The complete works of the late Rev. Philip Skelton, rector of Fintona, to which is prefixed Burdy's Life of the author;

LIBRARY

OF THE

Theological Seminary,

PRINCETON, N. J.

BX 5037 .S56 1824 v. 5 '
Skelton, Philip, 1707-1787
The complete works of the
late Rev. Philip Skelton,

THE

COMPLETE WORKS

OF THE LATE

REV. PHILIP SKELTON,

RECTOR OF FINTONA, &c. &c.

TO WHICH IS PREFIXED,

BURDY'S LIFE OF THE AUTHOR.

EDITED BY THE

REV. ROBT LYNAM, A. M.

ASSISTANT CHAPLAIN TO THE MAGDALEN HOSPITAL.

IN SIX VOLUMES:
VOL. V.

LONDON :

RICHARD BAYNES, 28, PATERNOSTER ROW:

MAI CHARD AND SON, PICCADILLY ; PARKER, OXFORD ; DEIGHTON AND SONS, CAMBRIDGE
WAUGH AND INNES, EDINBURGH; CHALMERS AND COLL1NGS, GLASGOW; M. KEENE;
AND R. M. TIMS, DUBLIN.

1824.

CONTENTS

OF THE

FIFTH VOLUME.

Page

Some new Reasons for Inoculation 5

Some Account of a Well in the County of Monaghan, famous

for curing the Jaundice 9

An Account of Lough Derg 15

Vallis Longivada 21

A curious Production of Nature 29

Some Observations on a late Resignation 39

Truth in a Mask 43

The Consultation 149

The Candid Reader 171

A letter to the Authors of Divine Analogy and the Minute

Philosophers 199

AVindication of the Right Reverend Lord Bishop of

Winchester 211

Some Proposals for the Revival of Christianity 251

A Dissertation on the Constitution and Effects of a Petty Jury 263

The Chevalier's Hopes 299

The Necessity of Tillage and Granaries 324

A Dream in the Year 1770 377

Hylema 391

Digitized by the Internet Archive
in 2014

https://archive.org/details/completeworksofl05skel

SEVERAL ESSAYS;

AND

JUVENILIA:

CONSISTING OF

TRUTH IN A MASK,
&c. &c.

Farrago Libelli.—Jvv.

VOL. V.

B

TO THE

REV. DR. HENRY CLARKE.

Dear. Sir,

You will be greatly surprised, but I hope, not so much
offended, at the sight of this letter, first read in print. To
account for a thing so odd, I readily confess, it was my
vanity alone, that prompted me to speak to you through
the press, in the sight and hearing of mankind. I was re-
solved the world should know, that you had been my tutor,
and friend, for a long course of years; not more my tutor
in College, than since in the revisal of my poor perform-
ances, which, defective as they still are, must have appeared
to much greater disadvantage, had they not passed through
your hands ; and not less my friend, in your severest ani-
madversions on them, than in the long-continued and cor-
dial kindness, wherewith you have treated me on every
occasion. With you, and amidst your very amiable rela-
tions, I have tasted the sweets of social life, in as high per-
fection, as polite learning, unreserved openness and free-
dom, and a gaiety, tempered by good sense, decorum, and
virtue, could give them. That which crowned all, and
exalted my pleasure at Clonfekle into happiness, was an
inviolable integrity of heart, which places you and yours
among the foremost rank of my acquaintances, who, if I
mistake not, are, in that respect, the first of mankind. To
a society, so engaging, and to friendships, that did me so
much honour, I could bring no contribution, but a cheer-
fulness and honesty, like your own, and a heart filled with
gratitude and affection. Accept my thanks, dear Sir, and
pardon that vanity which would tell t h world, that Dr.
Clarke hath been my friend, without the possibility of a
view to serve himself of me in any one particular. Here
I plume myself indeed, for they who know him, are sensible
he is no prodigal of his friendship ; nor can they assign an
b2

iv

LETTER TO DR. CLARKE.

instance of his having misplaced it, if not on me. In some
measure, to save you, dear Sir, even that imputation, I am
grateful ; indeed I am ; and write this, purely because the
greatness of your spirit, and the nothingness of my power,
permit me to give no better proof of it.

