

MEDITATION upon NOTHING.

‘ He hems, and is deliver'd of his mouse. ’

WRAPT up in reflection, I long profoundly meditated upon what every body speaks of, and no body understands—here some sneerer may perhaps ask me what I meditated upon—why I meditated upon the most obstruse object in nature, to deal plainly with you I meditated upon nothing. Nothing, said I to myself, is certainly the most unfathomable object in metaphysics, and yet it has a creative faculty; and if we may believe the philosophical poet of antiquity, is endowed with a power of producing itself.

Ex nihilo nihil fit.
LUCRETIUS.

Nothing must come of nothing.

Trifling, however, as this subject may appear, nothing has an importance in itself which the superficial are not aware of. If we may give credit to some of the most profound philosophers, the whole universe was made out of nothing. Nothing is, according to them, the source of all being, and in nothing all being must end. The greatest of all philosophers has declared himself for a vacuum, and a vacuum is certainly a down-right nothing. The more I meditate upon nothing, the more I am convinced of its importance. This same nothing has been of great service to many an author, I could mention one that has lately filled two whole volumes with nothing; the books vastly dear; but what does it contain? why just nothing, and that proves the author's abilities, any blockhead could write if he had something to say for himself; but he that can write upon nothing must furely be a superlative genius. Well, but are not there such things as religion, virtue, and honour? no, I deny it; and if you wont take my ipse dixit, the church will shew you that there is nothing in the first; the court that there is nothing in the second; and the army and the navy will fully prove that there is nothing in the third. Well, some of my impertinent readers may perhaps ask me what I have in view in thus communicating my meditations to the public; why what should I have in view—nothing at all—do but read five or six pages more, and you'll see I could have nothing in view. We all were created out of nothing, and in nothing we all must end, according to the system of those sagacious philosophers, the materialists who have discovered that the universe was made out of nothing, and that nothing presides over it.

MEDITATION upon SOMETHING.

LET me now turn my eyes from the vast abyss of non-entity, and fix them a moment upon—something. Let metaphysicians say what they will, something now must certainly exist, therefore something must have existed from all eternity—pray every day don't we receive convincing proofs of the existence of something. Perhaps my readers may here grow tired of my meditation, so much the worse for them, for I'll maintain it in spight of the universe that there is something in it. Let the sagacious reader that may be tempted to think that this meditation turns upon the same subject with the former, read only to the end of the page, and then h'll see the difference between something and nothing. Some of the malignant and censorious may perhaps here smell a rat—I think I hear some of them say, there must be something at the bottom of this—he has certainly an ill design against religion or government—Sir, my intentions are very good, but such readers as you always find something to carp at. How abstract and inexplicable is the nature of something—how hard is something to be defined? how hard is it often to be found out? For instance now, though every chapter of Tristram's Life and Opinions teems with something new and extraordinary, many superficial readers have been known to say of it —there may be something in it, but for my part it escapes me—gentlemen, that may very well be; but what has been said of truth, may likewise be said of something, viz. that it lies at the bottom of a well—and there, gentlemen, it must lie till drawn from thence by the bucket of philosophy.

MEDITATION upon the THING.

I ASCEND still higher and higher in my meditations—stay awhile, sirs, and you shall see me ascend to the source where the dim speck of entity began—here, no doubt, some lady will interrupt me with a lord, sir, what do you mean? why no modest woman will read you—oh! fie the thing. So, madam, you think I mean country-matters, but I had no such stuff in my thoughts—The thing here meant is what every reader must find in a book, or else he throws it by, and declares the author to be a damned dull-fellow. You'll perhaps ask me in what it consists? why, faith I don't know—suppose I was to ask you in what the smell of the violet consists—could you tell me—you'll doubtless answer no—because you are no philosopher—well, but I am, and yet I really know as little of the matter as you do yourself. Here one of those blockheads who have usurped the name of philosopher, would advance with a supercilious air, that the smell of a violet proceeded from certain contexture of the small particles of the flower, which is of a nature to affect the organs of those that smell it just as it does, and no otherwise—But what is this but saying, that it consists just in the very thing in which it consists—but to return from this digression to the thing in question.

It has frequently happened, that a book has been by the public in general looked upon as the thing—and has notwithstanding been thought a very bad thing by judicious critics—but this has never happened to any thing of mine—whatever I write will by all the world be allowed to be the thing; and if any one should take upon him to assert, that this meditation is not the thing, I must beg leave to tell him that he has no taste—but this is a digression from my subject—no matter for that, a digression is quite the thing in a history, and surely it must be much more so in a meditation. What's a meditation, but a collection of the reveries of a mind; and what is of a more moving nature than the mind—so far from thinking in train, it flies from one subject to another, with a rapidity inexpressible—from meditating upon the planetary system, it can with ease deviate into a meditation upon hobby-horses, tho' there does not appear to be any considerable connexion between the ideas—and yet Hobbs has affirmed, that thoughts have always some connexion.

MEDITATION upon CONSTITUTION.

BUT come let us quit this obstruse subjects, and turn our meditations to a subject which we all understand—let us meditate upon the constitution, for every body under stands that, and many a coffee-house politician, who would not have a word to say for himself, upon something, nothing, or the thing, can hold forth upon the constitution for half an hour together, and nobody ever the wiser. Can like a clock-maker take down all the springs and wheels of it, and then put them together as they were before. But here I must ask the constitution's pardon for having compared it to a clock—clocks are sometimes down, and 'tis well known that our happy constitution was never liable to any such accident, though it resembles a clock in going sometimes a little too fast, and sometimes a little too slow. Here, perhaps, I may be interrupted by some impertinent reader with a quere, how does it go now?—Why, Sir Sneerer, it goes exactly right, and how should it go otherwise, when wound up by the hand of a Pit. But, alas! while I thus indulge my meditations, and compare the constitution to a clock, I tremble with the apprehensions of censure from another quarter—Some red-hot theologian may very probably fulminate an anathema against me, as an adopter of the odious system of materialism. But, reader, take my word for it that I am herein accused unjustly, as perhaps the author of the spirit of laws was before me. I think spirit as necessary to move the universe, as to keep the constitution agoing, and make no doubt that if nothing had existed but matter, it would have stood still from all eternity. Here, perhaps, the same sneerer may retort upon me, and ask me, with an air of triumph, is there spirit in a clock—no certainly—yet we find that motion can subsist in such a material machine. Sir, Sneerer, you seem to have forgot that the clock was made by an intelligent being, and would soon stand still for ever, without the assistance of such an one to wind it up. Your objection will never have any force till the perpetual motion is discovered, and when that is once found out, we may expect to see a constitution incapable of suffering any revolution. Our glorious constitution has suffered some, but 'tis now so well established that no true Englishman can wish that it should ever deviate from its present principles. It has been said indeed of the republic of Venice, that it has been twelve hundred years without a revolution; and the republics of Italy in general, when they boast their stability, boast only the stability of their corruptions. How far superior to them is a constitution like ours, or like that of ancient Rome, which has struggled through various abuses and revolutions, till it has at last acquired perfection. Here, methinks, I am interrupted by some physician, who tells me, with all the gravitiy of his profession, that the body politic resembles the body natural, which is never more in danger of being seized with an acute disorder, than when it enjoys a vigorous state of health—this is the observation of no less a man than the great professor Boerhaave—Oh, lord! doctor, you have frightened me out of my wits with your aphorism—I wish Boerhaave and you at—Lord, have mercy upon us, and preserve us from a state-fever, 'tis worse than a state apoplexy itself—but, upon second thoughts, I apprehend that there is not much danger of a statefever, since the constitution is allowed to be somewhat phlegmatic. But now I talk of phlegm, I have so long meditated upon the constitution, that I can meditate upon it no longer, without the assistance of a pipe of tobacco, and when 'tis lighted, I may, perhaps, resume my meditation; for the aromatic gales of tobacco, inspire the politician as powerfully as coffee itself.

