The beauties of Hume and Bolingbroke

Table of contents

- [titlepage]

- PREFACE.

- THE LIFE OF DAVID HUME, Esq.

- THE LIFE OF HENRY ST. JOHN, LORD VISCOUNT BOLINGBROKE.

- CONTENTS.

- In the PRESS.

- THE BEAUTIES OF HUME.

- THE GOLDEN AGE.

- HUMANITY.

- THE VOLUPTUARY.

- INHUMANITY.

- LOVE.

- MORTALITY.

- FRIENDSHIP.

- MEDIOCRITY OF FORTUNE.

- MARRIAGE.

- JEALOUSY.

- DIVORCE.

- PLEASURE.

- FAME.

- AMBITION.

- HUMAN ACTIVITY.

- COURAGE.

- DUELLING.

- MAGNANIMITY.

- POLITENESS.

- MODESTY.

- HONOUR.

- PHILOSOPHY.

- METAPHYSICS

- PHILOSOPHERS.

- GALLANTRY.

- MAN.

- MEN AND ANIMALS.

- TRUTH AND TASTE.

- GENEROSITY.

- GLORY.

- SCIENCE.

- GENIUS.

- HAPPINESS.

- BENEVOLENCE.

- POVERTY.

- IGNORANCE.

- THE HUMAN SOUL.

- JUSTICE.

- PROPERTY.

- IMAGINATION.

- DELICACY OF PASSION.

- DELICACY OF TASTE

- ART.

- SIMPLICITY.

- REFINEMENT.

- VANITY.

- MERIT.

- CHARACTER.

- DECENCY.

- CLEANLINESS.

- GRACE.

- CUSTOM.

- ANCESTRY.

- PROSPERITY AND ADVERSITY.

- INCORRIGIBLE VICE.

- HABIT.

- HUMAN LIFE.

- ANIMAL HOSTILITY.

- THE PERILOUS CONDITION OF HUMANITY.

- MENTAL DISORDERS.

- AN AGGREGATE OF HUMAN MISERY.

- RULES OF LIFE.

- HISTORY.

- DEITY.

- ELOQUENCE.

- SERMONS.

- RIBALDRY.

- PHILOSOPHICAL PRIDE.

- FEROCITY.

- THE SAGE.

- LABOUR.

- SLOTH.

- INDUSTRY.

- FORTUNE FICKLE.

- CHEARFULNESS.

- MEANNESS.

- LUXURY.

- BOOKS.

- SUPERSTITION.

- THE SUBLIME.

- DIOGENES AND PASCAL.

- INSPIRATION.

- AGRICULTURE.

- MODERN INVENTIONS.

- THE UNIVERSE.

- WIT AND TASTE.

- MAXIMS.

- HUMAN NATURE ALWAYS THE SAME.

- PUBLIC SPIRIT.

- NEUTRALITY.

- EUROPE.

- THE ANGLO-SAXONS.

- COMMERCE AND LEARNING.

- MONEY.

- WAR.

- INFATUATION.

- THE NATIONAL FUNDS.

- LONDON.

- TRADE.

- INTEREST.

- A REFLECTION.

- PUBLIC BANKRUPTCY.

- WHIGGISM.

- FEMALE INTRIGUE.

- THE HOUSE OF COMMONS.

- OPINION.

- USURPATION.

- THE INFLUENCE OF THE CROWN.

- PRINCES.

- ALLEGIANCE.

- MONARCHIES.

- THE ORIGIN OF INTEREST.

- THE FLUCTUATION OF RICHES.

- THE ORIGIN OF GOVERNMENT.

- THE REVOLUTION.

- THE DISPENSING POWER IN THE CROWN.

- OBEDIENCE.

- RESISTANCE.

- THE EUTHANASIA OF THE BRITISH CONSTITUTION.

- THE DOWNFALL OF THE ROMAN EMPIRE.

- BRITAIN AND ROME.

- RELIGION.

- A CHARACTER.

- ANOTHER.

- SIR ISAAC NEWTON.

- LORD FALKLAND.

- ALFRED.

- THE IRISH MASSACRE.

- KINGCRAFT.

- ANCIENT LITERATURE.

- SHAKESPEAR.

- CARDINAL WOLSEY.

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

- BACON AND GALILEO.

- HENRY I. OF ENGLAND.

- MILTON.

- HOBBES.

- COMMENCEMENT OF WHIG AND TORY.

- HISTORY.

- OF THE PARTIES OF GREAT-BRITAIN.

- THE TEMPLARS MASSACRED IN FRANCE.

- COLONEL KIRK.

- JEFFERIES.

- AN ANECDOTE.

- ADMIRAL BLAKE

- THE FATE OF MONTROSE.

- He is sentenced.

- His Execution.

- His Character.

- CROMWELL.

- THE SACK OF ROME BY THE GERMANS.

- IMPUDENCE AND MODESTY, AN ALLEGORY.

- OF THE STUDY OF HISTORY.

- AVARICE.

- ON THE SAME.

- LOVE AND MARRIAGE. AN ALLEGORY.

- A CURIOUS LETTER.

- A FABLE.

- CHARACTER OF A GREAT MINISTER.

- THE BEAUTIES OF BOLINGBROKE.

- MINISTERIAL RESPONSIBILITY.

- A KING.

- SAXON KINGS.

- THE BRITISH KING.

- A BAD MINISTER.

- NATIONAL UNANIMITY.

- PROSCRIPTIONS.

- THE DEPENDENCE OF PARLIAMENT.

- PUBLIC RUIN.

- ERROR.

- KNOWLEDGE OF CHARACTER.

- MINISTERIAL PREROGATIVE.

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

- A COALITION OF PARTIES AT THE REVOLUTION.

- THE EFFECT OF GOVERNMENT ON THE SPIRIT OF NATIONS.

- THE LINEAL DESCENT OF LIBERTY.

- THE CONSTITUTION AND GOVERN MENT DISTINGUISHED.

- ROYAL POPULARITY.

- A DESPOT.

- PARLIAMENTARY DESPOTISM.

- HOW LIBERTY MAY BE LOST.

- THE FALL OF ROME.

- THE EPILOGUE TO THE DISSERTATION ON PARTIES.

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

- MINISTERIAL FACTION.

- THE SITE OF VIRTUE.

- A PATRIOT KING THE PUBLIC SAVIOUR.

- GOOD GOVERNMENT ONLY A DIVINE RIGHT.

- LIMITED MONARCHY.

- THE USE TO BE MADE OF A GOOD REIGN.

- THE COURT OF A GOOD KING REFORMED.

- MERE COURTIERS.

- WISDOM AND CUNNING DIS TINGUISHED.

- SIMULATION AND DISSIMULATION.

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

- AN ANECDOTE.

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

- THE PRIVATE CHARACTER OF ALEX ANDER THE GREAT.

- OF SCIPIO THE ROMAN GENERAL.

- OF THE FIRST TWO CAESARS AND MARC ANTHONY.

- OF LEWIS THE FOURTEENTH.

- OF QUEEN ELIZABETH.

- OF JAMES THE FIRST.

- THE PICTURE OF A PATRIOT REIGN.

- GENERAL MAXIMS.

- HISTORY THE UNIVERSAL TASTE.

- GENIUS, HISTORY, AND EXPERIENCE.

- EXAMPLE.

- HISTORICAL EXAMPLE ENTIRE.

- DIFFERENCE BETWEEN HISTORY AND EXPERIENCE.

- EDUCATION.

- A LITERARY MONSTER.

- REASON AND INSTINCT.

- ABSTRACTION FROM THE WORLD.

- THE IMPROVEMENT OF TIME.

- THE TRUE CURE OF AFFLICTION.

- CHANGE OF PLACE IN THE ORDER OF NATURE.

- CONSCIOUS FREEDOM THE TRUEST DIGNITY.

- POVERTY REPUTABLE.

- RESIGNATION.

- SUPPLEMENT.

- PHILOSOPHY THE ONLY REMEDY TO A MIND DISEASED.

- SUICIDE.

- OUR NATURAL ANTIPATHY TO DEATH.

- THE HUMAN FACULTIES ADEQUATE TO THE DUTIES OF LIFE.

- THE COURSE OF NATURE.

- FUTURE RESIDENCE.

- BOOKS lately published by G. KEARSLEY, near Serjeant's-Inn, in FLEET-STREET.

The BEAUTIES OF Hume AND BOLINGBROKE.

LONDON Printed for G. Kearsly in Fleet Street 1782. Price Half a Crown 〈◊〉.

PREFACE.

THE Book here presented to the Public is compiled from two of the most singular and illustrious philosophers that ever flourished in this part of the world. It has been their fate, with other great and good men in all ages, to incur the deepest obloquy, even in the instant of conferring on mankind the most lasting and extensive benefits. Their works, however, will endure as long as the language, and their names be recorded with honour, while the history of Britain continues to interest posterity.

The private characters of Hume and Bolingbroke exhibit nothing strikingly similar, except their attachment to study, and eager pursuit of literary Fame. The manners of the one were simple, plain, amiable, and engaging: those of the other, rather stotely, often assuming, and uniformly refined. The youth, as well as manhood, of the first, was spent, under every circumstance in which fortune placed him, in a sedulous and single attention to the cultivation and improvement of his literary talents; that of the second, apparently without any view whatever, and in scenes of the most exceptionable dissipation.

Hume maintained through life an unsullied reputation for every species of virtue and worth. In company or out of it, abroad or at home, his good-nature never forsook him. His temper was generally unruffled, even while the petulance of his pious persecutors exposed him to the rudest insult: and he has been known to revise, with exemplary candour, the foulest libels, presented to him under the name of Answers to some parts of his writings. The very poor in his neighbourhood, though instigated by priestcraft to revile and execrate his opinions, regarded his benevolence and humanity with a mixture of reverence and gratitude. His deportment on every occasion, while eminently chaste and manly, was altogether the reverse of pomp or ostentation. Peculiarly affable and easy of access, he discovered nothing of the scholar, either in his appearance or conversation; and all his attentions, being the spontaneous effusions of genuine philanthropy, were without ceremony or parade. While his talents were vigorously exerted to overturn the system, his morals would have adorned the purest and most primitive ages, of Christianity! And he was neither wanting in that extraordinary strength of mind, nor in that singular goodness of heart, which in every country and period of human story have always distinguished the greatest and the best of men.

To this high degree of excellence in the first distinctions of humanity, Bolingbroke had no claim. The sublimest theory of virtue which his exalted genius could either conceive or recommend, had yet but little influence on the management of his passions. He was not a speculative, only, but a practical, libertine. Stationed for a great number of years, and during some of the most important periods of our history, in the giddy vortex of public life, he was evidently too deeply engrossed and agitated, to be much susceptible of those tender endearments which for the most part prompt and accompany the exercise of private and domestic virtue. But towards the evening of his days, in a situation not a little solitary and romantic, his elevated and enlightened mind assumed a gravity and repose suitable to that majestic and commanding tone which had ever characterised its greatest exertions. It was then only one of his fondest admirers[*] remarks of him, that he united in conversation the wisdom of Socrates with the ardour of Plato, the dignity and ease of Pliny with the wit and sprightliness of Horace.

Different as the talents in writing of these eminent authors certainly were, the many bright specimens of their taste and genius, now in possession of the public, discover a few points, at least, in which there is still a very striking likeness. The infinite and irreparable mischief done to society by an affectation of religion, where the reality of it was wanting, betrayed each of them into a most implacable and unwarrantable aversion to whatever bears the name: and under the obnoxious masque of bigotry, the most sacred feelings and regards of mankind are treated with due respect by neither. Still a rich and shining variety of beautiful and interesting passages, in the vicinity of many very exceptionable ones, in both, have for this reason been long lost to those, especially, on whom they were likely to produce the best effects. And the design of this little volume is to extract from a huge collection of such gross materials some of the purest ore, to enlist on the side of Virtue the greatest advocates for Infidelity, and to despoil Vice of those meretricious weapons by which she has done most execution.

Bolingbroke's genius was bold, picturesque, splendid, and oratorical; that of Hume seemed more acute, concise, and penetrating. The one is distinguished by a lofty and daring imagination, by an inexhaustible brilliancy of ideas, and by a diction peculiarly expressive and tropical; the other, by a clear and subtil understanding, by deep and accurate thinking, and by a style uniformly easy, emphatical, and elegant. The conceptions of the first were so strong and ardent, that he grasped at Truth by a kind of intuitive violence, without stooping to any of those slow and intermediate means by which she condescends to become accessible to more ordinary minds: the second possessed all the powers of investigation in such perfection, as induced him to spare no pains in the discovery of this important object by the humble and dispassionate, but certain mode of reasoning. History and metaphysics were the favourite and most successful study of Hume: Bolingbroke's letters on the first are among the most finished of his productions; but he never lost himself so completely as when he plunged into the bottomless abyss of the second.

Both of these two celebrated writers have investigated, in a masterly manner, the multifarious science of politics. Their ideas, however, in a great variety of the first and most important particulars, are essentially different. The reasonings of Hume, on all those popular and constitutional questions which have been lately so repeatedly and so tenaciously debated in the British senate, like his History, may be considered as a most ingenious and elegant apology for prerogative. His uncommon talents are perpetually occupied, and not without success, in relaxing the general attachments of mankind to the important blessings of liberty, in reconciling them to every possible modification of government, in suppressing their sentiments of independence, and in suggesting new arguments for submission and obedience. The opinions of Bolingbroke are not only more open and decided, but uniformly on the side of freedom and the rights of the subject, as settled at the Revolution. On this delicate and interesting subject his productions are to this day without a parallel. Politics seem his own peculiar province, in which, notwithstanding his numerous compeers, he still reigns unrivalled. His Dissertation on Parties, and Idea of a Patriot King, are more replete than any thing else in the language with a series of observations and reasonings concerning the distinct privileges of prince and people, equally pertinent, original, and persuasive. No where the dupe of those chimerical illusions and conjectures which confound the shallow, and amuse the speculative, the general principles on which his particular conclusions are built, have all a sold and permanent foundation in fact, and the nature of things. His sole and exclusive aim is to graft the theory of the British constitution on ancient usage, and to reduce it to present practice.

This system, so lately and ably revived by his Grace the Duke of Richmond, is an obvious improvement by our noble author on that which chiefly produced the Revolution. As it does honour to his genius, it could not have found a better advocate. He evidently writes from the heart, and, whatever he says, affects his readers with a forcible emphasis and propriety. His conceptions, always formed with judgment and taste, are every where delivered with earnestness and energy. The dignified manner in which he reprobates all those selfish and accommodating principles, or maxims, which keep most public men in an infamous kind of equiposse between honour and interest, peculiarly becomes him. It is the genuine, but indignant, language of virtue, spurn•ng the insidious approaches of vice under the most qualified and deceitful appearances. In one word, he treats the whole science of government as proceeding regularly, only when actuated by the great master-springs of right and wrong. This is the key-stone or first principle of all his politics; and to this, not, like Hume, to the manners of the age, and the depravity of human nature, he directed all his arguments, and made all his appeals.

In the following selection, an equal attention is paid to the morals of Hume and the politics of Bolingbroke. We have enough in all conscience of that sophistry and re•inement in which the last was so great a master. He, perhaps, without intending, has made it the cant of the day to sneer avowedly at whatever bears the semblance of principle in public life. The people of England happily feel, and even begin at last to resent, the pernicious consequences of this most profligate and temporizing system. Bolingbroke's notions, on all points of present political altercation or enquiry, are literally theirs. The substance of what he thought and wrote, on whatever is most valuable and interesting in the British constitution, is here combined and exhibited. And, to say the least that can be said, it is surely one of the most inestimable legacies that ever a statesman bequeathed to his country.

Notes

*
Lord Orrery.
↵

THE LIFE OF DAVID HUME, Esq.

MAN is constituted by nature, and moulded by habit, so mechanically, that every individual may be said to differ from another as essentially in the biass of his mind, and the temperature of his heart, as in the features of his face. Whatever makes this distinction, is that fixed and governing principle by which character is formed and estimated.

A passion for literature runs visibly through the whole of Hume's life, and gives a colouring to all his actions. Here all his wishes terminated; and, to accomplish distinction in this exclusive line, every other view or prospect of ambition was sacrificed. Nor does he owe more of his success to uncommon ability and address, perhaps, than to his steady, ardent, and unremitted pursuit of one great and interesting concern. This, at least, clearly accounts for all that attachment to paradox and pyrrhonism which so singularly characterise his metaphysical writings.

His parents were descended of a good family, and independent, though not wealthy. He was born at Edinburgh, the 26th of April, 1711, old style. His patrimony was but trifling, as he was only a younger brother.

That predilection for study, which never forsook him, discovered itself at an early period. This, with his habits of industry and application, disposed his friends to six on the law as a proper profession for him. But he owns, while they thought him poring on Vo•t and Vinnius, he was secretly devouring Cicero and Virgil.

Impelled, however, by the narrowness of his fortune, he thought of seriously attaching himself to business. For this purpose he went to Bristol; but, preferring retirement and books to every other pursuit and prospect, he soon left Bristol, and repaired to France, where he could live at less expence, and prosecute his literary views with equal advantage.

Partly at Rheims, but chiefly at La Flêche, in Anjou, he composed his Treatise of Human Nature. There he resided near three years; and published this work shortly after his return to England. But, to use his own phrase, it fell dead-born from the press.

He was more fortunate in the first part of his Essays, which appeared originally at Edinburgh, in 1742. It is remarkable that about this time, though somewhat turned of thirty, he recovered his knowledge of the Greek language, which he had almost lost through negligence.

He went, in 1745, to live with the Marquis of Annandale, in England, on special invitation; and, having undertook the tuition of that nobleman's son, he continued in this situation for a twelvemonth.

As secretary to General St. Clair, he attended in an expedition on the coast of France, and afterwards accompanied him in his embassy to the courts of Vienna and Turin.

The two years in which he was thus employed; were almost the only interruption his general studies ever received. It was now he republished his first performance under a new form; but it succeeded little better than before.

Notwithstanding this disappointment, his fertile mind still teemed with fresh literary adventures. The scenes he had lately reviewed in his official capacity, probably opened to him a variety of original speculations; and some of his former publications gaining on the public estimation; he was encouraged, in 1752, to bring forth his Political Discourses, which had a most rapid sale.

Soon after appeared his Enquiry concerning the Principles of Morals; which, in his own opinion, is, of all his writings, incomparably the best.

His next performance was the History of England, which he commenced with the accession of the House of Stuart to the sovereignty of Britain. This work cost him great pains, and gave him much hope. It was received, however, so coolly, that he scarcely heard of one man in the three kingdoms, considerable for rank or letters, that could endure it. The two Primates of England and Ireland were, indeed, exceptions odd enough; who sent him separate messages, not to be discouraged. But it was then, perhaps, as now, when court-creepers, or sticklers for prerogative, are the most likely to succeed in the line of ecclesiastical preferment. This disappointment had almost got the better of his resolution; and a war, which at that time subsisted between France and England, was the only thing that kept him from going into voluntary banishment. To this accidental circumstance we owe his completion of the most finished and classical History this or any other country ever produced.

The Natural History of Religion was now published. This gave a serious alarm to the religious sentiments of his countrymen. Many indirect attacks were made on it; and it brought on the author all the illiberal petulance, arrogance, and scurrility, of the Warburtonian school.

Two years subsequent to the fall of the first, came out the second volume of his History, which brought it down from the death of Charles I. to the Revolution. This made him some amends for his other literary miscarriages: it was a popular performance, and not only raised the character of the author, but rendered the former volume of some request.

His account of the House of Tudor was not published till 1759, and was then regarded with dislike, especially in England. This, however, did not deter him from finishing, in two volumes, the more early periods of the British story, which he gave to the public in 1761, with tolerable, and but tolerable, success.

He was then invited to attend the Earl of Hertford, on his embassy to Paris; which, after some hesitation and reluctance, he thought proper to accept. He speaks with much satisfaction of the pleasure he received from the connexions to which this appointment introduced him.

The present Commander in Chief being appointed one of his Majesty's principal Secretaries of State, in 1767, our author was made Under-Secretary. In this department he continued for near two years, and went out with the then Ministry.

He now possessed a thousand pounds of yearly revenue, and returned to Edinburgh, with the fond hopes of long enjoying, at his leisure, and among his friends, the honourable rewards of his great talents and great industry.

In about half a dozen years he was seized, however, with a disorder in his bowels, which at first gave him no alarm, but which soon became incurable. He did not die till several months after having given up all hopes of life. He suffered but little pain, and retained his faculties and spirits to the very last.

He pronounces his own oulogium in a manner that shews how well he deserved it. We insert it in this place as none of the least beautiful passages in his works.

"I was a man of mild disposition, of command of temper, of an open, social, and cheerful humour, capable of attachment, but little susceptible of enmity, and of great moderation in all my passions. Even my love of literary fame, my ruling passion, never soured my temper, notwithstanding my frequent disappointments. My company was not unacceptable to the young and •areless, as well as to the studious and literary; and as I took a particular pleasure in the company of modest women, I had no reason to be displeased with the reception I met with from them. In a word, though most men any wise eminent, have found reason to complain of Calumny, I never was touched, or even attacked, by her baleful tooth; and though I wantonly exposed myself to the rage of both civil and religious factions, they seemed to be disarmed, in my behalf, of their wanted fury. My friends never had occasion to vindicate any one circumstance of my character and conduct: not but that the zealots, we may well suppose, would have been glad to invent and propagate any story to my disadvantage; but they could never find any which they thought would wear the face of probability. I cannot say there is no vanity in making this funeral oration of myself, but I hope it is not a misplaced one; and this is a matter of fact which is easily cleared and ascertained."

The same experimental mode of philosophizing which the great Bacon recommends, and which had been so successfully applied by Locke to metaphysics, and by Newton to physical phaenomena, our author uniformly adopts in all his disquisitions on morals and human nature. It is in this systematic and rational use of facts his chief excellence as an author and philosopher lies. Perhaps it may be said of him, what Pope said of Bolingbroke, If ever he trifies, it may be when he turns Divine.

Many have lamented much, that ever his great abilities produced any thing inimical to Christianity. It afforded, however, one very important example of decency and command of temper to all her friends and apologists. For whatever obligations she may have to many of their labours, she has none to some dispositions discovered in her behalf.

Our author began his literary career with a resolution, which he inflexibly maintained through life, never to reply to any body: and not being very irascible in his temper, he easily kept clear of all literary squabbles. The unmanly sarcasms even of a Beattie, the most illiberal and virulent of all his antagonists, never extorted from him a single invective. He regarded his furious declamation only as so much froth, which he well knew would subside, and be forgotten, the moment the vapour that produced it vanished.

About this time, a quarto edition of his Essays was published, in two volumes; to one of which the following Advertisement was prefixed: "Most of the principles and reasonings contained in this volume, were published in a work, in three volumes, intitled, A Treatise of Human Nature; a work which the author had projected before he left college, and which he wrote and published not long after: but not finding it successful, he was sensible of his error in going to the press too early, and he cast the whole a-new in the following pieces; where some negligences in his former reasoning, and more in the expression, are, he hopes, corrected. Yet several writers, who have honoured the author's philosophy with answers, have taken care to direct all their batteries against that juvenile work, which the author never acknowledged; and have affected to triumph in any advantages which they imagined they had obtained over it: a practice very contrary to all rules of candour and fair dealing, and a strong instance of those polemical artifices which a bigoted zeal thinks itself authorised to employ."

This Life we shall conclude with a Note, occasioned by a Reply to his Essay on the Populousness of ancient Nations. This Reply was written by a late eminent Divine, of the church of Scotland, who discovered on this, as on all other occasions, such a manly attention to truth, as precluded the impertinent interference of every other passion. Our author takes notice of this respectful answer in a manner equally honourable to both. The Note is preserved in none of the later editions of his works.

"AN ingenious writer has honoured this discourse with an answer, full of politeness, erudition, and good-sense. So learned a refutation would have made the author suspect that his reasonings were entirely overthrown, had he not used the precaution, from the beginning, to keep himself on the sceptical side; and, having taken this advantage of the ground, he was enabled, though with much inferior forces, to preserve himself from a total defeat. That Reverend Gentleman will always find, where his antagonist is so entrenched, that it will be difficult to force him. Varro, in such a situation, could defend himself against Hannibal, Pharnaces against Caesar. The author very willingly acknowledges that his antagonist has detected many mistakes in his authorities and reasonings; and it was owing entirely to that Gentleman's indulgence, that many more errors were not remarked. In this edition, advantage has been taken of his learned animadversions, and the Essay has been rendered less imperfect than formerly."

THE LIFE OF HENRY ST. JOHN, LORD VISCOUNT BOLINGBROKE.

HENRY ST. JOHN, Lord Viscount Bolingbroke, was born in the year 1672, at Battersea, in Surry, at a seat that had been in the possession of his ancestors for ages before. His family was of the first rank, equally conspicuous for its antiquity, dignity, and large possessions. It is found to trace its original as high as Adam de Port, Baron of Basing, in Hampshire, before the Conquest; and, in a succession of ages, to have produced warrio•s, patriots, and statesmen; some of whom were conspicuous for their loyalty, and others for their defending the rights of the people. His grandfather, Sir Walter St. John, of Battersea. marrying one of the daughters of Lord Chief Justice St. John, who, as all know, was strongly attached to the Republican party, Henry, the subject of the present memoir, was brought up in his family, and consequently imbibed the first principles of his education amongst the Dissenters.

Nature seemed not less kind to him in her external embellishments, than in adorning his mind. With the graces of an handsome person, and a face in which dignity was happily blended with sweetness, he had a manner of address that was very engaging. His vivacity was always awake, his apprehension was quick, his wit refined, and his memory amazing: his subtilty in thinking and reasoning was profound; and all these talents were adorned with an elocution that was irresistible.

To the assemblage of so many gifts from Nature, it was expected that Art would soon give her finishing hand; and that a youth begun in excellence, would soon arrive at perfection: but such is the perverseness of human nature, that an age which should have been employed in the acquisition of knowledge, was dissipated in pleasure; and, instead of aiming to excel in praise-worthy pursuits, Bolingbroke seemed more ambitious of being thought the greatest rake about town.

In this mad career of pleasure he continued for some time; but at length, in 1700, when he arrived at the twenty-eighth year of his age, he began to take a dislike to his method of living, and to find that sensual pleasure alone was not sufficient to make the happiness of a reasonable creature. He therefore made his first effort to break from his state of infatuation, by marrying the daughter and coheiress of Sir Henry Winchescomb, a descendant from the famous Jack of Newbury, who, though but a clothier, in the reign of Henry VIII. was able to entertain the King, and all his retinue, in the most splendid manner. This Lady was possessed of a fortune exceeding forty thousand pounds, and was not deficient in mental accomplishments; but whether he was not yet fully satiated with his former pleasures, or whether her temper was not conformable to his own, it is certain they were far from living happily together. After cohabiting for some time together, they parted by mutual consent, both equally displeased; he complaining of the obstinacy of her temper, she of the shamelessness of his infidelity. A great part of her fortune, some time after, upon his attainder, was given her back; but as her family estates were settled upon him, he enjoyed them after her death, upon the reversal of his attainder.

It is impossible to do justice to the public life of this great man, without giving a particular detail of politics for a great number of years. His eloquence, abilities, and influence, soon brought him forward in the service of his country. The latter end of Queen Anne's reign seems the period in which, of all others, his capacity as a statesman and minister shone with the greatest lustre. That critical juncture called for the exertion of all his eminent qualities; and it is agreed, that he managed the contending factions which then divided the nation, a most expensive continental war, an intriguing court, and a fickle Queen, with an address and success equally exquisite and unexpected.

While thus industriously employed, he was not without the rewards that deserved to follow such abilities, joined to so much assiduity. In July 1712, he was created Baron St. John, of Lidyard Tregoze, in Wittshire, and Viscount Bolingbroke; by the last of which titles he is now generally known, and is likely to be talked of by posterity. He was also the same year appointed Lord-Lieutenant of the county of Essex. By the titles of Tregoze and Bolingbroke, he united the honours of the elder and younger branch of his family; and thus transmitted into one channel, the opposing interests of two races, that had been distinguished, one for their loyalty to King Charles I. the other for their attachment to the Parliament that opposed him. It was afterwards his boast, that he steered clear of the extremes for which his ancestors had been distinguished, having kept the spirit of freedom of the one, and acknowledged the subordination that distinguished the other.

His quarrel with Oxford, whom he despised, exposed both to the most imminent destruction. So noble a mind was above harbouring groundless resentments, but no concessions could reconcile him to the base or worthless.

On the accession of George the First, he shared the ruin of his party; and, as one of their leaders, accumulated most of the odium their measures had incurred. The revenge of his enemies, who had now wriggled themselves into power, made it unsafe for him to stay longer in England. Immediately on his departure for France, a bill of attainder was preferred against him.

It was now, partly from resentment and disgust, and partly from a strong predilection for the bustle of office, but chiefly to gratify his boundless ambition, that he joined the Pretender. But in this new service he found every thing so very mean and mortifying, that he never appeared hearty in the business. Nor was he treated with that confidence and cordiality, to which he thought the sacrifices he made, and his conscious ability, justly intitled him. It was his aim always to be foremost in every administration, and he could not bear to act as a subaltern in so paltry a court as that of the Pretender. Within less than a twelvemonth he was therefore dismissed, and even served with a mock impeachment, by his new master.