Blest leaf whose aromatic gales dispense,

To templar's modesty, to parson's sense;

Come to thy YORICK, come with healing wings,

And let me taste thee unexcis'd by kings.

MEDITATION on TOBACCO.

I Intended to have continued my meditation upon the constitution, but I had not been long wrapt up in the cloudy tabernacle which my tube of clay diffused around me, when I was insensibly led into a train of meditations upon the virtues of that leaf, which contributes so much to alleviate the cares of mortals; a subject which seems to have a considerable connexion with the former, as the constitution is, upon many accounts, highly indebted to tobacco. Blest leaf, cried I in an extacy, how extensive and powerful is thy influence, thou aidest the meditations of the oriental, and dost conspire with soporiferous opium to fill his mind with rapturous ideas of paradise, were it not for thee the poor unhappy negro, would sink under the weight of his labours. The politician without thee could not adjust the ballance of Europe to his satisfaction; the publican would lose much of his custom; and the bunter his favourite amusement; in fine, were it not for thee the world would have been deprived of many useful and learned treatises; and what is worse than all, would never have seen this meditation.

Poets seek rural shades and purling streams; but the writer that aims at conveying solid instruction, delights in those modern Lyceums where the fume of tobacco conspires with port, or porter to suggest ideas, and enlarge the soul. Oh! shame eternal to the British fair, tobacco is their aversion; but still thou art not entirely abandoned by the sex; the sage dames of Holland smoke as much as their husbands, and many a Jewess have I seen at Grand Cairo with a pipe in her mouth. Thy importance too is fully acknowledged by mankind, and not without reason, since they every day see we so many enterprises of great pith and moment vanish into smoke. Thy discoveries are likewise numerous, for is it not usual to smoke the justice; to smoke the parson; to smoke the jest; and, in fine, to smoke every thing that has any thing in it to be smoked; insomuch, that the cobler himself has not escaped being smoked. Here the critics may, perhaps, cry out damn'd dull; but let them look to it, for should they pretend to censure my meditations, I'll make the critics smoke. Tobacco! thou most grateful incense to the gods in the upper gallery, without thee how insipid would be the character of Abel Drugger—how tasteless would be wine, punch, and porter without thee? 'Twas a maxim with the ancients, that sine Baccho, friget Venus, that love is cold without wine; but how much more just is the maxim, that wine is cold without tobacco? Oh, doubly a friend to conversation! thou openest the heart to social converse, and dost, at the same time, afford relief to the man of few words, by furnishing him with an excuse for his taciturnity. Oh! friend to learning and the muses, by thee the Oxford scholar is as much edified as by Ramus or Smiglesuco, and perhaps much more. The great Socrates, and the divine Plato, were but mean philosophers with all their learning, nor should we wonder at it, there was no tobacco smoked in their ages, that would have exalted their conceptions, and raised their souls to the most sublime contemplations. What honour then is due to the glorious memory of Lane, who first introduced the use of the divine leaf into this our country. Make him your modern bards, who, in genius and abilities, so much surpass all who went before you—make him the subject of your choicest lays. He is justly entitled to your gratitude, since tobacco so much contributes to make your inspirer beer go down. Wrapt up in smoke, and in this pleasing theme, I could with pleasure dwell upon it till to-morrow morning, but I must quit my subject, though much against my will, for hark, the bell sounds, my candle is burnt out, and I have not so much as a flint to strike a light, so I must go to bed, and there dream or meditate till to-morrow.

MEDITATION on NOSES.

FROM meditating upon tobacco, which I considered in one of its uses only, I was insensibly led to meditate upon snuff, which, with such propriety, become the noses of the nobility and gentry, but my attention was soon called off from this object to the consideration of something of much greater importance, I mean the nose itself. It was formerly customary to judge of a man's understanding by his nose,
Homo emuncti naris,
says HORACE.

And in another place, ‘Minus aptus acutis naribus horum hominum,’ so that a sharp nose was at that time the sign of wit. The nose has in other ages and nations been artificially made to denote profound wisdom and gravity, by the application of a pair of spectacles to it. The young men of Bologna in Italy thus equalled the doctors in the gravity of their outside, and 'tis to be supposed, that they took particular care of that part, since it would have been a great misfortune to have had nothing to hang a pair of spectacles upon. Oh, important member! the symbol of wit and understanding, of wisdom and gravity, would thy importance were better known, for oft with dire disgrace the nose falls off, sapped by the unrelenting rage of Syphilis, and thus the human countenance loses its chiefest ornament. Could Talicotius rise once more, he'd have as many customers as ever; but, alas! so extraordinary a genius is but seldom seen.—Here, methinks, some sneering Critic turns up his nose at me, and asks me what all this pompous exordium tends to? Why, pray Mr. Critic, can my language be too sublime in speaking of the nose? when Solomon himself has compared the nose of his mistress to mount Lebanon; and when heaven itself has a nose, if we may believe the divine Shakespear:
Heaven stops the nose at it.
OTHELLO.

Must we not be fully satisfied of the importance of the nose, since sure that part must be the seat of honour. That 'tis the seat of honour none can doubt, as he that has been pulled by it, loses all pretensions to that quality. 'Tis true, indeed, another part of the body (which for obvious reasons I shall not name, though a celebrated wit of the last age, sworn foe to indecency and irreligion, has taken pleasure to dwell upon it) has disputed this distinction with the nose, just as the seat of the soul has been a matter of controversy among philosophers. Descartes placing it in the pineal gland, others in the corpus callosum, others in the medulla oblongata, &c. Non nostrum est tantas componere lites; let others decide whether honour be seated in the nose, or elsewhere, sure I am it must be seated somewhere. But to return from this digression into the high road of my meditation, which is a very easy matter, since I have nothing to do but follow my nose, which will not fail to marshal me the way that I am going. Come on then, lets follow its guidance without being terrified at the old proverb, he that follows his nose may be led into a stink—the nose is the gnomon of the face, and often directs us in as unerring a manner, as the shadow points to the hours upon a sun-dial. Cromwell himself has told us, that a man never mounts so high as when he does not know where he's going; and surely when a man goes on without knowing where he's going, he may justly be said to follow his nose. Oh, nose! thou trusty guide of half mankind, some of the greatest heroes have acknowledged thee to be their only conductor. Peter the Great, Charles the Twelfth, and William the Third of glorious and immortal memory, adhered to the system of an absolute fatality, and entirely disbelieved that men were masters of any of their actions. What else was this but to own that they had all their lives followed their nose. Oh! mortals, who too often wander from the way follow your noses, for by giving yourselves up entirely to their guidance, you will, at least, escape the mortification of having others lead you by them. To follow one's nose, must sure be to take the right way; since to follow one's nose is to go right on—Here some reader who idolizes variety, and can't bear to dwell for a few moments upon the same thought, may very probably say this author has so long followed his nose, that I am tired of following him, and so throw down the book—pray, Sir, take it up again, you shall soon have something new—I love variety as well as yourself, and can't bear to go on a long time in the same beaten track. I shall have my diverticular or digressions for, in meditating, as in riding a journey; I love to stop at an inn for a while in order to refresh. So depend upon it, Mr. Reader, you shall soon have something new; but you must respite your impatience for a moment, for I sometimes grow tired of meditating, as well as of riding. The best of things beyond their measure cloy, as Homer says. So as I have followed my nose to the end of the chapter, I shall here close it, and take breath for a while.

MEDITATION upon QUACKS.

OH! reader, when any accident seems to threaten your nose, have recourse to experienced men, of whom there is no want in this city; and beware of quacks and counterfeits—but how to escape them is the question, when you must take the word of each pretender for his own infallibility, whilst he assures you, that all the rest are ignorant impostors, elixers, electuaries, genuine jesuits drops, &c. are advertised in every paper, and all equally promise cure, without hindrance of business, or knowledge of a bedfellow. From Italy this pest derives its birth; and 〈1 page duplicate〉 〈1 page duplicate〉 〈1 page duplicate〉 〈1 page duplicate〉 in France the race of Charlatans abounds, where the quack is at once orator and physician, and retails from a horse or scaffold his medicines to the believing crowd. Peace to all such, in every profession there are quacks. There are quacks in the law, quacks in divinity, and scribbling quacks. The first abound amongst attornies and sollicitors; clients on either side are equally assured of success—amongst the quacks in divinity the pope holds the first place; but happily his assumed infallibility begins now to be very much called in question; and those remedies for the souls diseases, called bulls and indulgences, which he, like other quacks, formerly retailed to the people, have now lost much of their credit. But are there no other quacks in theology but the pope? Oh, thousands! every sect has some—The Jansenist quack amuses the people with a nostrum called grace—The methodist deals in faith—The quaker is filled with the spirit, with which he is inflated, as if full of new wine. The methodist still maintains he laudable practice of ancient quacks—he harangues from a scaffold, erected in the fields, whilst gaping auditors admire, and listen with attention to the spiritual quacks. To him each sick and wonded soul repairs in hopes of cure. A woman here desires his prayers against the common temptation—perhaps some unexperienced girl may be inquisitive to know what the common temptation of woman is—let her wait a year or two, and she will want no information—a man here prays to be cured of the cravings of concupiscence, and many other spiritual maladies unnumbered patients bring to the spiritual quack. Quacks amongst authors too there are, and artifices have been found to conceal the ass, even these catch the eye with a title-page, and invent a thousand different expedients to excite the curiosity of readers. The advertisements in every paper are sufficient proofs of this; of all such beware, they are downright quacks in literature; and repair to my publisher, where may be had for the small price of two shillings, ‘ The true and infallible antimalancolical ELIXER.’ Being a composition of genuine wit and humour, which effectually dispells all spleen and vapours, exhilarates the spirits, and totally removes all hypochondriac complaints, be the patient ever so far gone—It cures all sorts of fits in women, and all sorts of convulsions in men, by the mild and pleasant remedy of superinducing fits of laughter, which never fail to produce the happiest effects.

Here one cries out, this declaimer against quacks turns quack himself—another with a sneer asks how fits can be cured by fits?—such are the cavils of the ignorant; but is it not a maxim in physic, that contraries are cured by contraries? He that accuses me of quackery for proposing mirth as an infallible remedy, discovers his own ignorance of human nature, and is scarcely worth an answer. Thoughts that make thick the blood, produce despondence and melancholy, which generate various disorders, to be cured only by laughter, which operates happily when it runs tickling up and down the veins, straining mens eyes with idle merriment—By your leave master Shakespear, I can't think merriment so idle; and I make no doubt but your Falstaff has done a thousand times more good than your Hamlet. At least, I always return in a pensive humour from the latter; and such is the infection of its gloominess, that I generally find myself disposed to crawl supperless to bed; whereas from the former, I return as chearful as the merry knight himself, with whom, thank God, I have a great conformity of disposition, and so high are my spirits elevated that I can't help raising them a little higher by good punch, and so go to bed drunk.

MEDITATION upon MIDWIVES.

AQUACK's as fit for a pimp, as a midwife for a bawd. Oh! prophane witcherly, thus to treat so useful an order as that of midwives, an order as ancient as useful. To them we are more indebted than to our mothers, and almost as much as to our nurses. 'Tis strange, but at the same time true, that those who first give occasion to our coming into this scurvy and disasterous world, should think that they are more entitled to our gratitude, than those that prevent our receiving any injury at coming into it, and those that take care of us during our most helpless state after we are come into it. Well, but are midwives necessary only at our birth—quite the reverse—at least, 'tis so with respect to us authors, for I find my head even now labouring with a thought; and I could wish some judicious critic would lend his kind obstetric hand to help to deliver me of it—if none should, it must even leap out of my head armed, as Pallas did out of that of Jupiter—there is no vanity in the comparison, it will be a rare thought when it comes. You tire our patience, Sir, says some sneerer, pray what is your thought like?—why 'tis like a bull—for I was just thinking of a man-midwife. And surely a man-midwife is as great a monster as a Centaur, and as great a bull as ever came out of the mouth of an Irishman. But to what purpose do you thus bring in your bull by the head and shoulders? you should have taken hold of it by the horns, as Hercules did his. Why, Mr. Critic, if you needs must know, 'tis because I am altogether scandalized, that the matrons of Great-Britain should thus expose, what none but a husband should seest, to the view of anohter man, with as little concern as they would show their faces. What an example does the east set us in this respect? when a Sultana was visited by an European physician, he was not allowed even to see her hand whilst he felt her pulse. She stretch'd it out to him, covered with a veil. Whilst our British ladies scruple not to let the man-midwife touch what he should not even see. Hence does it seem to follow, that, according to Wycherly's observation, a man-midwife should be perfectly well calculated for a pimp. These gentlemen will, no doubt, plead their being of the faculty, and ask me in a passion, whether I take physicians for p—mps? my answer is, that I no more look upon man-midwives as physicians, than upon attornies as counsellors. What a wretch must he be that can thus forget his manhood in some measure, and condescend to take the name of midwife? The castrati of Italy, and the eunuchs of the east, seem scarcely more degraded. A midwife has lately taken up the pen against this abuse of employing males upon such an occasion, but the abuse still prevails, and is likely to prevail, till modesty returns once more to visit the earth. Alas! she has been so long absent, that we begin almost to dispair of seeing her again. If we may believe Juvenal, she has not been seen since the days of Saturn:

Credo pudicitiam Saturno rege moratam

In terris visamque diu. Sat. 10.

Here, perhaps, some critic, some pamphleteer, may join with the clockmaker's out-cry, and express his surprise at seeing Yorick become the advocate of modesty. But know vile wretches, I despise your base misrepresentations, all the works of Yorick are as chaste as his sermons—'tis you yourselves, whose impure imaginations make the obscenity you reprehend.

Into my chaste writings

Not one thought intrudes,

Less modest than the talk of prudes.