This fortunate accident awakened all his sensibility, and made him long, more than ever, for a participation of those liberties, the malice of his persecutors had tempted him to forfeit. To the intrigues of the court, perhaps, more than to the interference of friends, or any other cause, he owed the accomplishment of this desirable event. During this interval, notwithstanding the painful suspense in which we must suppose him, he wrote Reflections on Exile, one of the most masterly, the most elegant, and the most affecting moral compositions in our language.

His first Lady, with whom he had not cohabited for years, being now dead, he married a second time, and, on his return to England, devoted his time entirely to a country life, the charms of philosophy, and domestic happiness.

Obscurity, however, was not his element. While his friends thought him reconciled to his fate, he secretly sighed to emerge a-new in a public capacity. But the minister of the day dreaded his abilities and virtues. He petitioned the House of Commons to be reinstated in his former emoluments and capacities: but the cabals of the cabinet defeated his wishes. This instigated him to take part with Pultney, in his opposition to Walpole. The last engaged to manage the House of Commons, and the first to open the eyes of the people.

This great political controversy lasted ten years; in the course of which, our noble author elucidated all the beauties and excellencies of the British constitution with singular elegance and perspicuity. His system of politics is certainly the most complete and satisfactory of any in the language. Happily for this country, it is now popular and predominant. And in our excerpts from his writings, respect has been chiefly had to those leading ideas of ministers, government, and the constitution, which coincide most with the general sentiments of the nation on these subjects.

Disgusted with all parties, and apparently tired of every pursuit, he once more took leave of England, and retired to France. But even in solitude his hours did not glide away in torpid inactivity. Having no further chance of ruling his cotemporaries, he revolved on securing the applaute and gratitude of posterity. This laudable object he pursued, with dignity and success, in a course of Letters on the Study of History; which exhibit the delica, of his taste, the energy of his mind, and the sensibility of his heart, in the most amiable and useful point of view.

It was here too, that, in a Letter addressed to Lord Bathurst, he apologizes for his attachment to retirement and study. This Letter, like all his political writings, discovers much political discernment, and has, what is wanting in most of them, great moderation, and some fine morality.

Yet still, amidst his resolutions to turn himself from politics, and to give himself up entirely to the ca•s of philosophy, he could not resist embarking once more in the debates of his country; and, coming back from France, settled as Battersea, an old seat which was his father's, and had been long in the possession of the family. He supposed he saw an impending calamity; and, thought it was not in his power to remove, he thought it his duty to retard its fall. To redeem or save the nation from perdition, he thought impossible; since national corruptions were to be purged by national calamities: but he was •e•olved to send his feeble assistance, to item the torrent that was pouring in. With this spirit he wrote that excellent piece; which is intit•ed, The Idea of a Patriot King: in which he describes a Monarch uninfluenced by party, leaning to the suggestions neither of Whigs no• Tories, but equally the friend and father of all Some time after, in the year 1749, after the conclusion of the peace, two years before the measures taken by the administration seemed not to have been repugnant to his notions of political prudence for that juncture; in that year he wrote his last production, containing Reflections on the then State of the Nation, principally with regard to her Taxes and Debts, and on the Causes and Consequences of them. This undertaking was left unfinished; for Death snatched the pen from the hand of the writer.

Having passed the latter part of his life in dignity and splendour, his rational faculties improved by reflection, and his ambition kept under by disappointment, his whole aim seemed to have been to leave the stage of life, on which he had acted such various parts, with applause. He had long withed to fetch his last breath at Battersea, the place whe•e he was born; and Fortune, that had through life seemed to traverse all his aims, at last indulged him in this. He had long been troubled with a cancer in his cheek; by which excruciating disease he died, on the verge of fourscore years of age. He was consonant with himself to the last; and those principles which he had all along avowed, he confirmed with his dying breath; having given orders that none of the clergy should be permitted to trouble him in his latest moments.

In this manner lived and died Lord Bolingbroke; ever active, never depressed; ever pursuing Fortune, and as constantly disappointed by her. In whatever light we view his character, we shall find him an object rather proper for our wonder, than our imitation; more to be feared than esteemed, and gaining our admiration without our love. His ambition ever aimed at the summit of power; and nothing seemed capable of satisfying his immoderate desires, but the liberty of governing all things without a rival. With as much ambition, as great abilities, and more acquired knowledge than Caesar, he wanted only his courage to be as successful; but the schemes his head dictated, his heart often refused to execute; and he lost the ability to perform, just when the great occasion called for all his efforts to engage.

The same ambition that prompted him to be a politician, actuated him as a philosopher. His aims were equally great and extensive in both capacities. Unwilling to submit to any power in the one, or any authority in the other, he entered the fields of science with a thorough contempt of all that had been established before him; and seemed to think every thing wrong, that he might shew his faculty in the reformation. It might have been better for his quiet, as a man, if he had been content to act a subordinate character in the state; and it had certainly been better for his memory as a writer, if he had aimed at doing less than he attempted. Wisdom in morals, like every other art or science, is an accumulation that numbers have contributed to increase; and it is not for one single man to pretend, that he can add more to the heap than the thousands that have gone before him. Such innovators more frequently retard than promote knowledge; their maxims are more agreeable to the reader, by having the gloss of novelty to recommend them, than those which are trite, only because they are true. Such men are therefore followed, at first, with avidity; nor is it till some time that their disciples begin to find their error. They often, though too late, perceive, that they have been following a speculative enquiry, while they have been leaving a practical good; and, while they have been practising the arts of doubting, they have been losing all firmness of principle, which might tend to establish the rectitude of their private conduct. As a moralist, therefore, Lord Bolingbroke, by having endeavoured at too much, seems to have done nothing; but as a political writer, few can equal, and none can exceed him. As he was a practical posicician, his writings are less filled with those speculative illusions, which are the result of solitude and seclusion. He wrote them with a certainty of their being opposed, sifted, examined, and reviled; he therefore took care to build them up of such materials as could not be easily overthrown: they prevailed at the times in which they were written; they still continue to be the admiration of the present age, and will probably last for ever.

CONTENTS.

REFERENCES being omitted in compiling the body of the work, we insert them under their respective articles in a general Index. Not only the miscellaneous pieces, but the various editions of both authors, make it also most advisable, as best adapted to Readers in general, who cannot all have the same editions to refer to the separate pieces, which are common to all, and not to the pages, which are found only in one.

A.

- AMBITION. Reign of Canute. Page 14

- Art. Rise of Arts and Sciences. 44

- Ancestry. Dissert. on the Passions. 51

- Animal Hostility. Dialogues on Natural Religion. 55

- An Aggregate of Human Misery. Ibid. 57

- Agriculture. Populcusness of ancient Nations. 75

- A Reflection. Political Society. 88

- Allegiance. Original Contract. 96

- A Character. National Characters. 111

- Another. Ibid. 111

- Alfred. Hist. of England. 114

- Ancient Literature. James I. 121

- An Anecdote. Richard I. 139

- Admiral Blake. Commonwealth. 140

- Avarice. 156

- A curious Letter. 161

- A Fable. 164

- A King. Dissert. on Parties. 169

- A bad Minister. Ibid. 172

- A Coalition of Parties at the Revolution. Ibid. 178

- A Despot. Ibid. 184

- A Patriot King, &c. Idea of a Patriot King. 194

- An Anecdote 202

- A Literary Monster. Study of History. 238

- Abstraction, &c. On Retirement. 242

B.

- Benevolence. Dissert. on the Passions. 37

- Books. Sceptical Philosophy. 70

- Britain and Rome. Liberty of the Press. 108

- Bacon and Galilaeo. James I. 126

C.

- Courage. Of Qualities, &c. 16

- Character. Conclusion. 47

- Cleanliness. Qualities, &c. 50

- Custom. Sceptical Solution, &c. 50

- Chearfulness. Epicurean. 67

- Commerce and Learning. Rise of Arts, &c. 85

- Cardinal Wolsey. Henry VIII. 123

- Commencement of Whig and Tory. Parties of Great Britain. 131

- Colonel Kirk. Charles II. 137

- Cromwell. Commonwealth. 144

- Character of a great Minister. 164

- Cure of Affliction. Reflect. on Exile. 246

- Change of Place, &c. Ibid. 246

- Conscious Freedom. Ibid. 249

- Courtiers. Idea of a Patriot King. 198

D.

- Divorce. Polygamy. 11

- Duelling. A Dialogue. 16

- Delicacy of Passion. Delicacy of Taste. 43

- Decency. Qualities, &c. 49

- Deity. Miracles. 60

- Diogenes and Pascal. Qualities, &c. 72

- Difference between History, &c. Study of History. 235

E.

- Eloquence. Note on Sceptic. 61

- Europe. Appendix to the Reign of Harold. 82

- Error. Dissert. on Parties. 169

- Etiquette of Government, &c. Ibid. 177

- Epilogue, &c. 191

- Example. Study of History. 232

- Education. Ibid. 236

- Euthanasia of the British Constitution. The British Government. 105

F.

- Fame. Conclusion, &c. 14

- Ferocity. Of Eloquence. 64

- Fortune Fickle. Stoic. 67

- Female Intrigue. A Dialogue. 93

- Friendship. 8

G.

- Gallantry. Rise of Arts, &c. 28

- Generosity. Conclusion, &c. 33

- Glory. Epicurean. 33

- Genius. Sceptic. 34

- Grace. Qualities, &c. 50

- Good Government, &c. Spirit of Patriotism. 194

- General Maxims. 214

- Genius, History, and Experience. Study of History. 230

H.

- Humanity. Of Benevolence. 3

- Human Activity. Interest. 15

- Honour. A Dialogue. 19

- Happiness. Sceptic. 36

- Habit. Ibid. 52

- Human Life. Ibid. 54

- History Miracles. 60

- Human Nature, &c. Politics reduced, &c. 81

- Henry I. of England. His Reign. 127

- Hobbes. Charles II. 130

- How Liberty may be lost. Dissert. on Parties. 186

- History, &c. Study of History. 228

- Historical Example, &c. Ibid. 233

- History. Parties of G. B. 131

I. J.

- Inhumanity. Note on Populousness, &c. 6

- Jealousy. Polygamy. 10

- Ignorance. Populousness, &c. 30

- Justice. Ibid. 41

- Imagination. Ibid. 41

- Incorrigible Vice. Sceptic. 52

- Industry. Stoic. 67

- Inspiration. Rise of Arts, &c. 75

- Infatuation. Political Society. 86

- Interest. Public Credit. 88

- Jefferies. Charles II. 138

- Impudence and Modesty. 147

- Improvement of Time. Retirement. 243

K.

- King-craft. Charles I. 121

- Knowledge of Character. Dissert. on Parties 175

L.

- Love. 7

- Labour. Stoic. 66

- Luxury. Benevolence. 69

- London. Public Credit. 87

- Lord Falkland. Charles I. 113

- Love and Marriage. 158

M.

- Maxims. 78

- Mortality. Epicurean. 7

- Mediocrity of Fortune. 9

- Marriage. Polygamy. 9

- Magnanimity. A Dialogue. 17

- Modesty. Ibid. 18

- Metaphysics. 21

- Man. The different Species of Philosophy. 30

- Men and Animals. Dignity of Human Nature 31

- Merit. Dissert. on the Passions. 45

- Milton. Charles II. 128

- Ministerial Responsibility. Dissertation on Parties. 169

- —Prerogative. Ibid. 176

- —Faction. Spirit of Patriotism. 193

- Money. Interest. 85

- Monarchy. Balance of Power. 96

- Modern Inventions. Populousness, &c. 75

- M•••ness. Qualities, &c. 68

N.

- Neutrality. Conclusion, &c. 81

- Newton. Charles II. 112

- National Unanimity. 172

- Funds. Public Credit. 86

O.

- Obedience. Original Contract. 103

- Of the Study of History. 150

- Opinion. The British Government. 94

- On Avarice. 157

P.

- Pleasure. Epicurean. 12

- Politeness. A Dialogue. 18

- Philosopy. Reveuolence. 21

- Philosophers. Different Species of Philos. 27

- Poverty. Benevolence. 38

- Property. Of Justice. 41

- Prosperity and Adversity. Natural History of Religion. 51

- Philosophical Pride. 63

- Public Spirit. Politics reduced, &c. 81

- —Bankruptcy. Public credit. 88

- Princes. Charles I. 95

- Proscriptions. Dissert. on Parties. 173

- Public Ruin. Ibid. 174

- Parliamentary Despotism. Ibid. 185

- Poverty reputable. Reflect. on Exile. 250

R.

- Refinement. Refinement in the Arts. 45

- Rules of Life. Note on the Sceptic. 57

- Ribaldry 63

- Resistance. Charles I. 103

- Religion. Note. Hist. of Religion. 109

- Richard I. of England, &c. Reign of 125

- Royal Popularity. Dissert. on Parties. 184

- Resignation. Reflections on Exile. 252

- Reason and Instinct. Retirement. 240

S.

- Simplicity. Rise of Arts, &c. 45

- Sermons. Eloquence. 63

- Sloth. Stoic. 66

- Superstition. Of Superstition and Enthusiasm. 72

- Shakespeare. James I. 123

- Saxon Kings. Dissert. on Parties. 170

- Simulation and Dissmulation. Ibid. 200

- Science. Sceptic. 34

T.

- The Golden Age. Of Justice. 1

- The Voluptuary. Stoic. 5

- The Human Soul. Sceptical Doubts, &c. 40

- The present Condition of Humanity. Dialogue on Nat. Rel. 55

- The Sage. Platonist. 65

- The Sublime. Qualities, &c. 72

- The Universe. Populousness, &c. 75

- The Anglo-Saxons. Hist of Eng. Vol. I. 84

- The House of Commons 93

- Trade. Public Credit. 88

- The Influence of the Crown. Hist of Engl. 95

- The Origin of Interest 98

- The Fluctuation of Riches. Of Money. 98

- The Origin of Government. Orig. Contract. 99

- The Revolution 99

- The Dispensing Power of the Crown. James II. 100

- The Downfall of the Roman Empire. The Romans. 106

- The Irish Massacre. Charles I. 115

- The Templars massacred, &c. Edward II. 133

- The Fate of Montrose. Charles II. 141

- His Sentence

- His Execution

- His Character

- The Sack of Rome, &c. Henry VIII. 145

- The worst Ministers, &c. Spirit of Patriotism. 192

- The Site of Virtue. Idea of a Patriot King. 193

- The Use to be made of a good Reign. Ibid. 196

- The Court of a good King reformed. Ibid. 197

- The Difference between Cunning, &c. Ibid. 201

- The Commercial Situation of England, &c. Ibid. 202

- The private Character of Alexander the Great. Ibid. 205

- —Scipio the Roman General. Ibid. 206

- —The first two Caesars. Ibid. 207

- —Lewis the Fourteenth. Ibid. 209

- —Queen Elizabeth. Ibid. 209

- —James I. Ibid. 211

- The Picture of a Patriotic Regin. Patr. K. 213

- Truth and Taste. Principles of Morals. 32

V.