Even court ladies, who are well known to vie with nuns in continence, whose chastity is as cold as snow, though they cannot escape the tongue of calumny, may read my works without blushing; and sure the least indecent image would not fail to suffuse their lovely faces with red. I'll still go farther, and venture to affirm they will lay these my meditations and my sermons by their bibles and prayer-books; and as my Tristram Shandy will doubtless become a book for a parlour-window, in like manner my sermons and meditations, which for their excellent morality can scarce be equalled by any thing produced by the ancients or moderns, will become books for a lady of quality's closet, where bound in red morocco and gilt, they will remain triumphant upon the same shelves, with the bible, prayer-book, pilgrim's progress, &c. and when I have obtained this honourable place, I'll cry out with Horace:

Sublimi feriam sidera vertice.

My lofty top shall touch the skies.

MEDITATION upon the HOMUNCULUS.

IMmortal Luyenhokius, thou most profound of all philosophers! to thee we owe that astonishing discovery, which at one view presents to us the whole species enveloped in a minute particle, contained in the genitalia of our great, great, great grand-father Adam—were I here to set down the word great as often as necessary, all the stationers shops in London would hardly furnish me with paper enough; so I shall content myself with setting it down three times, since the number three has been always thought to contain something mystical. To return to the ingenious system of our profound philosopher, what can be a more amusing speculation, than thus to consider the whole human race in miniature—'tis like iliasinnuce—or rather it puts one in mind of the acorn, in which the microscope can discover all the various ramifications of the oak. Oh! for a philosophic microscope, which in semine humano, might discover at one view the whole posterity of the man—such a discovery would be of the highest use, as a man would often see reason to avoid marrying were he before-hand presented, with a view of the children intended for him by heaven. Let us again resume our meditation, and consider this dim speck of entity, stretching itself by degrees, first enlarging itself to a foetus, than being taken ex utero, by the assistance of the obstetric art, encreasing in volume, till at last it spouts up into a man six foot high—yet, according to the opinion of the most judicious philosophers, the homunculus contains in it all the principles that enter into the constitution of the grown man—a great argument this for predestination. If the actions of men, and all that befals them in the course of their lives, depend, in a great measure, upon the principles of which their constitution is formed, it follows of consequence, that these principles being the same in the homunculus, all the future actions of the man are determined by the nature of the constituent particles of the homunculus. But to leave off philosophizing, and moralize upon a subject which suggests so many reflections—how must this view of human nature convince us of our littleness, and kill in us all the seeds of pride? If imagination may trace the noble dust of Alexander, till it find it stopping a bung-whole, why may not imagination trace that very Alexander, who conquered at Issus, Arbela, and Granicus, and who carried his presumption so far as to assume the title of son of Jupiter Ammon, and cause statutes to be erected to him as a god? why may not imagination trace that very Alexander, till it perceives him an homunculus in the genitalia of Philip, or, which seems rather more probable, of one of Philip's domestics. Oh! ye great men of the earth, consider this, and be no longer puffed up with Pride—your beginning and your end should fully convince you of the littleness of all human grandeur. The common topick used to convince the great of their nothing is death; and we are told of a certain king of Persia, who kept a person always in his court, whose business it was to say to him every morning: Oh! king of Persia, remember thou wert born to die—but the idea of death contains in it something sublime, and men make a vanity of braving it—the king of Persia's purpose would have been much better answered, had he kept a person to address him every morning in these words—Oh! king of Persia, remember thou wert once an homunculus. What theologian can give a better argument for humility—'tis no longer necessary to consider men as pismires crawling upon a heap of dirt, we know that in effect they all were formerly animalcula; and since man was originally a worm, well may we, with holy Job, say to corruption, thou art my father; and to the worm, thou art my mother and my sister. Whilst I dwell upon this subject I find myself grow uneasy, I am convinced of my unimportance, and can't hear the thoughts of having once been an homunculus. Must then I, Yorick, whose thoughts rove through enternity, who meditate upon the most abstruse and profound subjects in metaphics, physics, politics, theology, morality, &c. &c. &c. be tormented with the mortifying reflexion, that I was formerly an homunculus? What a piece of work is a man—a very sorry piece of work in my opinion; for though I am one of the species myself, I can't possibly look upon man as the quintessence of dust. O you, formerly my fellow homunculi, now my fellow-creatures, let me address you all in a body in this pathetic exclamation, what should such fellows as we do crawling between heaven and earth—we were all formerly poor despicable homunculi.

MEDITATION upon HOBBY-HORSES.

WHAT subject is there in nature so trifling to which a true genius cannot give a seeming importance?—even a broomstick requires consequence from the meditations of a Swift. To meditate seriously upon a hobb-horse may be thought extravagant. Yet, emboldened by the example of that great genius for la Bagatelle, I must try to raise the hobby-horse to a level with the broomstick; this is, indeed, an arduous undertaking; for the consequence of the former has been greatly inhanced by the witches, who have used it to ride on through the air, 〈1 page duplicate〉 〈1 page duplicate〉 〈1 page duplicate〉 〈1 page duplicate〉 whereas the latter has been debased by children using it to ride on—But, oh! reader, reflect a moment, the great Ageselaus, king of Sparta, in the height of his glory, did not disdain to ride round a room with his children upon a hobby-horse; and such a mark of distinction should enoble hobby-horses from that age to the present. The example, however, has not been lost; the nobles and gentry in all nations have copied this great original, and often ride in procession upon their hobby-horses. The critick may here interpose and ask me when such procession are made?—Sir, I could inform you, but scandalum magnatum is the devil; so I shall say nothing farther upon that head. But to be more explicit, is not ambition a sort of hobby-horse, which may not improperly be compared to Clavileno, Don Quixote's woodenhorse, raised upon, which, with his eyes, he, in conceit, wandered thro' regions unknown before. If the hero has his hobby-horse, the poet has his—Pegasus, I'll maintain to be nothing but a downright hobby-horse, and worse than other hobby-horses in this, that he that mounts upon it is in danger of breaking his neck. I was continuing my meditation, when I was interrupted by a visit from my uncle Toby Shandy, who came in riding upon his hobby-horse, and having lighted, and entered my room, took up my meditation, and having read it very attentively, entered into a serious expostulation with me upon the dangerous consequences of treating in so light and ludicrous a manner upon hobby-horses. Why? nephew, says he, at this rate people may at last be brought to look upon government as a hobby-horse, religion as a hobby-horse; the good of the nation as a hobby-horse; and then—and then, what will become of us all? When he had left me I deliberated, whether I had best follow his advice, or resume my meditation; and having concluded for the latter, rubbed my forehead two or three times, and stretched my head, an expedient, pretty frequent with the authors of the age, when they find themselves at a loss for a thought; nay, 'twas a practice amongst the authors of the Augustan age, if we may believe Horace: ‘Saepe et caput scaberet, vivos et roderet ungues.’ But after I had knocked several times for wit, and found nobody at home, I resolved to conclude my meditation, since my hobby-horse grew restive, and would carry me no farther.

MEDITATION upon MOMUS'S GLASS.

THOU art not to learn, oh, reader! or else thy knowledge is very confined, that Momus once upon a time, proposed in a council of the gods, that every man should carry a window in his breast, that his most secret thoughts might be exposed to all others, which would prevent men from having it in their power to impose upon each other. Alas! what needs such a glass?—cannot a man of common discernment discover the thoughts and characters of men? No sooner do I fix the organ of vision, which to me answers all the purposes of the above-men-tioned glass; no sooner, I say, do I fix my organ of vision upon a person who is introduced to me, but I immediately see whether he thinks me a rogue, or an honest man, a man of sense, or a fool. At every sentence he utters the expression in his face, shews me what he will say next—Thus nature has done what Momus required; and to the great confusion of rogues, their faces are constantly telling tales of them. Sir, your most humble servant, says Mr.—I look in his face, and see he means, Sir, I don't desire to be troubled with you—Sir, says another, any thing that lies in my power you may command—I look in his face, and see he means, if it was in my power to serve you, I would be very loth to do it—An author sometimes, with an indolent air, says,—that thing I wrote is wretched stuff—'twas wrote in such an hurry—I look in his face, and see that this being interpreted signifies, what I write in a hurry is better than the most elaborate compositions of others. Oh! you ignorant, who are imposed upon by the words of designing men, who afterwards cheat and deceive you—Your misfortunes are intirely owing to your not having learned to read God Almighty's hand-writing, though surely the characters he writes must be very legible. How often does a fellow by the hand of nature, marked, quoted, and signed to do a deed of shame, find means to pass himself upon the unwary for a mirrour of integrity, by no other secret but that of frequently using the cabalistical words, honour, virtue, reputation—wherefore, oh! reader, mark, and take the caution that I give thee here, if thou art not an adebt in physiognomy, if thou hast never learned the art of decyphering countenances, lay down this as a rule, and regulate thy conduct by it. Whenever the phrases, a man's honour should be dearer to him than his life, whatever touches my reputation touches my soul, &c. are frequent in the mouth of any man, draw this conclusion, and depend upon it 'twill never fail—'tis a conclusion, which my own experience has always confirmed—a conclusion, easily supported too by abstract reasonings—Well, but, Sir, let us hear your conclusion; why, Sir, 'tis that the man described above is, saving your presence, a rogue.

Here, methinks, I am interrupted by an impertinent coxcomb, who tells me, with a sneer, that were he to form a judgment of me from the frontispiece of my sermons, he should take me for a sly, knavish, medling priest—Sir, did you ever see me in propriâ personâ, upon my word, Sir, that print has not the least resemblance to Yorick.

MEDITATION upon DIGRESSIONS.

PEACE be with the manes of that charitable author, who to the great relief of his brethren, first invented that admirable expedient of digressing from the matter in hand—nothing can be more convenient to a writer, who is hereby enabled to quit his subject, when it excites any disagreeable idea in him—when he has said so much of it that he begins to grow weary of it, or has so little to say of it, that he cannot fill the quantity of paper proposed by any other method—but who amongst the critical tribe shall be so audacious as to wagg his tongue against digressions, which have been enobled by the practice of the ancients, whose authority is of so much greater weight in critical matters, than that of the fathers in religion. The satires and epistles of the excellent Horace may be looked upon as a collection of digressions, and oft with a truely poetical licence, the bard digresses in a digression. Oh! the agreeable, desultory manner of digressions to the reader, no less agreeable than the writer, since neither the former or the latter care to be at the trouble of a continued attention. Talk not then you pedants of your method, cite not the stagerite in praise of lucid order—The rambling Montagne, who wrote from the ebullitions of his heart, will be read and admired, when all the dry didactic dissertations of the schools shall be forgotten. Oh, happy methodists! (though your sect derives its name from method) your discourses consist entirely of digressions, and those so unconnected, that at the end of the sermon 'tis impossible to tell what it turned upon. Digressions too take place in philosophy; and ost we find the mind of a philosopher turns aside in a curve, flies off in a tangent, or springs up in a spiral line. Nature itself delights in digressions, and so little is she pleased with a sameness in things, that no two objects exactly alike can be seen. Such is the frame of the universe,

Where order in variety we see,

And where tho' all things differ, all agree.

But the great energy of digressions was never fully known till I published my Tristram Shandy, which consists entirely of digressions. A rare atchievement in literature, and almost equal to that of a celebrated wit of the last age, who wrote a dissertation consisting entirely of adverbs. In fine, digressions have an admirable effect in every thing but morality, and there, indeed, they are of the most dangerous consequence—if you doubt of this the triple-tree at Tyburn will convince you, where every quarter wretches meet an hapless end, meerly for having made a digression in morality. Allied to morality are politics, for politics consist in morality, as it regards communities; and here digressions too are equally pernicious. For oftentimes the ruin of states is owing to the ministers digressing from common honesty; that man is sure to incur censure who makes a false step in his conduct; and what is a false step but a digression? But digression's dangerous in morality and politics, make all the beauty and spirit of composition, witness that admirable treatise of Dr. Swift, entitled, A tritical Essay, to which I have been much indebted in all my writings. The example being set, I hope to see the day when every new book shall be a labyrinth of digressions; from whence the reader shall vainly try to extricate himself, and wherein the authors shall heap digression on digression to the end of the chapter.

MEDITATION on OBSCURITY in WRITING.

FROM wandering in the mazes of digression, we descend naturally to the Bathos of the obscure and unintelligible. O, venerable obscurity! how many authors owe their fame to thee from the mystic Jacob Behmen, down to the jocose Tristram Shandy. The more unintelligible an author is that pleases, the greater must his genius be no doubt. The meanest may please when he makes himself understood; but he must surely be a superlative genius who pleases, whilst his readers do not understand a word he writes. Obscurity! thy influence is equal in the jocose, the serious, and the sublime—the jest most pleases when it is most deep **** would make a stoick laugh; but then the shades imbrowned with deepened gloom, and breathing nodding horror over the green mantle of the ouzy plains—Lord, cries some critic, what do you mean by all this stuff? I shall answer your question, Sir, by telling you a story, 'tis very possible you may not have heard, as critics now a days are not very knowing, that a certain philosopher (I really have forgot his name) went about the streets of Athens with something hid under his cloak, and being asked by an impertinent passenger (Sir, I ask pardon) what he concealed under his cloak? answered, with all the composure of a philosopher, I hide it that you may not know. In like manner, I, Mr. Critic, write that I may not be understood. You must know, Sir, that men have but two ends in view in speaking or writing, viz. to make others understand their meaning, or else to keep their meaning concealed. I have generally the latter in view when I write. Obscurity was always my idol, and surely great must be its excellence, since one of its greatest enemies has been obliged to acknowledge, that 'tis the characteristic of a silly man and a silly book to be easily seen through. It follows then of course, that obscurity is the characteristic of a wiseman and a shrewd book. To what did all the sages of antiquity, who so long governed mankind by their superiority of intellects, owe their success—to obscurity?—In what does the whole merit of a riddle consist in, obscurity?—To what do the stars owe all their brightness? to the obscurity of the firmament? And in fine, what must the renown of the most famous heroes end in—obscurity?

To what does antiquity owe all the veneration that is paid to it—to the obscurity of its origin? The ancient Greeks and Romans were perhaps neither better nor wiser than the moderns; but they lived long before them, and are consequently less known, therefore they are most esteemed, and this esteem they owe to their antiquity alone. Now between antiquity and obscurity the connexion is obvious. Why are dead languages more in repute than the living? the reasons plain, they are more obscure. To what does the mathematician owe all the pleasure he finds in solving a difficult problems? To nothing but the obscurity under which it appeared at first. In fine, the sciences which are looked upon as most important, are, by way of excellence, denominated abstrase sciences, and this sufficiently evinces the great merit of obscurity.