- Vanity. Dissert. on the Passions. 45

- Usurpation 95

W.

- Wit and Taste. Standard of Taste. 77

- War. Political Society. 86

- Whiggism. Note. Sceptical Doubts. 92

- Wisdom and Cunning distinguished. Idea of a Patriot King. 199

Supplementary Extracts from the Essays on Suicide and the Immortality of the Soul, never printed in the Works of, but generally attributed to, Mr. Hume.

- Philosophy the only Remedy to a Mind diseased 255

- Suicide 258

- Our natural Antipathy to Death 259

- The Faculties adequate to the Life of Man 260

- The Course of Nature 260

- The future Residence of the Human Soul 262

In the PRESS.

THE BEAUTIES OF SHAKESPEARE.

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☜The Plan of this Selection will be totally different from that of Dr. DODD.

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THE BEAUTIES OF HUME.

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 spontaneously 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, cruelty, selfishness, were never heard of: cordial affection, compassion, sympathy, were the only movements with which the mind was yet acquainted. Even the punctilious distinction of mine and thine was banished from among that happy race of mortals, and carried with it the very notion of property and obligation, justice and injustice.

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 natural 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 Smiling Innocence closes the procession; and, while she presents herself to our ravished eyes, she embellishes the whole scene, and renders the view of these pleasures as transporting after they have passed us, as when, with languishing countenances, 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 indulge 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 wholly 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 humanity of one man is the humanity of every one; and the same object touches this passion in all human creatures.

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 constantly indulge this severe wisdom, which, by pretending 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 affections, 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 succour, 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 humanity, that they brighten up the very face of sorrow, 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 rebellion, and make the return to submission impracticable, by cutting off all hopes of pardon When the tempers of men are softened, as well as their knowledge improved, this humanity appears still more conspicuous, and is the chief characteristic which distinguishes a civilized age from times of barbarity and ignorance. Factions are then less inveterate, revolutions less tragical, authority 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 resume 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 enjoyment; 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 moment after:—he has now enjoyed the pleasure which he fondly sought after. The sense of his guilt and misery returns upon him with double anguish: his mind tormented with fear and remorse; his body depressed with disgust and satiety.

The joys of love, however furious and tumultuous, banish not the tender sentiments of sympathy and affection: they even derive their chief influence from that generous passion; and, when presented alone, afford nothing to the unhappy mind, but lassitude and disgust. Behold the sprightly debauchee, who professes a contempt of all other pleasures 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 surrounded with every other means of delight, he loaths the sumptuous banquet, and prefers even themost abstract study and speculation, as more agreeable 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 entertainments 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 passion requires liberty above all things; and therefore Eloisa had reason when, in order to preserve this passion, she refused to marry her beloved Abelard.

How oft, when press'd to marriage, have I said,

Curse on all laws, but those which Love has made!

Love, free as air, at sight of human ties,

Spreads his light wings, and in a moment flies.

MORTALITY.

CONSIDER, that if life be frail, if youth be transitory, 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 memory of us be left upon earth; and even fabulous shades will not afford us an habitation Our fruitless anxieties, our vain projects, our uncertain speculation, 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 preside over the universe, he must be pleased to see us fulfil the ends of our being, and enjoy that pleasure, for which alone we were created.

FRIENDSHIP.

MOST men of generous tempers are apt to envy the great, when they consider the large opportunities such persons have of doing good to their fellow 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 proffers 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 goodwill 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 obliging 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 received. 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.

Friendship is a calm and sedate affection, conducted by reason, and cemented by habit springing from long acquaintance and mutual obligations; without jealousies or fears, and without those feverish 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 object of pursuit.

MEDIOCRITY OF FORTUNE.

THE middle station of life is most favourable to the acquiring of wisdom and ability, as well as of virtue; and a man so situate has a better chance of attaining 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 marriages, to be sure, are found where love, by long 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 people of common prudence endeavour to forget, when they lie under the necessity of passing their lives together; but which would soon enflame into the most deadly hatred, were they pursued to the utmost under 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 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 imperfectly, 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. Philip 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, instead of curing the wounds proceeding from mutual 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 effect dissolved by mutual hatred.

The liberty of divorce is not only a cure to hatred and domestic quarrels; it is also an admirable preservative against them, and the only secret for keeping alive that love which first united the married 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 inclination 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 heavens and the earth, she presents to me. The sportive cupids that attend her, fan me with their odoriferous wings, or pour on my head the most fragrant oils, or offer me their sparkling nectar in golden goblets. O! forever let me spread my limbs on this bed of roses, and thus, thus feel the delicious 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 abstinence.

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 review, and consider how they appear in the eyes of those who approach and regard us. This constant 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 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 nothing 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 tribute which is liberally paid even to the meanest and weakest Princes. Some of his flatterers, breaking 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 commanded 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 began to wash him with its billows, he turned to his courtiers, and remarked to them, that every creature 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 occupation, he runs restless from one amusement to another; and the weight and oppression which he feels from idleness, is so great, that he forgets the ruin which must follow from his immoderate expences. Give him a more harmless way of employing 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 particular 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 foundation 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 itself, 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 virtue, by way of excellence, and of distinction from all other moral qualities. The Suevi, in the opinion of Tacitus, dressed their hair with a laudable intent; not for the purpose of loving or being beloved: they adorned themselves only for their enemies, and in order to appear more terrible.

DUELLING.

NOTHING surely can be more absurd and barbarous 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 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, superior 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 magnificent 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 tranquillity and indifference, the more secure enjoyment shall we attain within ourselves, and the more greatness of mind shall we discover to the world. This philosophical tranquillity may, indeed, be considered only as a branch of magnanimity.

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 he refused all assistance from his friends and disciples, and avoided even the dependence of an obligation? 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 infested 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 dignity 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 rejoicing 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 oppositions of interest and self-love, have constrained mankind to establish the laws of justice, in order to preserve the advantages of common assistance and protection; in like manner, the eternal contrarieties, in company, of men's pride and self-conceit, have introduced the rules of good-manners or politeness, in order to facilitate the intercourse 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 maintained, without vehemence, without mutual interruption, without eagerness for oratory, and without any airs of superiority. These attentions and regards are immediately agreeable to others, abstracted from any consideration of utility or beneficial 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 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 superiority fools and knaves, with large possessions, give themselves, above men of the greatest merit in poverty: 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 diffident 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 virtue, of which they are so jealous. To make wisdom agree with confidence, is as difficult as to reconcile 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 somewhat of its asperity, by politeness and refinement; a sense of honour, which is a stronger, more constant, 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 being 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, 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 delineation or description of human nature, and may be a good foundation for paradoxical wit and raillery, but is a very bad one for any serious argument 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 salutary and advantageous.

But what philosophical truths can be more advantageous to society, than those which represent 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, suffering 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 either 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. 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 siuation 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 disproportion 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, retaining an equal ability and taste for books, company, 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 comprehended, and send back the student among mankind full of noble sentiments and wise precepts, applicable to every exigence of human life. By means of such compositions, virtue becomes amiable, science agreable, company instructive, and retirement entertaining.

The easy and obvious philosophy will always, with the generality of mankind, have the preference above the accurate and abstruse; and by many will be recommended, not only as more agreeable, but more useful, than the other. It enters 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 describes. 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 principles 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, however acquired, carries all of them nearer their perfection, and renders them more subservient to the interests of society. And though a philosopher may live remote from business, the genius of philosophy, if carefully cultivated by several, must gradually diffuse itself throughout the whole society, and bestow a similar correctness on every art and calling. The politician will acquire greater foresight and subtlety in the subdividing and balancing of power; the lawyer more method and finer principles in his reasonings; and the general more regularity in his discipline, and more caution in his plans and operations. The stability of modern governments 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 superstitions, 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 avenue 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 virtue 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 philosophers paint her in the most amiable colours; borrowing all helps from poetry and eloquence, and treating their subject in an easy and obvious manner, and such as is best fitted to please the imagination and engage the affections. They select the most striking observations and instances from common life; place opposite character, in a proper contrast; 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 difference between vice and virtue; they excite and regulate 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 conversation, and the intercourse of minds, more easy and agreeable, good-manners have been invented, and have carried the matter somewhat farther. Whereever nature has given the mind a propensity to any vice, or to any passion disagreeable to others, refined 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 companions, 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 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 family, and his guests are, in a manner, subject to his authority; hence, he is always the lowest person 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 affectation, 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 superiority 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 industrious in helping every one, is certainly the person. We must either condemn all such instances of generosity as foppish and affected, or admit of gallantry 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 ambassadors.

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 dalliance, and other expressions of fondness, form the greatest part of the entertainment. In rational beings, we must certainly admit the mind for a considerable share. Were we to rob the feast of all its garniture of reason, discourse, sympathy, friendship, 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, receives from science his proper food and nourishment: but so narrow are the bounds of human 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 being; but neither can he always enjoy company agreeable and amusing, or preserve the proper relish for them.

Man is also an active being; and, from that dispostion, as well as from the various necessities of human life, must submit to business and occupation.

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 bodies; 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 creature, who traces causes and effects to a great length and intricacy; extracts general principles from particular appearances; improves upon his discoveries; corrects his mistakes; and makes his very errors profitable. On the other hand, we are presented with a creature the very reverse of this; limited in its observations and reasonings to a few sensible objects which surround it; without curiosity, without foresight; blindly conducted by instinct, and attaining, in a short time, its utmost perfection; beyond which it is never able to advance a single step. What a wide difference is there between these creatures! And how exalted a notion must we entertain of the former, in comparison of the latter!

TRUTH AND TASTE.

TRUTH is disputable, not taste: what exists in the nature of things is the standard of our judgment; what each man feels within himself is the standard of sentiment. Propositions in geometry may be proved, systems in physic may be controverted; but the harmony of verse, the tenderness of passion, the brilliancy of wit, must give immediate pleasure. No man reasons concerning another's beauty, but frequently concerning the justice 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 innocent and lawful. It is confessedly by deductions of the understanding, that the first point is ascertained: 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 method of expence; since the utmost which he can attain by the most elaborate selfishness, is the indulgence 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 adversary, whom he secretly followed, offering him money for his support during his exile, and soothing him with topics of consolation in his misfortunes. "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 follow 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 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 ignorant 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, receives 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 disturbed by the smallest accident. Chance, therefore, 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 learning. There concurred a happy climate, a fertile soil, and a most harmonious and comprehensive 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 preference 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 reception 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 cherishes 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, 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 ambition, 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 statesman, 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 cultivate 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 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 another. 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 attacks, by the continual alteration of his shape and form.

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 tempest. His sole prerogative is to afford shelter to inferiors, who repose themselves under his cover and protection.

Inward peace of mind, consciousness of integrity, 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 sentiment, its engaging endearments, its fond expressions, its delicate attentions, and that flow of mutual confidence and regard which enters into a warm attachment of love and friendship, being delightful in themselves, are necessarily communicated 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 principle 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 beneficence and humanity, friendship and gratitude, 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 favourable 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, indeed, 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 Charmides, 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 civility and respect; and I am become a kind of tyrant 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 ourselves sufficiently happy, if, by accurate enquiry and reasoning, we can trace up the particular phaenomena 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 mysterious than the union of soul with body; by which a supposed spiritual substance acquires such an influence 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 extraordinary, 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 obligation 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 particular object, as why the reciting of a liturgy by a priest, in a certain habit and posture, should dedicate 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.

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 statutes, customs, precedents, analogies, and a hundred other circumstances; some of which are constant and inflexible, some variable and arbitrary. But the ultimate point, in which they all professedly terminate, is, the interest and happiness of human society. Where this enters not into consideration, nothing can appear more whimsical, unnatural, 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 represents 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 engage their friendship; while the smallest injury 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 conveying the purest, the most durable, and most innocent, 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 negligencies 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 drawing; but he is not allowed to touch the principal figure. Art may make a suit of clothes, but Nature must produce a man.

SIMPLICITY.

NO advantages in this world are pure and unmixed. 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 rusticity and abuse, scurrility and obscenity. Simplicity passes for dullness, when it is not accompanied with great elegance and propriety.

REFINEMENT.

REFINEMENT on the pleasures and conveniences of life, has no natural tendency to beget venality and corruption. The value which all men put upon any particular pleasure, depends on comparison and experience; nor is a porter less greedy of money, which he spends upon bacon and brandy, 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 money, 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 refinement.

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 offensive 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 elevation 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, equipage, 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 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 famous 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 agreeable must possess these qualities, with regard either to the person himself, or to others, the complete delineation or description of merit seems to be performed 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 attention. And it seems a reasonable presumption, that systems and hypotheses have perverted our natural understanding, when a theory so simple and obvious could so long have escaped the most elaborate 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 intercourse with him, is sure of fair and kind treatment.

I congratulate you, says another, on the promising expectation of this son-in-law; whose assiduous application to the study of the laws, whose quick penetration, and early knowledge both of men and business, prognosticate the greatest honours 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 conversation: 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 chearfulness, 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 tranquillity in his soul. He has met with severe trials, misfortunes as well as dangers, and by his greatness of mind was still superior to all of them.

The image, gentlemen, which you have here delineated of Cleanthes, cry I, is that of accomplished 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 Castiglione. 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 agreeable 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 disapprobation.

CLEANLINESS.

CLEANLINESS naturally renders us agreeable to others, and is no inconsidarable source of love and affection. No one will deny, that a negligence 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 genteelness, 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 powerfully. And though this manner be chiefly talked of in the passion between the sexes, where the concealed 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 narrow 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 propensity: 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 appeared in the past. Without the influence of custom we should be entirely ignorant of every matter 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 natural 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 succession 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 chearfulness, and activity, and alacrity, and a lively enjoyment 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 accident alarms us, and sets us on enquiries concerning the principles whence it arose: apprehensions spring up with regard to futurity; and the mind, sunk into diffidence, terror, and melancholy, 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 sympathy 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 passions: 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 character.

HABIT.

HABIT is another powerful means of reforming the mind, and implanting in it good dispositions 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 affability, 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 impose 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 entirely 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, altogether desirable. The draughts of life, according 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 concern beyond our own life, how frivolous appear our most enlarged and most generous projects; when we consider the incessant changes and revolutions of human affairs, by which laws and learning, books and governments, are hurried away by time, as by a rapid stream, and are lost in the immense 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 concerning life, life is gone; and Death, though perhaps they receive him differently, treats alike the fool and philosopher.