MEDITATION upon NONSENSE.

OH, nonsence! how shall I vindicate thy injured name? how stem the torrent of prejudice, and to the world display thy various uses? Thy honourable alliance to obscurity should surely preserve thee from the disrespect of an undiscerning world. But so prejudiced are men that whilst they respect obscurity they dispise thee so near a-kin to her. At thy sacred shrine numberless authors, both antient and modern, have offered incense—I myself have often called upon thy aid, and to thy influence owe half my reputation. How oft dost thou extend benign relief to mortals?—were it not for thee a brilliant circle might sit silent for hours together. To thee the metaphysician owes his fame, and the enthusiast his oratory. The man of sense in vain may boast and glory in the powers of reason; he that has thee on his side will always be too hard for him by his fluency. Some of the most renowned philosophers have availed themselves of thee, witness the catagories of Aristotle, the substantial forms, and the occult qualities. The grave physician but for thee, would often be obliged to stop short in the midst of his harangue; the poet would be at a loss for a rhyme; and the facetious man find himself puzzled for a jest. What art thou, oh! thou great mysterious being—the way to thee we know—disputing clubs—knots of templars—coffee-houses—critics in pit, assembled on an author's Night. All shew us where to find thee—but what's beyond? Oh! who shall draw that veil? Thou sitest enthroned, wrapt in a cloud of fogs, such as earst graced the brows of thy Macflecknoe; but still thy aweful essences hid from man. I cannot name thee without extasy, on such a theme 'tis madness to be calm. The poet oft plunging from thought to thought to find out sense, at last in thee takes refuge—to thee the Lyric poet owes his flights; the sonneteer his tenderness; but no authors are more indebted to thee, than those that deal in controversy, for when they write nonsense who can answer them? Even critics, who pretend only to elucidate the sense of other authors, do not disdain to have recourse to thee. They oftentimes explain a meaning, till all men doubt of it, and substitute their own nonsense in the place of their author's sense. The superficial may not perhaps have taken notice, that rhetoric owes its chief force to nonsense—yet is it not meer nonsense to address woods and rocks, to bid gliding rivers speak, and to fall into a passion with the stars. But what should above all exalt our ideas of nonsense is, that 'tis the language of lovers, and always sure to please the amiable sex, the approbation of one of whom should doubtless outweigh the censure of five hundred rigid sons of sense. 'Tis owned, that poetry owes its origin to love, lovers delight in nonsense, therefore 'tis no wonder poets should. Let me then exhort you, oh, you modern bards, (though to do you justice, you seem not to stand much in need of my admonitions) to attach yourselves to nonsense, to cultivate it to the utmost, and then you will besure to please. Here, methinks, the same impertinent critic, who has so often interrupted me, asks me, why I don't turn poet myself? why faith, Sir, 'tis because I don't think myself possessed of a sufficient talent for nonsense—Oh, Sir, replies my adviser, you are too modest—Sir, you are only pleased to say so. Though I sometimes make an excursion into the domains of nonsense, I never cared to take up my residence there. Prostrate I bend me before the hoary power of nonsense, which inspires the lays of our modern blank verse poets, our writers of monodies, elegies, dramatic poems, &c. but I dare not take upon me to rival their compositions, they breath so pure a spirit of nonsense, that, conscious of the weakness of my powers, I dispair of ever attaining to it. But so well is the empire of nonsense supported, that the town will never be at a loss for poets, for when it looses one, I'll answer for it another will come in his place.
Primo avulso non deficit alter.
VIRG.

MEDITATION upon the ASSOCIATION of IDEAS.

OH! thou that canst to nonsense procure veneration, mysterious concatenation of ideas the most remote, how extensive is thy influence, and how great thy power! To thee the great owe all their distinction. His lordship fluttering in brocade may possibly not be a more respectable personage, than the porter that stands at his door, yet where e'er he goes, obsequious crowds with reverence bow before him—what can this be owing to? to the magic of a title—the ideas of worth, honour, and every kind of excellence, have, by undiscerning mortals, been connected with a title, and nothing can better prove the force of the association of ideas, as there are in nature no things more distinct than a title and real worth. The officer that struts and swears with an air of boldness and freedom, as naturally excites in the breast of each beholder the idea of courage, yet frequent experience has proved to a demonstration, that a cockade is not an infallible sign of that quality. The mind has with equal capriciousness attached the idea of grace to certain pieces of lawn properly disposed upon black. Thus is the idea of courage annexed to a habit of one colour, the idea of grace to an habit of another colour, and, what seems still more surprizing, each particular species of learning is denoted by a particular habit, thus a black gown and a square cap are infallible signs, that the person to whom they belong is a logician, metaphysician, mathematician, and a perfect master of the literae humaniores. The idea of profound knowledge in all the various branches of physic is annexed to a long wig, the idea of reports, cases, and all the quirks of the law to a quoif, and the idea of a talent for poetry to a ragged coat. Strange and unaccountable are the combinations which this extravagant coupling of ideas gives occasion to—the sagacious Locke informs us of a gentleman who could never dance except there was an old trunk in the room with him; and I myself know a dramatic poet that can never write, except one of the panes of his window be broken. But, alas! the influence of this fantastic power begins before we come into the world; and if the mother should happen to have too strong an imagination, 'tis ten to one but the child is born with the head of a dog. By this happy term, association of ideas, we are enabled to account for the most extraordinary phaenomina in the moral world; and thus Mr. Locke may be said to have found a key to the inmost recesses of the human mind.

MEDITATION upon CUCKOLDS.

WHILST I meditated upon the association of ideas, I felt myself its influence, the idea of mother led me to that of wife, which led me to that of cuckold, with which it evidently has no apparent connexion. How ancient and honourable is the society of cuckolds, a society that is perhaps more extensive than any other. Each rank, from the most exalted to the lowest, has members in this society, who, like the freemasons, strive to make their badge a secret. But, oh! you heralds and antiquaries, wherefore are horns the emblem of this Society. 'Tis an inquiry altogether worthy of your researches. Cuckold has long been a term of reproach, but much might be said to prove it honourable. In Rome, that holy city, once capital of the world, and now his holiness's place of residence, cuckolds abound more than any where else, ‘Roma la santa, ma il popolo cornuto.’ Worshipful al_+r_+n have been so famous for their cuckoldom, that it is almost become proverbial. A common council man has been always considered in as fair a way to be an al_+r_+n, when dubbed a cuckold, as a nephew to become rich when his uncle is raised to the papal dignity. Here, methinks, some critic interrupts me with some such exclamation as this. Lord! one would think this author's father was a cuckold, he is so earnest in composing their panegyric. Some authors upon such an occasion would answer, I wish he had been so—'tis well known, that the celebrated athiest Vanini, was greatly concerned that his father was not a cuckold, and his mother a whore, and his reason for so extraordinary a wish, does not seem to be altogether unphilosophical. Those begot in the lusty stealth of nature, according to him, boast fiercer qualities than what compound the scanted births of the stale marriage bed. But health, and a robust constitution, are blessings only when we make a good use of them. How many a man of a robust and vigorous constitution has died at Tyburn at two and twenty, who might have lived to sixty, had his bodily frame, and consequently his passions been weaker.

MEDITATION upon the MAN in the MOON.

HORNS have got such a hold of my fancy, that I can meditate upon nothing that is not horned. Wrapt in contemplation, I raise my mind to yonder horned moon, and expatiate in ideas over the rugged surface of the orbs Newtoniana; there I behold a figure, by the vulgar called the man in the moon. But who may this illustrious personage be?—why, if you'll have my opinion of the matter, Sir, I take him to be the very man that Diogenes sought with a lanthorn in broad day-light. If we may give credit to Ariosto, all things lost upon earth are treasured up in the moon, and it seems to admit of no doubt that the person sought after upon earth, has long since been lost. Many reasons concur to confirm me in this opinion, among others the extraordinary ignorance of this man, with regard to whatever passes upon earth. Nothing is commoner than for one who declares his ignorance of any thing, than to add, I know no more of it than the man in the moon, a sufficient proof that the said man has long since ceased to be conversant with the things of this world. A celebrated philosopher of antiquity—every scholar must know I mean Plutarch, has wrote a very learned treatise upon this same man in the moon, or rather face in the moon; but if you ask me what he would be at in this treatise, I really know no more than the man in the moon. Bishop Wilkins 'tis well known had formerly a strong inclination to pay this man a visit, and 'twere to be wished, that some flying machine had been invented for that purpose; for doubtless if we could see, and converse with the man in the moon, we should find him more knowing than is generally thought.

MEDITATION upon the MONADES of LEIBNITZ.

ONCE engaged in sublime and and elevated speculations, I cannot bring myself down to meditate upon sublunary things. A race of intelligent beings, called Monades, engage my attention—here somebody will probably be inquisitive to know what these Monades are—the great philosopher of Germany will inform you, Sir, they are beings which seem to hold a medium between body and spirit, consciousness of their unity, forms their essence, and by their knowledge of eternal truths, they are members of the everlasting city of God. They are called Monades from the Greek adjective 〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉, which signifies alone, as every smatterer in Greek knows, as well as Leibnitz him. But what is this etymology founded upon?—why, Sir, 'tis founded upon this, every Monade has a right to say, I am myself alone. But here you'll ask me what right had Leibnitz to create such beings? what proof could he give of their existence? Lord! Lord! what a restraint you would lay upon philosophers. If you deny them the privilege of framing hypotheses, you reduce them to a level with other men. What proof could Descartes give in favour of his vortices and subtile matter? yet to these he owes his reputation as a philosopher. The fancy of a philosopher should be as unconfined as that of a poet or a painter. By scrupulously following phaenomina, he reduces himself to the rank of a mechanic. Commend me to Flud and Paracelsus, who have devised aerial beings enough to people a new creation. But to return to our Monades, they are, says Leibnitz, mirrours of the universe, and so indeed are men too, though they reflect its parts very imperfectly. Men too are mirrours that are liable to be sullied in reflecting the objects by which they pass, and, like other mirrours, they are subject to be broken, in both which articles 'tis possible they are surpassed by Monades. There is reason to think, that these beings have some intercourse with mankind, and 'tis not impossible, that our dreams may be suggested by them. 'Tis likely too that we owe to them those impulses, and that glimmering insight into futurity, which so many have experienced. Not to mention the daemon of Socrates, 'tis well known that Descartes in all his undertakings had some foreknowledge, whether the event would be favourable to him or not. I shall add but one instance more, and that is Ozanam the mathematician's prediction, concerning his own death, which was fulfilled a few days after, exactly in the manner he had foretold it. Here I doubt not but the critics will accuse me of credulity and superstition, but what care I? this is an atheistical age, and whoever believes any thing out of the common road is sure of being stigmatized as superstitious—nay, there are certain persons who call themselves moral philosophers, who look upon every man as superstitious who believes the Christian religion.

MEDITATION upon Virtú.

FROM so extraordinary a subject as that of my last meditation, the transition is easy to virtú, for the distinguishing character of the virtuoso is to delight in things strange and uncommon. The word virtú then has an extensive signification, and seems to take in the whole Encylopedia of arts and sciences, and every thing but virtue, with which it has nothing in common, but the resemblance of sound. The man of virtú addicts himself to natural philosophy, or rather to unnatural philosophy, since he thinks nothing that is not out of the ordinary course of nature worthy of his researches. A lusus naturae is the grand object of his attention—Pray, Sir, what is a lusus naturae, faith I don't know; and its my opinion, that the gentlemen of the royal society do not know themselves. All I know of it is, that it is something made by nature in a gamesome mood; for dame nature has her frolicks as well as other females. The virtuoso is smitten with works of art as well as nature, and painters, fidlers, architects, statuaries have no greater benefactors than men of fortune who profess virtú. These are as favourable to the race of artists as destructive to frogs and glewworms. Some may perhaps infer, that I put artists upon a level with insects, that is far from my thoughts, I always esteem the arts, and when I despise an artist 'tis not on account of his art. His whole excellence often consists in that; and I have known many an excellent fidler, who when he had ceased playing was fit for nothing but to be shut up in a case, like his instrument. From artists, let us return to the encouragers of arts. How is the public obliged to those generous noblemen, who, by their subscriptions, support the Italian opera amongst us? and how much is their generosity enhanced by the consideration, that perhaps not three of them understand the language of the performers? This may by some be thought to reflect upon their taste; but in my opinion, it should give us the most advantageous idea of it; for surely it must require more taste to be pleased with a tune, when one does not understand the words of a song, then when one does. Our noble virtuosi must be acknowledged to surpass those of all other countries in taste, though it has been maliciously insinuated by some, that they have often bought pictures as pieces of Guido, Raphael, &c. when they were no more done by them than by Protegenes or Apelles. But this even supposing it true, proves nothing at all against the justness of their taste. Did not Michael Angelo take in all the connaisseurs of Italy by his statue of Cupid, which they persisted in looking upon as an antique, till he produced the arm which he had cut off, before he buried it in the ruins of an ancient temple? Did not Muretus impose upon that great critic Scaliger, by an imitation of the ancient comic poets, which the latter, with all his sagacity, cited as a passage of Trabea? But to put the taste of our nobility and gentry out of all dispute, does not the unparallel'd encouragement they have given to the life and opinions of Tristram Shandy, sufficiently evince, that they are possessed of the highest discernment?

MEDITATION upon CONSCIENCE.

FROM a fashionable subject, I am led I know not how to meditate upon one that seems to be grown quite out of fashion. Conscience has long since been kicked out of doors by honour, which supplies its place amongst people of quality, whilst conscience is obliged to fly for refuge to the vulgar, and is well off if he can find a refuge even there. Those in low life generally take after their betters, insomuch, that many shopkeepers have excluded conscience as a troublesome companion. Several tradesmen I could name who have made fortunes by using conscience as their coin. Conscience has sometimes been known to make cowards in the army and navy; and if we may believe the poet, it makes cowards of us all. Legislators have in all ages found it a most convenient scare-crow, and would never have been able to lead whole nations as they have done, if they had not taken men by their weak side, I mean by their conscience. By molding this at their pleasure they have made people act and think as they pleased, and it was no hard matter for them to mold it at discretion, as 'tis of a very flexible nature in the vulgar and ignorant, who finding it difficult to think for themselves, are glad to throw that weight upon other's shoulders.