The whole earth is cursed and polluted: a perpetual war amongst all living creatures. Necessity, hunger, want, stimulate the strong and courageous: fear, anxiety, terror, agitate the weak and infirm. The first entrance into life gives anguish 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 agony 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 enemies, which incessantly seek his misery and destruction.

THE PERILOUS CONDITION OF HUMANITY.

MAN, it is true, can, by combination, surmount all his real enemies, and become master of the whole animal creation: but does he not immediately raise up to himself imaginary enemies, the daemons of his fancy, who haunt him with superstitious terrors, and blast every enjoyment of life? His pleasure, as he imagines, becomes, in their eyes, a crime; his food and repose give them umbrage and offence; his very sleep and dreams furnish 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, superstition does the anxious breast of wretched mortals.

This very society, by which we surmount those wild beasts, our natural enemies; what new enemies 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 society 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 inroads roads from these tormentors? How many have scarce ever felt better sensations! Labour and poverty so abhorred by every one, are the certain lot of the far greater number! And those few prileged 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 absence of one good, is sufficient to render life ineligible.

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, famine 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 concealed ills? Then why envy any body? Every one has known ills; and there is a compensation throughout. Why not be contented with the present?

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

Health and humour all: the rest of little consequence, 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.

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 wonder 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 inconvenience? 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 fortify the mind against the illusion of passion. But trust not altogether to external aid. By habit and study acquire that philosophical temper, which both gives force to reflection, and, by rendering a great part of your happiness independent, takes off the edge from all disorderly passions, and tranquillizes the mind. Despise not these helps; nor conside too much in them, unless nature has been favourable in the temper with which she has endowed you.

HISTORY.

WHEN we peruse the first histories of all nations, 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 proportion 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 future. His love and hatred, his mercy and justice, are one individual operation. He is entire in every point of space, and complete in every instant of duration. No succession, no change, no acquifition, 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, sentiment, or operation. He stands fixed in one simple perfect state: nor can you ever say, with any propriety, 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 affection, 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 teacher, 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 ampler matter for eloquence than can be met with among the moderns. Were there no Verres or Catiline, 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 appeared, he was determined to condemn.

The orator, by the force of his own genius and eloquence, first inflamed himself with anger, indignation, 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 advanced in the course of the debate. But where is the necessity of falling into this absurdity? A public 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; nor will the difference be very apparent, betwixt his elaborate and his extemporary compositions. The mind naturally continues with the same impetus 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 Europe had possessed the same advantages of a popular 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 ridiculing 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 country, 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 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 constitution of government must become a scheme perfectly impracticable among mankind, and must degenerate into one universal system of fraud and corruption.

PHILOSOPHICAL PRIDE.

A GRAVE philosophical endeavour after perfection, 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 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 inaccessible to all the malice of man. The rolling thunder breaks below; and those more terrible instruments of human fury reach not so sublime a height. The sage, while he breathes that serene air, looks down with pleasure, mixed with compassion, 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 ravished from them by envious fortune; and all complain, 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, animals of every kind, whose flesh furnishes the most delicious fare, and which offer themselves to the fatal stroke. Laborious man disdains so easy a purchase. He seeks for a prey that hides itself from his search, or flies from his pursuit, or defends itself from his violence. Having exerted in the chace every passion of the mind, and every member of the body, he then finds the charm of repose, 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 becomes a fatigue; your pleasure itself creates disgust. The mind unexercised finds every delight insipid and loathsome; and ere yet the body, full of noxious humours, feels the torment of its multiplied 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 pursuit even of the most worthless prey, which frequently 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 incessantly 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 industry.

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 security can have no place where Fortune has any 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 jollity 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 melancholy hate the merry, even though Horace says it, I have some difficulty to allow, because I have always 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 constitutes the vice we properly call Meanness. A certain degree of generous pride, or self-value, is so requisite, that the absence of it in the mind displeases; after the same manner as the want of a nose, eye, or any of the most material features of the face, or members of the body. View the picture 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 universally 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. Suppose that he correct the vice, and employ part of his expence in the education of his children, in the support 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 vicious 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, 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 durable, 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 concerning quantity or number?—No. Does it contain any experimental reasoning concerning matter of fact and existence?—No. Commit it then to the flames: for it can contain nothing but sophistry and illusion.

There is only one subject on which I am apt to distrust the judgment of females, and that is, concerning 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 subject, because, in reality, they become the same when treated in this manner; and we may observe, that they both depend upon the very same complexion. 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. 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 unaccountable 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 wanting, the soul, active to its own prejudice, and fostering its predominant inclination, finds imaginary ones, to whose power and malevolence it sets no limits. As these enemies are entirely invisible and unknown, the methods taken to appease them are equally unaccountable, and consist in ceremonies, observances, mortifications, sacrifices, presents, or in any practice, however absurd or frivolous, which either folly or knavery recommends to a blind and terrified credulity. Weakness, 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, courage, disdain of fortune; or those of the tender 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 anger, are observed, when excited by poetry, to convey 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 fortune 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 government 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 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 perpetual sense of his dependence before his eyes, and never to forget his numberless wants and infirmities. The ancient supported himself by magnanimity, oftentation, pride, and the idea of his own superiority above his fellow creatures. The modern made constant profession of humility and abasement, of the contempt and hatred of himself, and endeavoured to attain these supposed virtues as far as they are attainable. The austerities of the Greek were in order to inure himself to hardships, 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 refused 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 object 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 of the future, was the chief foundation of his conduct.

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 inspiration. There is not, however, any thing supernatural 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 husbandry 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 extremely useful to the encouragement of art, industry, and populousness. Were we to strike off these, what a check mould should we give to every kind 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 reason or observation, to conclude the world eternal or incorruptible. The continual and rapid motion 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 mortality 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 infancy, 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 expected 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 have been naturally, in all ages, pretty much the same. The arts and sciences, indeed, have flourished 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 unknown 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, therefore, 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 whether at present it be advancing to its point of perfection, 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 plainly nothing but a sensation of pleasure from true wit, and of disgust from false, without our being able to tell the reasons of that satisfaction or uneasiness. 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 music, 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.

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 necessary to prop our tottering judgment on the corresponding approbation of mankind.

The more unhappy another is, the more happy 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 satisfaction 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 secret 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 experimental conclusions.

Where a great man is delicate in his choice of favourites, every one courts with greater earnestness 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 obscurity, 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 inclinations of the ground on which it runs, so are the ignorant and thougthless actuated by their natural propensities.

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 kingdoms, 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 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 community, is deficient in the most material of virtues.

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 on the ruins of Rome, was always extremely free; and those fierce people, accustomed to independence, 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 conquerors, 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 people; 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 independence and legal administration, which distinguish the European nations; and if that part of the globe maintain sentiments of liberty, honour, equity, and valour, superior to the rest of mankind, it owes these advantages chiefly to the seeds implanted by those generous barbarians.

Europe is shared out mostly into great monarchies; and such parts of it as are divided into small territories, are commonly governed by absolute 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 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 removed 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 protection 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 vengeance. 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 violence 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 progress 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 person. 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 commerce 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. Commerce 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 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 wrestlers, boxers, cudgel-players, gladiators, is regulated 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 themselves 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 popularity and patriotism are still the beaten road to power and tyranny; flattery to treachery; standing 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. 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 impotence.

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, tributary 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 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 greatness, indeed, of London, under a government which admits not of discretionary power, renders the people factious, mutinous, seditious, and even perhaps 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-holders, whose property is the most precarious of any, and will make them fly to the support of government, whether menaced by Jacobitish violence or democratical frenzy.

TRADE.

ANY great blow given to trade, whether by injudicious 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 flourishing 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 foundation of a new loan; and let us consider the necessary 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 untried 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 lowest 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 assign 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 expectation. 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 begin, by that time, to be a little frail, the least touch will destroy it, as happened in France during 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 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: suppose 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 foreign 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 statesmen 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 security of the nation: money is perhaps lying in the Exchequer, ready for the discharge of the quarterly 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 requisite. The whole fabric, already tottering, falls to the ground, and buries thousands in its ruins.

Here thousands are sacrificed to the safety of millions; but we are not without danger that millions 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 connections of the members may be so great with the proprietors, as to render them more tenacious of public faith, than prudence, policy, or even justice, 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 government, and a legal constitution, may be defended, 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 government 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 itself, as far as possible, absolute and uncontroulable. But in this opinion, experience shews they would have been mistaken: for this is actually the case with the British constitution. The share of power allotted by our constitution to the House of Commons, 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 pretensions 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 maintain 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 supported 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 government 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 enormous 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 nation, 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 extraordinary 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 part of the house, it will always command the resolutions of the whole; so far, at least, as to preserve the ancient constitution from danger. We may give to this influence what name we please. We may call it by the invidious appellation of Corruption and Dependence; but some degree and some kind of it are inseparable from the very nature of the constitution, and necessary to the preservation of our mixed government.

PRINCES.

ALWAYS to throw, without distinction, the blame of all disorders upon the Prince, would introduce a fatal error in politics, and serve as a perpetual apology for treason and rebellion; as if the turbulency of the great, and madness of the people, 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 constitution.

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 the origin of that royal family, may find, as commonly happens, that its first authority was derived from usurpation and violence. It is confessed that private justice, or the abstinence from the properties of others, is a most cardinal virtue; yet reason 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, neither in public nor private life, will allow of such an accurate enquiry.

MONARCHIES.

ENORMOUS monarchies are, probably, destructive to human nature, in their progress, in their continuance, and even in their downfall, which never can be very distant from their establishment. The military genius, which aggrandised 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 ancient 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 attachment, without honour; ready on every occasion to turn them against the prince, and join each desperate malcontent who offers pay and plunder. This is the necessary progress of human affairs. Thus human nature checks itself in its airy elevation. Thus ambition blindly labours for the destruction 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 supply that demand, and great profits arising from commerce: and these circumstances are a clear proof of the small advance of commerce and industry, 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 proceed 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 affecting 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 government is, at first, founded on a contract, and that the most ancient rude combinations of mankind 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 civilised arts of life.

THE REVOLUTION.

THE Revolution forms a new epoch in the constitution, 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 family, it gave such an ascendant to popular principles, as has put the nature of the English constitution 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 repeal 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 conceived the great barrier of the established religion under a popish successor: as such it had been insisted 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, straitened by precedents and decisions of great authority, 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 sufficient authority. It was not considered that the present difficulty, or seeming absurdity, had proceeded from late innovations introduced into the government. Ever since the beginning of this century, the parliament had, with the most laudable zeal, been acquiring powers, and establishing 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 immoralities. A prerogative, however, derived from very ancient and almost uniform practice, the dispensing power, still remained, or was supposed to remain, 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 symptoms 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 erected in rude and barbarous times, is entirely consistent and uniform in all its parts. But to expect that the dispensing power could in any degree be rendered compatible with those accurate and regular limitations which had of late been established, and which the people were determined to maintain, was a vain hope; and though men knew not on what principles they could deny that prerogative, they saw, that, if they would preserve 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 familiar, 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 ancestors have, for several ages, or for time imme¦morial, been subject to such a government or such a family, they immediately acquiesce, and acknowledge 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 absurdities.

RESISTANCE.

IF ever, on any occasion, it were laudable to conceal truth from the populace, it must be confessed, 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 authority, 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 reasonings and discourses. Nor is there any danger, that mankind, by this prudent reserve, should universally degenerate into a state of abject servitude. 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 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 extraordinary 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 position being established, it must, however, be observed, that no reader, almost of any party or principle, was ever shocked, when he read in ancient 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 punishment 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 another, it may be enquired, whether it be more desirable 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 government 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, or establish any free government. Matters, therefore, must be trusted to their natural progress and operation; and the House of Commons, according to its present constitution, must be the only legislator in such a popular government. The inconveniences attending such a situation of affairs present 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 cannot long subsist, we shall at last, after many convulsions and civil wars, find repose in absolute monarchy, 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 during so many ages from all concern in the wars, had entirely lost the military spirit, and were peopled by an enervated race, equally disposed to submit to a foreign yoke, or to the tyranny of their own rulers. The emperors found themselves obliged to recruit their legions from the frontier provinces, where the genius of war, though languishing, was not totally extinct; and these mercenary forces, careless of laws and civil institutions, established a military government, no less dangerous to the sovereign than to the people. The farther progress of the same disorders introduced 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 policy of the emperors, who were accustomed to employ the one in the destruction of the other. Sensible of their own force, and allured by the prospect 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, began to think of fixing a settlement in the wasted provinces. The more distant barbarians, who occupied the deserted habitations of the former, advanced in their acquisitions, and pressed with their incumbent weight the Roman state, already unequal to the load which it sustained. Instead of arming the people in their own defence, the emperors recalled all the distant legions, in whom alone they could repose confidence, and collected the whole military force for the defence of the capital and centre of the empire. The necessity of self-preservation had superseded the ambition of 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, under 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 evident, 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 England, 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 his fellow subjects, who are obliged by their own interest to have a watchful eye over the incroachments 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, being 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 nothing 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 universal Creator. But consult this image, as it appears 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 naturally, 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 Creator! But turn the reverse of the medal. Survey most nations and most ages. Examine the religious 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 being who dignifies himself with the name of rational.

Hear the verbal protestations of all men: nothing so certain as their religious tenets. Examine 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 attended 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 abandoned 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?

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 idleness, together with the large societies which they form in camps or garrisons, incline them to pleasure and gallantry; by their frequent change of company, they acquire good-breeding and openness 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, acquire a uniform character, which is entirely their 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 produced 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 apprehensions; 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 Newton seemed to draw off the veil from some of the mysteries of Nature, he shewed, at the same time, 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 genius, a generous disposition, and an opulent fortune, could afford. Called into public life, he stood foremost in all attacks on the exorbitant prerogative of the crown; and displayed that masculine eloquence, and undaunted love of liberty, which, from his intimate acquaintance with the sublime spirits of antiquity, he had greedily imbibed. When civil convulsions proceeded to extremity, 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 necessary 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 unsuitable in a secretary of state, he alledged that it 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 believe 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 opposition 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 denomination 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 virtues tempered together, so justly were they blended, and so powerfully did each prevent the other from exceeding its proper bounds! He knew how 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 production 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. Fortune alone, by throwing him into that barbarous age, deprived him of historians worthy to transmit 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 entirely 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, 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 defenceless, and passively resigned to their inhuman foes. No age, no sex, no condition, was spared. The wise, weeping for her butchered husband, and embracing 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 recourse 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 opposition, the astonished English, living in profound peace and full security, were massacred by their nearest neighbours, with whom they had long upheld a continued intercourse of kindness and good offices.

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 almost 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 annihilated.

The weaker sex themselves, naturally tender to their own sufferings, and compassionate to those of others, here emulated their more robust companions in the practice of every cruelty. Even children, 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.

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, together 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, brothers, 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 heretics, abhorred of God, and detestable to all holy men, were marked out by the priests for slaughter; and of all actions, to rid the world of these declared enemies to Catholic faith and piety, was represented as the most meritorious. Nature, which, in that rude people, was sufficiently inclined 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 defenceless, to all the severities of the season. The heavens themselves, as if conspiring against that unhappy people, were armed with cold and tempest, unusual to the climate, and executed what the merciless sword of the barbarians had left unfinished. 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 family, envied them that fate which he himself expected 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 affliction. 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 calamities; while they observed the numerous foes, without and within, which every where environed them, and reflected on the weak resources by which they were themselves supported. The more vigorous 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. Abandoning 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 dissipate their fortune; to increase their subjection to ministers, by attendance; to weaken their authority 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 simplicity, which, whatever rudeness may sometimes attend it, is so fitted to express the genuine movements 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 simplicity of thought and expression, one is sometimes surprised to meet with a poor conceit, which had presented itself unsought for, and which the author 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 ornaments studied and admired; and a total degeneracy of style and language prepares the way for barbarism and ignorance. Hence the Asiatic manner 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, Lucan, 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 proper entertainment to a refined or intelligent audience, we must abate somewhat of this eulogy. In his compositions, we regret that many irregularities, 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 propriety of thought he cannot, for any time, uphold. Nervous and picturesque expressions, as well as descriptions, 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 genius. A great and fertile genius he certainly possessed, and one enriched equally with a tragic and comic vein; but he ought to be cited as a proof, 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 genius; in the same manner as bodies often appear more gigantic, on account of their being disproportionate 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 character 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; ambitious 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 oftentation as exposed him to envy, and made every one 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 situation 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 monarchs of such a fiery character. Equally haughty, ambitious, intrepid, and inflexible, they were irritated with the least appearance of injury, and were incapable, by mutual condescensions, to efface 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 variety 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 estimable, he was yet inferior to his cotemporary Galileo, perhaps even to Kepler. Bacon pointed out at a distance the road to true philosophy: Galileo both pointed it out to others, and made himself 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 latter 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 sometimes unnatural and far-fetched; and he seems to be the original of those pointed similes, and longspun allegories, which so much distinguish the English authors: Galileo is a lively and agreeable, though somewhat a prolix writer; but Italy, not united in any single government, and perhaps satiated 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 encouraged 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 policy. By his great progress in literature, he acquired the name of Beau-clerc, or the Scholar; but his application to these sedentary pursuits abated nothing of the activity and vigilance of his government; and though the learning of that age was better fitted to corrupt than improve the understanding, his natural good-sense preserved itself untainted, both from the pedantry and superstition which were then so prevalent among men of letters. His temper was very susceptible of the sentiments as well of friendship as of resentment; and his ambition, though high, might be esteemed moderate and reasonable, had not his conduct towards 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 indignation.

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 flat and insipid compositions. Even in the Paradise Lost, his capital performance, there are very long passages, amounting to near a third of the work, almost wholly devoid of harmony and eloquence, 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 wonderfully sublime of any poet, in any language; Homer, 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, disgrace, 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 reasoning and philosophy. A pleasant comedy, which paints the manners of the age, and exposes a faithful 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 canvassed with impartiality than its weakness is discovered. Hobbes's politics are fitted only to promote tyranny, and his ethics to encourage licentiousness. Though an enemy to religion, he partakes nothing of the spirit of scepticism; but is as positive and dogmatical as if human reason, and his reason in particular, could attain a thorough conviction on these subjects. Clearness, and propriety of style, are the chief excellencies of Hobbes's writings. In his own person, he is represented to have been a man of virtue; a character no wise surprising, notwithstanding his libertine system of ethics. Timidity is the principal 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 sometimes without any material difference, this island has been so long divided. The court party reproached 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 determine 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, possessed of power, and deprived of it, during peace and war: persons who profess themselves of one side or other, we meet with every hour, in company, 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 liberty, every one may openly declare all his sentiments and opinions: yet are we at a loss to tell the nature, pretensions, and principles, of the different 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 especially still when actuated by party zeal; it is natural 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 inviolate, that it must be little less than sacrilege, however 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 original 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, voluntarily 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 virtues; 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 expeditions 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 letters, they scorned the ignoble occupations of a 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 distinguished 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 destruction proceeded from the cruel and vindictive spirit of Philip the Fair, who, having entertained a private disgust against some eminent Templars, determined 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 perpetual 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 accusation. 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 renounce our Saviour, to spit upon the cross, and to join to this impiety the superstition of worshipping a gilded head, which was secretly kept in one of their houses at Marseilles. They also initiated, it was said, every candidate, by such infamous 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 obstinate perished in the hands of their tormentors: several, to procure themselves immediate ease in the violence of their agonies, acknowledged whatever 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 apology for their conduct. The barbarous tyrant, enraged at this disappointment, and thinking himself now engaged in honour to proceed to extremities, 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 unhappy victims, in justifying to the last their innocence, had made deep impression on the spectators, he endeavoured to overcome the constancy of the Templars by new inhumanities. The Grand Master 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 executioner.

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 prison; their conduct underwent a strict scrutiny; the power of their enemies still pursued and oppressed 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 several convents, and their possessions were, by command 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 fortune, 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 Jefferies. Observing their feet to shake, in the agonies of death, he cried, that he would give them music to their dancing; and he immediately commanded 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 willingly 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 herself 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. 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 wanton savage next morning shewed her from the window 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 indignation, 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 exposed to the ravages of this barbarian. The soldiery were let loose to live on free quarter; and his own regiment, instructed by his example, and encouraged by his exhortations, distinguished themselves in a more particular manner by their outrages. By way of pleasantry, he used to denominate them his lambs; an appellation which was long remembered with horror in the West of England.

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 Restoration, to Lausanne in Swisserland, was there assassinated 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 Jefferies pushed on the trial with the most unrelenting 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 rebellion of Monmouth; that, though she might be obnoxious, 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 fatal event, in which her husband had unfortunately bore too great a share; and that the same principles, 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 prisoner. Notwithstanding all application for pardon, the cruel sentence was executed.

AN ANECDOTE.

THE most remarkable incident in the war between Richard I. and Philip King of France, was the taking prisoner, in battle, the Bishop of Beauvais, 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 passionately 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 inflexible 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 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 actions, as well as by the conscience of a good cause, he was justly entitled.

He is sentenced.

The clergy, hoping that the terrors of immediate death had now given them an advantage over their enemy, flocked about him, and insulted him under his fallen fortunes. They pronounced his damnation, and assured him, that the judgment, which he was so soon to suffer, would prove but an easy prologue to that which he must undergo hereafter. They next offered to pray with him: but he was too well acquainted with those forms of imprecation, which they called prayers. He told them, that they were a miserable, deluded, and deluding people; end would shortly briny their country under the most insupportable servitude to which any nation had ever been reduced. "For my part," added he, "I am much prouder to have my head affixed to the place where it is sentenced to stand, than to have my picture hang in the King's bed-chamber. So far from being sorry that my legs and arms are to be sent to four cities of the kingdom, I wish I had limbs enough to be dispersed into all the cities of Christendom, there to remain as testimonies in favour of the cause for which I suffer." This sentiment, that very evening, while in prison, he threw into verse. The poem remains; a signal monument of his heroic spirit, and no despicable proof of his poetical genius.

His Execution.

Now was led forth, amidst the insults of enemies, and the tears of the people, the man of the most illustrious birth and greatest renown of the nation, to suffer, for his adherence to the laws of his country, and the rights of his sovereign, the ignominious death destined to the meanest malefactor. Every attempt which the insolence of the governing party had made to subdue his gallant spirit, had hitherto proved fruitless: they made yet one effort more in this last and melancholy scene, when all enmity, arising from motives merely human, is commonly softened and disarmed. The executioner brought that book, which had been published in elegant Latin, of his truly heroic actions, and tied it by a cord about his neck. Montrose smiled at this new instance of their malice. He thanked them, however, for their officious zeal, and said, that he bore this testimony of his bravery and loyalty with more pride than he had ever worn the garter. Having asked, whether they had any more indignities to put upon him, and renewing some devout ejaculations, he patiently endured the last act of the executioner.

His Character.

Thus perished, in the thirty-eighth year of his age, the gallant Marquis of Montrose; the man whose military genius, both by valour and conduct, had shone forth beyond any which, during these civil disorders, had appeared in the three kingdoms. The siner arts, too, in his youth, he had successfully cultivated; and whatever was sublime, elegant, or noble, touched his great soul. Nor was he insensible to the pleasures either of society, or of love. Something, however, of the vast and unbounded, characterised all his actions and deportment; and it was merely by an heroic effort of duty, that he brought his mind, impatient of superiority, and even of equality, to pay such unlimited submission to the will of his sovereign.

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 accident in his distempered government, seeing nothing around him but treacherous friends or enraged enemies, possessing the confidence of no party, resting his title on no principle civil or religious, his power he found to depend on so delicate a poise of faction and interest, as the smallest event was able, without any preparation, in a moment to overturn. Death too, which with such signal intrepidity he had braved in the field, being incessantly threatened by the poniards of fanatical 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 secured himself by offensive weapons, a sword, falchion, and pistols, which he always carried about him. He returned from no place by the direct road, or by the same way which he went. Every journey he performed with hurry and precipitation. 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 provided 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 entertained 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 considerable 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 extremely beloved by his troops; and, in order to prevent those mutinies which were ready to break 〈1 page duplicate〉 〈1 page duplicate〉 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 ferocity 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 constrained 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 provoke 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 protection. Aged prelates, after enduring every indignity, and even every torture, were thrown into dungeons, and menaced each moment with the most cruel death, in order to engage them to reveal their secret treasures, or purchase liberty by exorbitant ransoms. Clement himself, who had trusted for protection to the sacredness of his character, and neglected to make his escape in time, was taken captive, and found that his dignity, which procured him no regard from the Spanish soldiers, did but draw on him the insolent mockery 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 dissension arose among them. Wisdom, who was the guide of the one company, was always accustomed, before she ventured upon any road, however beaten, to examine it carefully, to enquire whither it led, what dangers, difficulties, and hindrances might possibly or probably occur in it. In these deliberations she usually consumed some time; which delay was very displeasing to Confidence, who was always inclined to hurry on, without much forethought or deliberation, in the first road he met. Wisdom and Virtue were inseparable; but Confidence one day, following his impetuous 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 Jupiter, disagreed and separated. As Folly saw very little way before her, she had nothing to determine concerning the goodness of roads, nor could give the preference to one above another; and this want of resolution was increased by Diffidence, who, with her doubts and scruples, always retarded the journey. This was a great annoyance 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 Diffidence, would be easily managed when alone; and therefore, as a vicious horse throws his rider, he openly beat away this controller of all his pleasures, 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 directly 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 quickly to his landlord, and entered into such familiarity with Vice, that he was enlisted in the same company along with Folly. They were frequent guests of Wealth, and from that moment inseparable. Diffidence, in the mean time, not daring to approach the great house, accepted of an invitation from Poverty, one of the tenants; and, entering the cottage, found Wisdom and Virtue, who, being repulsed by the landlord, had retired thither. Virtue took compassion of her, and Wisdom found, from her temper, that she would easily improve: so they admitted her into their society. Accordingly, by their means, she altered in a little time somewhat of her manner, and becoming much more amiable and engaging, was now called by the name of Modesty. As ill company has a greater effect than good, Confidence, though more refractory to counsel and example, degenerated so far by the society of Vice and Folly, as to pass by the name of Impudence. Mankind, who saw these societies as Jupiter first joined them, and know nothing of these mutual desertions, 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 amusement, 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 particulars 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 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 accident; 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, provided it be secret history, and contain some memorable 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 produced of late years?

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 favourite 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 affections 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 complexion, 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 government 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 extinction of the most flourishing empires; the virtues 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 interesting? 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 knowledge, as well as an agreeable amusement; and indeed a great part of what we commonly call erudition, and value so highly, is nothing but an acquaintance with historical facts. An extensive knowledge of this kind belongs to Men of Letters; but I must think it an unpardonable ignorance 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 unfurnished, 'tis impossible her conversation can afford any entertainment to men of sense and reflection.

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 consider 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 children in understanding, were it not for this invention, which extends our experience to all past ages, and to the most distant nations; making them contribute as much to our improvement in wisdom as if they had actually lain under our observation. A man acquainted with history may, in some respect, be said to have lived from the beginning of the world, and to have been making continual additions to his stock of knowledge in every century.

There is also an advantage in that knowledge which is acquired by history, above what is learned by the practice of the world, that it brings us acquainted with human affairs, without diminishing in the least from the most delicate sentiments 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 become 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 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 virtue, and have always represented it in its proper colours, however they may have erred in their judgments of particular persons. Machiavel himself discovers a true sentiment of virtue in his History 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 particular narrations, he shows so keen an indignation against vice, and so warm an approbation of virtue, 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 themselves, and has his judgment warped on every occasion by the violence of his passion. When a philosopher contemplates characters and manners in his closet, the general abstract view of the objects 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 extremes, 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.

Verae voces tum demum pectore ab imo

Eliciuntur.

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 demands 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 suitable 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 punishment. 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, being 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 plaintiff demanded justice, Jupiter very readily gave sentence in her favour; and his decree was to this purpose, That since Dame Avarice, the defendant, 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, restore it back to her, without diminution or retention. 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 inseparable companions. But so great was the happiness flowing from this union, that the men-women became insolent on their prosperity, and rebelled against the gods. To punish them for this temerity, 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, notwithstanding our division, so lively is our remembrance 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 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 perfect 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 existence itself a punishment. In vain had they recourse 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 betwixt them. The chief counsellor and favourite of Hymen was Care, who was continually filling his patron's head with prospects of futurity; a settlement, 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 beyond the present momentary gratification, or the satisfying of the prevailing inclination. These two favourites became, in a little time, irreconcileable 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 produced by Love, and joins each half to some other half, which he had provided for it. To be revenged of this, Pleasure creeps in upon a pair already 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 offending parties to appear before him, in order to give an account of their proceedings. After hearing the pleadings on both sides, he ordered an immediate reconcilement betwixt Love and Hymen, as the 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.