In Roman catholic countries the insufficiency of conscience to direct the actions of men has been so sensibly felt, that nobody thinks himself obliged to watch over his own conscience, but that affair is left to the management of confessors and directors. Casuits have been of great service to people of tender consciences, by marking out the limitations of each virtue, and shewing men how little good they might do, and at the same time preserve a good conscience; but I shall here finish my meditation, as I have already said enough in all conscience on this subject.

MEDITATION upon DRUNKENNESS.

‘ Quid not Ebrietas designat? ’

WHAT great atchievements does not drunkenness give occasion to? How many admirable pieces of poetry? how many flights of fancy does drunkenness produce? Oh! thou invisible spirit of wine, if we have no other name to call thee by, let us call thee muse, for sure it is, that more bards have been inspired by thee, than by drinking the waters of Helicon. But thy influence is not confined to poets alone, divines and philosophers do not disdain thy succour. Cato the censor, was no foe to good wine, and the rotation of the earth was first discovered by a philosopher intoxicated with liquor. No water-drinker, if we may believe Horace, ever composed an immortal poem, and the man that has a real genius for poetry is always ‘Ritè cliens Bacchi somno gaudentis & umbra.’

One of the greatest prelates the church of Rome ever produced, has compared the joys of heaven to ebriety; and all the difference he makes between happy souls and drunken men is, that the ebriety of the former is continual, that of the latter temporary. Ebriety banishes all cares from human breasts, and such is its efficacy, that we may justly say of it:

Kings it makes gods,

And meaner creatures kings.

Add to this, that orthodoxy and drinking go together—whilst Turks damn themselves over a dish of coffee, the christian divine makes his countenance chearful with good port. Let the treacherous Spaniard consider the term Borrachio, or drunkard, as a term of the highest reproach; amongst the free-born sons of Great-Britain, drunkard and good-fellow will always be looked upon as synonimous terms. To compleat the panegyric, wine banishes care, inspires the human breast with hope, adds wings to the fancy, and exalts the genius. It has always been found the best friend in times of grief, and the best companion in times of prosperity. But who can call its virtues in question, that knows that the renowned Alexander, the conqueror of the world, was the greatest drinker of his age, and was an over-match for his contemporaries over a bottle, as well as for his enemies in the field. His death has falsly been ascribed to the juice of the grape, 'twas caused by poison. Had it not been for that he might have lived to drink till his body had been so swelled with a dropsy, that it could not have been contained in a coffin. But as Juvenal says, ‘ Sarcophago contentus erat.’ Pray, why, Sir? why, because he had not drank enough. Here some critic interrupts me as usual. From all this panegyric upon drunkenness, you'll give us leave to infer, that you are a drunkard yourself—Sir, you may draw what inferences you please; but, Mr. Critic, give me leave to tell you, that if you never get drunk yourself, you are likely to be a piddling critic all your life. He that aspires to the name of author should drink deep of wine or punch, and that will produce the very same effect as the Pierian spring.

MEDITATION upon a CLOSE-STOOL.

MY spirits quite exhausted with meditating upon drunkenness, I retired to a little closet contiguous to my chamber, where I seated myself upon a certain wooden machine, which has always been found to be a great promoter of study and meditation, and t'is well known, that some persons of a contemplative disposition can never study or meditate without the assistance of it. Leaning my head upon my arm in a musing posture, Oh! said I to myself, how oft have the labours of learned and indefatigaable authors visited a place like this?—should—but heaven avert it, should these my meditations, in which I have exerted my utmost wit and learning, to compose which I have sat up night and day, should they at last be brought to such dire disgrace, how would my pride (and what pride so sensible as an authors) be mortified? But from the success of my former writings I hope a better fate, no, the meditations of Yorick shall never be condemned:

Ad ficum et piperem et quicquid chartis

Amicitur ineptis.

Forbid it heaven, that Yorick's meditations should ever become a book for a house-of-office, no, let them live with his other works to brighten future ages. Neither shall Jove's anger, nor the all-devouring Bathos of Cloacina absorb works, calculated to last till time shall be no more. Here my critick pulls me by the sleeve, and tells me, you forgot what you are upon—I expected a series of reflections upon that useful implement a closestool; and you have been all this while talking of your own works, a much more worthless subject—Sir, I am obliged to you—I find 'tis impossible to escape your severity, so I shall hasten to the conclusion.

MEDITATION the Last, or a MEDITATION upon MEDITATIONS.

ABARREN subject this; but Yorick has something to say upon every subject, or if he should have nothing to say upon it, the deficiency is easily supplied by a digression. A digression is as useful to one of us writers of meditations, as a succedanum to an apothecary, and the reader and patient are equally apt to take one thing for another. Of all the various lights in which the relation of author and reader have been considered, I know none so well adapted to give an adequate idea of them, as this of doctor and patient, or apothecary and patient, for doctor and apothecary are all one. Readers seldom sit down to read books, but when they are troubled with the spleen, when the time hangs heavy on their heads, or when they have some indisposition or other, which makes them incapable of business, or any more lively pleasure. 'Tis then they take up a book of amusement, and their author may be justly looked upon as their physician. What shews still farther the justness of this comparison is the following inscription, over the door of Ptolomy Philadelphus's famous library at Alexandria, ‘ 〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉, Physic of the soul.’ If then a book be the physic of the soul, we authors that administer this physic may be allowed to look upon ourselves as physicians, and if we do not cure our patients as often as other physicians, at least we may safely say we do not kill them as often. Know then all ye into whose hands these meditations shall come, that I Yorick am your physician, and honour your physician with the honour due unto him—Here again, my impertinent censor interrupts me—you have quite lost sight of your subject, you promised us something upon meditations, and you have been all this while talking of physic and physicians—Sir, you are enough to make a man lose all patience.

I told you already, and I tell you again and again, that I'll make as many digressions as I think proper, and wherever I think proper; and that I would not give up one digression to save the souls and bodies of all the critics in Europe; and so that I may be no longer troubled with your impertinence, I will here conclude, ‘Verbum non amplius addam.’

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Title statement

Yorick's meditations: upon various interesting and important subjects. Viz. Upon nothing. Upon something. Upon the thing. ...

Sterne, Laurence, 1713-1768.

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ID [ota]

http://ota.ox.ac.uk/id/5129

ID [isbn10]

1106021282

ID [isbn13]

9781106021281

ID [TCP]

K102172.000

ID [BIBNO]

CW3324664832

ID [ECGR]

0093901000

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— Yorick's meditations: upon various interesting and important subjects. Viz. Upon nothing. Upon something. Upon the thing. ..., Sterne, Laurence, 1713-1768.. [2],110p. ; 8⁰. London :: printed for R. Stevens,. 1760.. [Attributed to Laurence Sterne (NUC).] [Reproduction of original from the British Library.] [English Short Title Catalog, ESTCT128380.] [Electronic data. Farmington Hills, Mich. : Thomson Gale, 2003. Page image (PNG). Digitized image of the microfilm version produced in Woodbridge, CT by Research Publications, 1982-2002 (later known as Primary Source Microfilm, an imprint of the Gale Group).]

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