Paris, Aug. 2, 1737.
SIR,

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 resolution 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 marriages 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 spirit, 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 temptation, to depart from it. She had, however, entertained 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 resolved for ever to renounce. She pushed her philosophy 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 person 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 parterre, a young man of a most engaging countenance and modest deportment; and feels such a pre-possession 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 receiving such an advance from a lady of so great beauty, 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 conversation. She seemed, however, willing to commence a friendship with him; and told him, that his company would always be acceptable to her, whenever 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 disproportion 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 personal qualities did not belie his physiognomy; so that, judging there was no occasion for any farther trial, she takes a proper opportunity of communicating to him her whole intention. Their intercourse 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 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 resolution 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 determine 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,

Your most humble servant, &c.

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 low and creeping! Are you not ashamed, when you behold me, who, though lately in a like condition 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 turbulent 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 canvassed, 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 impartiality, 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. 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 magnanimous; 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 frugality. 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 better 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 grievances. During his time, trade has flourished, liberty declined, and learning gone to ruin. As I 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.

END OF THE BEAUTIES OF HUME.

Notes

*
Man-Woman,
↵

*
Moderate in the exercise of power, not equitable in engrossing it.
↵

THE BEAUTIES OF BOLINGBROKE.

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 happens 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 wriggling, 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.

DISSERT. ON PARTIES.

A KING.

HE is really nothing more than a supreme Magistrate, instituted for the service of the community, 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 multitude, who receive his benediction very thankfully 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.

IBID.

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 monarchical 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 commanded; and who were heard in the public assemblies of the nation, according as their age, their nobility, their military fame, or their eloquence, gave them authority. How many doughty Monarchs, in later and more polite ages, would have slept in cottages, and have worked in stalls, instead of inhabiting palaces, and being cushioned up in thrones, if this rule of government had continued in force!

IBID.

THE BRITISH KING.

A KING of Britain is now, strictly and properly, what Kings should always be, a member, but the supreme member, or the head, of a political 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 together, acted and acting upon, limiting and limited, 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 undeniably 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 occasion, and to overflow the rights and privileges of the people. The laws of the land are known; and they are the sole springs, from whence the Prince can derive his pretensions, and the people theirs.

IBID.

A BAD MINISTER.

A MINISTER who made his administration hateful in some respects, and despicable in others; who sought that security by ruining the constitution, 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.

IBID.

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 depend 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 governments; for in them the interest of the governors 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.

IBID.

PROSCRIPTIONS.

PROSCRIPTIONS are abominable, and inhuman, when they are backed by a fullness of arbitrary power. But to hang up the tables of proscription, 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 conduct cannot suit his interest, however it may his passions, in any circumstance whatever.

IBID.

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 necessary 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 chimera, called Prerogative, formerly so dangerous to our liberties, for no other reason but to furnish arguments for letting loose upon us another monster, more dangerous to our liberties!

IBID.

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 constitution will be destroyed; and all fear for it, and concern about it, will be impertinent, because they will come too late.

IBID.

ERROR.

NOTHING can give stability and durable uniformity to error. Indolence, or ignorance, may keep it floating, as it were, on the surface of the mind, and sometimes hinder truth from penetrating; or force may maintain it in possession, when the mind assents to it no longer. But such opinions, 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 seduction which first introduced them, or the same circumstances which first imposed them, attend and continue to support them. Men are dragged into them, and held down in them, by chains of circumstances. Break but these chains, and the mind returns with a kind of intellectual elasticity to its proper object, truth.

IBID.

KNOWLEDGE OF CHARACTER.

NOTHING is more useful, nothing more necessary, in the conduct of public affairs, than a just discernment of spirits. I mean, here, not only that natural private sagacity, which is conversant 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 designs, or never suffer themselves to be surprised by 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 sentiments and passions of mankind. This part of human 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 various fluctuations of parties; to the temper, humour, 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 proportion to them; and without improving such conjunctures to the best advantage, it is impossible to atchieve any great undertaking, or even to conduct affairs successfully in their ordinary course.

IBID.

MINISTERIAL PREROGATIVE.

IT is certainly an easier talk, and there is somewhat 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 to themselves one of these saucy creatures of Fortune, 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!

IBID.

THE ETIQUETTE OF GOVERNMENT IMMEDIATELY PRIOR TO THE REVOLUTION.

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. Government was not then carried on by undertakers, to whom so much power was farmed out for returns of so much money, and so much money intrusted 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 garbling 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 have fronts of brass, and deserve all the indignation which is due to iniquity aggravated by impudence.

IBID.

A COALITION OF PARTIES AT THE REVOLUTION.

MANY of the most distinguished Tories, some of those who carried highest the doctrines of passive 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 prudently conducted. Though the King was not the better for his experience, parties were. Both saw their errors. The Tories stopped short in the pursuit 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 latter 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 jealousies 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 the 〈◊〉 of a party, by being set on such a bottom and pushed in such a manner, as one party alone approved. The Revolution was plainly designed to restore and secure our government, ecclesiastical and civil, on true foundations; and whatever 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 preserved or lightly taken up, the republican and other whimsies, that reigned in the days of usurpation and confusion. If they could have prevailed, and it was no fault of theirs they did not, the coalition of parties had been broken; and instead of a revolution we might have had a civil war; perhaps not even that sad chance for our religion 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 appearances were now rectified. The Revolution was a fire which purged off the dross of both parties; and, the dross being purged off, they appeared to be the same metal, and answered the same standard.

IBID.

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 government, which is confirmed, improved, and strengthened, by the course of events, and especially 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 governments, a vigorous exercise of power, signal rewards, 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 principles. But if the spirit and principles of a constition be agreeable to nature, and the true ends of government, which is the case of the present constitution 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 are often able to get the better of authority in particular minds; but truth and reason, with authority 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. Contrary 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 little 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.

IBID.

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 anticipated, by their temper and their patience, all the objections which foreign and domestic abettors of 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 ourselves the peculiar honour of maintaining the freedom of our Gothic institution of government, when so many other nations, who enjoyed the same. have lost theirs!

IBID.

THE CONSTITUTION AND GOVERNMENT 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 government is founded? But the answer will be easy, if we consider these two things; first, the true distinction, so often confounded in writing, and almost always in conversation, between Constitution and Government. By Constitution we mean, whenever we speak with propriety and exactness, the assemblage of laws, institutions, and customs, derived from certain fixed principles of reason directed 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 administration of public affairs. We call this a Good Government, when the execution of the laws, the 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 perverting 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 subjection 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 preservation of the constitution manifestly determined the community to the choice then made of the persons who should govern.

IBID.

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, expedient to system, and a cabal to the nation. Reason and experience will teach him, that a Prince who does so, must govern weakly, ignominiously, and precariously; whilst he who engages and employs all the heads and hands of his people, governs 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.

IBID.

A DESPOT.

TO govern a society of freemen by a constitution 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, whatever appearances he is forced sometimes to put on; who endeavours to corrupt the innocent, and to enslave the free; whose business is to seduce and betray, whose pleasure is to damn, and whose triumph 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.

IBID.

PARLIAMENTARY DESPOTISM.

TO destroy British liberty with an army of Britons, 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. Parliaments 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 parliamentary slavery. By the corruption of parliament, and the absolute influence of a King or his minister 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 arbitrary will of one man. Our whole constitution is at once dissolved. Many securities to liberty are 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 centuries, repaired at the expence of so many millions, 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 enemies. No Agamemnon, no Achilles, will be wanted to take our city: Thersites himself will be sufficient for such a conquest.

IBID.

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 conduct, 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 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 luxury; 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 governments by their vice and baseness. Our constitution, indeed, makes it impossible to destroy liberty by any sudden blast of popular fury, or by the treachery 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.

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 liberty 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 virtue of our ancestors, to whom all these advantages are owing, would aggravate the guilt and the infamy 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 confessors, 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.

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 disgraced 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 effect, unless we give a sanction to their iniquity who call good evil, and evil good.

IBID.

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 grandeur whilst she preserved her virtue; but when luxury grew up to favour corruption, and corruption 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; 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 govern 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 miserable 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 commonwealth.

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, 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.

IBID.

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 members 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; but that the innocent would give occasion to unjust 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 parishioners. 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 suppose a man impudent, rash, presumptuous, ungracious, 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 maturity 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.

THE SPIRIT OF PATRIOTISM.

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 explaining nonsense, covering ignorance, disguising folly, concealing and even justifying fraud and corruption, instead of employing their knowledge, their elocution, their skill, experience, and authority, to correct the administration, and to guard the constitution.

IBID.

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 blind impetuosity, according to the natural violence 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.

IDEA OF A PATRIOT KING.

A PATRIOT KING THE PUBLIC SAVIOUR.

DISTRESS from abroad, bankruptcy at home, and other circumstances of like nature and tendency, 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 alternative, at the disposition of fortune, is sufficient 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 physical or moral world.

IBID.

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 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.

IBID.

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 compatible 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 burlesque 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 endangering monarchy.

IBID.

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 happen often, and are well improved, such governments 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 people 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 prophecy 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 confirm 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 better prepared and disposed to defend their liberties than he found them.

IBID.

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 acquisition 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 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 satisfaction for wrongs done to their country, and to stand as examples of terror to future administrations. Clemency makes, no doubt, an amiable part of the character I attempt to draw; but clemency, 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.

IBID.

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 administration, 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 is one distinction that will be made, whenever a good prince succeeds to the throne after an iniquitous 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.

IBID.

WISDOM AND CUNNING DISTINGUISHED.

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 knowledge 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 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 sometimes the same means too; but the wise man stoops to these means, and the other cannot rise above them.

IBID.

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 dissimulation, than it is to succced in it without secrecy.

Those two arts of cunning are like the alloy mingled with pure ore: a little is necessary, and will 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.

IBID.

THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN A CUNNING AND A WISE MINISTER.

THE cunning minister neither sees, nor is concerned to see, any further than his personal interest, 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 suggest, 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 government 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 considers 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, therefore, 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.

IBID.

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 return, with some contempt, "Whether his master had not virtues enough to cover one vice?"

IBID.

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. By trade and commerce we grew a rich and powerful nation, and by their decay we are growing poor and impotent. As trade and commerce enrich, 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 nature of her government. Her advantages in situation 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 descending into a longer detail of the advantages and disadvantages 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 improvement 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 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 depending so much on their trade and commerce, and every nation being, like the three I have mentioned, in such different circumstances of advantage or disadvantage in the pursuit of this common 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 superior 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. 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 artificial state, together; that is, let him consider minutely the advantages we have by the situation, extent, and nature, of our island, over the inhabitants 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 improvement of their trade and commerce; which have been carried on by them with uninterrupted and unslackened application, industry, order, and oeconomy.

IBID.

THE PRIVATE CHARACTER OF ALEXANDER 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 appeared less, the rake and bully more. Persepolis 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 incitements 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 approach the King, approached the man, and by seducing 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 into contempt.

IBID.

OF SCIPIO THE ROMAN GENERAL.

OTHER characters might be brought to contrast with this; the first Scipio Africanus, for example, or the eldest Cato: and there will be no objection 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 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 reputation even to these days? This could not have happened, 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 character. 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.

IBID.

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 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 lewdness. 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, postquam epulis bacchoque modum lassata voluptas imposuit; when he trifled away his time with Cleopatra 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 established: and yet even in this city, and among these degenerate Romans, certain it is that different appearances, with the same vices, helped to maintain the Caesars, and ruined Anthony.

IBID.

OF LEWIS THE FOURTEENTH.

LEWIS the Fourteenth was King in an absolute 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 appeared 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 constant 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 reputation; 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.

IBID.

OF QUEEN ELIZABETH.

OUR Elizabeth was Queen in a limited monarchy, 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 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. Popularity was however then, as it is now, and as it must be always in mixed government, the sole true foundation 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 behaviour of which we were speaking. A warm concern 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 Queen; and when her favourites did, she made them feel that she was so.

IBID.

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 between 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 assuming 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 happened to King James: a thousand circumstances brought it to pass, and none more than the indecent weaknesses he had for his minions. He did not endeavour to cure this contempt, and raise his character, only by affecting what he had no pretensions to, as in the former case; but he endeavoured likewise most vainly to do it by affecting what was improper to his character and rank. He did not endeavour indeed to disguise his natural pusillanimity and timidity under the mask of a bully, whilst he was imposed upon and insulted by all his neighbours, and above all by the Spaniards; but he retailed 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.

IBID.

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 contemplate 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 government, 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 describes him, ‘Centum vinctus catenis Post tergum nodis, fremit horridus ore cruento.’

He must be seen subdued, bound, chained, and deprived 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, content in every heart; a people unoppressed, undisturbed, 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.

IBID.

GENERAL MAXIMS.

THE minister who grows less by his elevation, 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.

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.

There is a plain and real difference between jealousy and distrust. Men may be jealous on account of their liberties, even when they have no immediate distrust that the persons who govern design to invade them.

It would be highly unjust to impute the scurrilities of scurrilous authors to any prompter, because 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 totters 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 rather hid behind it than shewn, rather weakened than strengthened, rather imposed upon than obeyed.

No human institution can arrive at perfection; and the most human wisdom can do, is to procure 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 constitution, 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 weapon, aptly enough; for eloquence, like every other weapon, is of little use to the owner, unless 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.

As well might we say, that a ship is built, and loaded, and manned, for the sake of any particular pilot, instead of acknowledging that the pilot 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 instituted 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, dignity, 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 coquettry of women; a fondness of transient applause, which is courted by vanity, given by flattery, 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 age, is to keep the spirit of liberty alive in a few breasts, to protest against what they cannot hinder, 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 become, 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 frequently the reverse of the other: objects at a distance are seen but imperfectly by the latter, while they appear to the former in their true magnitude, 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 receiving them whenever and for whatever they are inflicted.

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

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 Wisdom, 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 nature 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 understanding, 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.

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 absolute 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 position, that they were given for the good of mankind.

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 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 greatest 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 integrity 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 commons must stand in awe of an honest people.

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 essential 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 preparing us to be useful to society, and to promote the happiness of mankind, are only systems for gratifying private ambition, and promoting private interests, at the public expence, deserve to be burnt, and the authors of them to starve, like Machiavel, in a jail.

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 religion.

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 political 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 reflecting on many of the profound scholars and sublime philosophers of our own and of former ages.

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 beggary, is little inferior to that of preserving it from slavery.

Similis, a captain of great reputation under Trajan and Adrian, having obtained leave to retire, 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 virtue, 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.

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 mankind 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 venerable bustos met their eyes, and recalled the glorious actions of the dead to fire the living, to excite them to imitate, and even to emulate their great fore-fathers. The success answered the design. The virtue of one generation was transfused, by the magic of example, into several; and a spirit of heroism was maintained through many ages of that commonwealth.

We are apt to carry systems of philosophy beyond all our ideas, and systems of history beyond all our memorials.

There cannot be a greater absurdity than to affirm, 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 gocart 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.

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 affect us, must affect posterity: this sentiment runs through mankind, from Caesar down to the parishclerk in Pope's Miscellany. We are fond of preserving, as far as it is in our frail power, the memory 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 celebrated 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 huntings 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 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 novels. 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 desire alone of relating what has happened to ourselves. 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 ourselves. 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 grammarians and critics, that others may be able to study, with greater ease and profit, like philosophers 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; but she never intended it should be made the principal, much less the sole, object of their application. The true and proper object of this application, 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 acquire by it is a creditable kind of ignorance, nothing more. This creditable kind of ignorance is, in my opinion, the whole benefit which the generality 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.

OF THE STUDY OF HISTORY.

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 preferable to the latter. I think, upon the whole, otherwise: but this I say, that the former is absolutely 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 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 soever 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 influence 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 experience, is what comets once were thought to be, a blazing meteor, irregular in his course, and dangerous 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 conversant in history, without experience, they are worse than ignorant; they are pedants, always incapable, sometimes meddling and presuming. The man who has all three, is an honour to his country, and a public blessing.

IBID.

EXAMPLE.

THERE is scarce any folly or vice more epidemical among the sons of men, than that ridiculous 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 Mandarins were strangely surprised, and almost incredulous, 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 stinking and lousy as fast as he could. Now nothing can contribute more to prevent us from being tainted with this vanity, than to accustom ourselves 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 barbarous and civilized states, in the likeness and unlikeness 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 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 experience, and guides us in it: and many of these would be both curious and important. I might likewise bring several other instances, wherein history serves to purge the mind of those national partialities and prejudices that we are apt to contract in our education, and that experience for the most part rather confirms than removes, because it is for the most part confined, like our education.

IBID.

HISTORICAL EXAMPLE ENTIRE.

THE examples which history presents to us, both of men and of events, are generally complete: the whole example is before us, and consequently the whole lesson, or sometimes the various 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 partial at least than that of experience: for I imagine, 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 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 before 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 celebrated with panegyric to succeeding ages.

IBID.

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 enlarged, 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 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-relative, 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. Experience can carry us no farther: for experience can go a very little way back in discovering causes; and effects are not the objects of experience till they happen. From hence many errors in judgment, and by consequence in condust, necessarily arise. And here too lies the difference we are speaking of between history and experience. The advantage on the side of the former is double. In ancient history, as we have said already, the examples are complete, which are incomplete in the course of experience. The beginning, the progression, and the end appear, not of particular reigns, much less of particular enterprises, or systems of policy alone, but of governments, of nations, of empires, and of all the various systems that have succeeded one another in the course of their duration. In modern history, the examples may be, and sometimes are, incomplete; 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 beginning, and we die too soon to see the end of many things. History supplies both these defects. Modern history shews the causes, when experience presents the effects alone: and ancient history enables us to guess at the effects, when experience presents the causes alone.

IBID.

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 desires, 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 checked? Though the pilot cannot lay the storm, cannot he carry the ship by his art better through it, 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 probable 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 educated by Olympias at the court of Philip, it is improbable 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 dispute 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, 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 lasting reputation, the terror of being delivered over as criminals to all posterity, the real benefit arising 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, manifested 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?

IBID.

A LITERARY MONSTER.

HISTORY must have a certain degree of probability 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 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, wantonly, and absurdly makes it so, indulges a sort of canine appetite: the curiosity of one, like the hunger of the other, devours ravenously and without distinction whatever falls in its way; but neither 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 extreme 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 acquaintance with him, I consulted him once or twice, not oftener; for I found this mass of learning 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 employed 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 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 question 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-informed.

IBID.

REASON AND INSTINCT.

THE far greatest part of mankind appears reduced 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 human 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 long tail, and to be called a beast, with the advantage 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 habits, 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 "secum 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 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 authority of other men, who were not then better able to judge for us, than we are now to judge for ourselves?

LETTER ON THE TRUE USE OF RETIREMENT AND STUDY.

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 retreat. To talk of abstracting ourselves from matter, 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 business 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 scarce discern that speck of dirt, the Roman empire. Such a view as this will increase our knowledge 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 establish 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 pleasure 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.

IBID.

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 complaints, which we prefer against the established 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 superciliously 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 treating 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 contrived, if creatures of our low rank among intellectual natures had been called to the councils of 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 provided, before they put themselves to any cost for the trifles or superfluities.

IBID.

THE TRUE CURE OF AFFLICTION.

DISSIPATION of mind, and length of time, are the remedies to which the greatest part of mankind 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 misfortunes, 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 uncertain 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 ignominious 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.

REFLECTIONS UPON EXILE.

CHANGE OF PLACE IN THE ORDER OF NATURE.

There are some persons who are of opinion that, as the whole universe suffers a continual rotation, and Nature seems to delight in it; or to preserve 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 nations of the world have been in a continual fluctuation, 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 Phoenicians 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 continual 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, 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 republic, 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.

IBID.

CONSCIOUS FREEDOM THE TRUEST DIGNITY.

Believe me, the providence of God has established 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 remain 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 established 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 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 discover 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 contemplations as these, whilst my soul is thus raised up to heaven, it imports me little what ground I tread upon.

IBID.

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 meanest 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 superfluity, are often glad to inhabit an humble cot, and to make an homely meal. They run for refuge into the arms of frugality. Madmen that they are, to live always in fear of what they sometimes 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 giving audience to the Samnit? ambassadors, and preparing on the hearth his mean repast with the same hand which had so often subdued the enemies of the commonwealth, and borne the triumphal laurel to the Capitol. Let us remember that Plato had but three servants, and that Zeno had none. Socrates, the reformer of his country, was maintained, as Menenius Agrippa, the arbiter of his country, was buried, by contribution. While Attilius Regulus beat the Carthaginians in Afric, the flight of his ploughman reduced his family to distress at home, and the tillage of his little farm became the public care. Scipio died without leaving 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 perpetual 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 taking from us what the greatest philosophers, and the greatest heroes of antiquity, never enjoyed?

IBID.

RESIGNATION.

THE darts of adverse fortune are always levelled 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 virtuous men; as may enable us to encounter the accidents of, life with fortitude, and to conform ourselves 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 cannot alter, and to pursue, without repining, the road which Providence, who directs every thing, has marked out to us: for it is not enough to follow; 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 endeavour 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 address ourselves to God, who governs all, as Cleanthes did in those admirable verses, which are going to lose part of their grace and energy in my translation of them.

Parent of Nature! Master of the World!

Where'er thy Providence directs, behold

My steps with chearful resignation turn.

Fate leads the willing, drags the backward on.

Why should I grieve, when grieving I must bear?

Or take with guilt, what guiltless I might share?

Thus let us speak, and thus let us act. Resignation 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 Providence, and, instead of mending our own conduct, to set up for correcting that of our Maker.

END OF THE BEAUTIES OF BOLINGBROKE

Notes

*
The Cappadocians. Vide Strabo, lib. xii.
↵

SUPPLEMENT.

TWO Essays, one on Suicide, and the other on the Immortality of the Soul, being handed about as the production of Mr. HUME, in a compilation of this kind it was thought they could not with propriety be wholly overlooked. We have reserved, however, our extracts from them to a Supplement; as engrossing them in the body of the work would have given them a distinction for which they were not certainly originally meant. These are accompanied with a few notes, which, we hope, will prevent their making any bad impressions on the young, the thoughtless, or the ignorant.

PHILOSOPHY THE ONLY REMEDY TO A MIND DISEASED.

ONE considerable advantage that arises from philosophy, consists in the sovereign antidote which it affords to superstition and false religion. All other remedies against that pestilent distemper are vain, or at least uncertain. Plain good sense and the practice of the world, which alone serve most purposes of life, are here found ineffectual: history, as well as daily experience, furnish instances of men endowed with the strongest capacity for business and affairs, who have all their lives crouched under slavery to the grossest superstition. Even gaiety and sweetness of temper, which infuse a balm into every other wound, afford no remedy to so virulent a poison; as we may particularly observe of the fair sex, who, though commonly possessed of these rich presents of nature, feel many of their joys blasted by this importunate intruder. But, when sound Philosophy has once gained possession of the mind, superstition is effectually excluded; and one may fairly affirm, that her triumph over this enemy is more complete than over most of the vices and imperfections incident to human nature. Love or anger, ambition or avarice, have their root in the temper and affections, which the soundest reason is scarce ever able fully to correct; but superstition, being founded on false opinion, must immediately vanish when true philosophy has inspired juster sentiments of superior powers. The contest is here more equal between the distemper and the medicine, and nothing can hinder the latter from proving effectual, but its being false and sophisticated.

It will here be superfluous to magnify the merits of philosophy by displaying the pernicious tendency of that vice of which it cures the human mind. The superstitious man, says Tully, [*] is miserable in every scene, in every incident of life; even sleep itself, which banishes all other cares of unhappy mortals, affords to him matter of new terror; while he examines his dreams, and finds, in those visions of the night, prognostications of future calamities. I may add, that though death alone can put a full period to his misery, he dares not fly to this refuge, but still prolongs a miserable existence, from a vain fear left he offend his Maker, by using the power with which that beneficent being has endowed him. The presents of God and nature are ravished from us by this cruel enemy, and notwithstanding that one step would remove us from the regions of pain and sorrow, her menaces still chain us down to a hated being, which she herself chiefly contributes to render miserable.(a)

ESSAY ON SUICIDE.

SUICIDE.

A MAN who retires from life does no harm to society: he only ceases to do good; which, if it is an injury, is of the lowest kind.—All our obligations to do good to society seem to imply something reciprocal. I receive the benefits of society, and therefore ought to promote its interests; but when I withdraw myself altogether from society, can I be bound any longer? But, allowing that our obligations to do good were perpetual, they have certainly some bounds; I am not obliged to do a small good to society at the expence of a great harm to myself. Why then should I prolong a miserable existence, because of some frivolous advantage which the public may perhaps receive from me? If, upon account of age and infirmities, I may lawfully resign any office, and employ my time altogether in fencing against these calamities, and alleviating as much as possible the miseries of my future life; why may I not cut short these miseries at once by an action which is no more prejudicial to society? But suppose that it is no longer in my power to promote the interest of society, suppose that I am a burthen to it, suppose that my life hinders some person from being much more useful to society; in such cases, my resignation of life must not only be innocent, but laudable: and most people who lie under any temptation to abandon existence, are in some such situation; those who have health, or power, or authority, have commonly better reason to be in humour with the world.(b)

IBID.

OUR NATURAL ANTIPATHY TO DEATH.

I BELIEVE that no man ever threw away life while it was worth keeping; for such is our natural horror of death, that sinall motives will never be able to reconcile us to it; and though, perhaps, the situation of a man's health or fortune did not seem to require this remedy, we may at least be assured that any one who, without apparent reason, has had recourse to it, was cursed with such an incurable depravity or gloominess of temper, as must poison all enjoyment, and render him equally miserable as if he had been loaded with the most grievous misfortunes.

IBID.

THE HUMAN FACULTIES ADEQUATE TO THE DUTIES OF LIFE.

OBSERVE with what exact proportion the task to be performed and the performing powers are adjusted throughout all nature. If the reason of man gives him a great superiority above other animals, his necessities are proportionably multiplied upon him; his whole time, his whole capacity, activity, courage, passion, find sufficient employment in fencing against the miseries of his present condition, and frequently, nay almost always, are too slender for the business assigned them.—A pair of shoes, perhaps, was never yet wrought to the highest degree of perfection which that commodity is capable of attaining; yet it is necessary, at least very useful, that there should be some politicians and moralists, even some geometers, poets, and philosophers, among mankind. The powers of men are no more superior to their wants, considered merely in this life, than those of foxes and hares are, compared to their wants, and to their period of existence.

ESSAY ON THE IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL.

THE COURSE OF NATURE.

THE last symptoms which the mind discovers are disorder, weakness, insensibility, stupidity, the fore-runners of its annihilation. The farther progress of the same causes increasing, the same effects totally extinguish it. Judging by the usual analogy of nature, no form can continue when transferred to a condition of life very different from the original one in which it was placed. Trees perish in the water, fishes in the air, animals in the earth. Even so small a difference as that of climate is often fatal. What reason then to imagine, that an immense alteration, such as is made on the soul by the dissolution of its body and all its organs of thought and sensation, can be effected without the dissolution of the whole? Every thing is in common betwixt soul and body: the organs of the one are all of them the organs of the other. The existence, therefore, of the one must be dependent on that of the other. The souls of animals are allowed to be mortal; and these bear so near a resemblance to the souls of men, that the analogy from one to the other forms a very strong argument,(c)

IBID.

FUTURE RESIDENCE.

HOW to dispose of the infinite number of posthumous existences, ought also to embarrass the religious theory. Every planet, in every solar system, we are at liberty to imagine peopled with intelligent mortal beings; at least we can fix on no other supposition. For these then a new universe must, every generation, be created, beyond the bounds of the present universe; or one must have been created at first so prodigiously wide as to admit of this continual influx of beings.(d)

IBID.

FINIS.

Notes

*
De Divin. lib. ii.
↵

(a)
The existence of all animals depends entirely on their attachment to self preservation. It is by this principle alone that Nature has chiefly consulted her own safety. Our author's notions are so hostile to her most essential institutions, that she could not possibly survive a general conviction of them. And the question here is, Whether the wisdom of Nature or the philosophy of H
_+
deserve the preference.

↵

(b)
On this extravagant hypothesis the authority of creation and dissolution is made reciprocal. The man who assumes the liberty of destroying himself, were he possessed of the power, might also be his own creator; his imaginary insignificance to society being as inclusive in the one case, as any chimerical advantage to it that may accidentally strike him, can be in the other.
↵

(c)
The author's own last moments gave the lye to the first part of this paragraph. His reasoning against the 〈◊〉 existence in a separate state is defective and inconclusive, because the instances he urges are in every respect dissimilar. Neither is it yet a settled point among Christians, whether the souls of mere animals are mortal or immortal.
↵

(d)
This strange and romantic conception supposes locality and space essential, though in ftat contradiction to all our ideas of spiritual existence.
↵

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The beauties of Hume and Bolingbroke

Hume, David, 1711-1776.

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http://ota.ox.ac.uk/id/5451

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1106024508

ID [isbn13]

9781106024503

ID [TCP]

K123147.000

ID [BIBNO]

CW3314821864

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0877500300

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— The beauties of Hume and Bolingbroke, Hume, David, 1711-1776., Bolingbroke, Henry St. John, Viscount, 1678-1751.. [2],xxxii,262,[2]p. : port. ; 12⁰. London :: printed for G. Kearsly,. 1782.. [The titlepage is engraved.] [With a final advertisement leaf.] [Reproduction of original from the Bodleian Library (Oxford).] [English Short Title Catalog, ESTCT183960.] [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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