Can you, worthy Sir, forgive my thus dragging you out
from a retirement, too long affected, into public notice?
Can you forgive my bringing you into a crowd, only that I
may shew myself near you, though it is but to shoulder you?
Can you forgive my pride in vaunting the wealth I have
drawn from your coffers, so liberally opened to me, and a
few others, while they were concealed from the rest of
mankind, not more by their envy at, than by your contempt
for, your own funds? If you can do this, and relieve me
from my fears of offending in the very act, whereby I would
testify my esteem and love, you will add considerably to the
happiness of, -

Dear and worthy Sir,

Your ever grateful, faithful,

And affectionate friend,

PHIL. SKELTON

EOLOGIC&L y

SOME NEW

REASONS FOR INOCULATION

Some years ago, the sraall-pox carried off a prodigious
number of young people at Lisburn in the province of
Ulster, where I then happened to be. One day with an-
other, seven were observed to die of this shocking disorder,
during a considerable part of the summer, in this town
alone, wherein, 1 believe, there are not more (han one thou-
sand five hundred or one thousand six hundred souls. Of
two hundred children that had been inoculated in that town
and its environs, two only had died. About six in ten of
those who took it in the natural way, were lost in spite of
all the care and skill of the physicians, although all the
children of the place, whether intended for inoculation, or
not, were equally dieted, purged, and prepared for the
attack.

Let the physicians judge now, whence arose so great
a difference of event between those who were naturally,
and those who were artificially infected. For my part, I
could assign no other cause for this, but the supposition of
a natural crisis in every constitution, happening earlier in
one, and later in another, whereby the blood and other
juices of the human body are disposed to receive this par-
ticular infection. If the infection is obtruded, whether na-
turally, or artifically, on the constitution, at the tirae of the
crisis, then, if I am not much deceived, the disorder is
taken, in the utmost degree of severity and malignity,
wherewith the particular constitution seized, is capable of
being infected, the constitution at that critical time, as
it were inviting the contagion, and forwarding its rise, in
the course of the distemper, w ith its proper pabulum, till
the w hole mass of humours is as thoroughly corrupted, and
the symptomatic fever as highly exalted, as they can pus-

6

SOME NEW REASONS

sibly be in this or that constitution engaged. Observe, I
only say, as thoroughly, and as highly, for some who are
seized with this disorder naturally and critically, have it
very favourably, because no critical disposition can carry
the infection, in its utmost force, into a constitution other-
wise inept and indisposed thereto, or rather into a consti-
tution, which, although in part critically provided with the
pabulum of the disorder, is also, in part, provided with a
natural medicine or antidote, which resists its progress. It
must, I should think, be owing to something of this nature,
that children of the same parents, nearly of the same age,
perhaps twins, and dieted in the same house, and on the
same sort of food, should be affected so very differently
with this disorder. Be this as it will, give me leave to pur-
sue[my conjectures a little farther. It is my humble opinion,
that should a young person be inoculated at the precise
time, when he is critically disposed to receive the infection,
he almost runs as great a hazard in regard to his senses, or
his life, as he could have done, had he received it in
the natural way. Hence some who are inoculated, die.
But then, in case of inoculation, there is, at least, a hun-
dred to one, that the patient is inoculated before or after
the crisis, that is, when his constitution is more or less dis-
posed to resist the infection, and consequently receives,
when it is forced upon him, but the third, the sixth, per-
haps, only the tenth part of its malignity. The patient
who would have sunk under the disorder, had he, by a cri-
tical disposition to it, taken it entire, having received only
a small share of the infection, with a constitutional indis-
position to it, plays with it as a slight complaint, wherein
there is little sickness, and far less danger, absolutely none
of ever taking it again; for this infection cannot be re-
peated on the same person, the pabulum of the distemper
having been so eradicated in the first admission and the
ensuing discharge, that there is none left to carry the taint
anew into the mass of blood. It is true a nurse who for-
merly had the small-pox, has sometimes a pustule or two
arising on her breast or arms, while she suckles a child in
the disorder; but nobody calls this the small-pox, because
she never sickens, nor do those pustules appear on any part
of her body, but such as had been in immediate contact

FOR INOCULATION.

7

with the patient. Note, that the pabulum of this distem-
per, whatever it may be, is no otherwise morbific, than as
it is fitted to admit and encourage this particular infection,
so that the ejection thereof wholly or in part, is not in any
other respect, conducive to the health or duration of the
constitution. I am farther strengthened as to the validity
of these conjectures, by a common observation, that in a
numerous family of children, the small-pox at one time
seizes two or three only, and not the rest, who play, who
feed, who lie with the infected. But some two or three
years afterward, when the contagion prevails again, they
who were, spared on the former occasion, are now attacked,
perhaps destroyed. It may be said, perhaps, that the for-
mer infection was of a weaker kind, than the latter. With
me this is of little weight, because it as often happens that
the first was the more mortal of the two, not only through-
out the neighbourhood, but in the very family, from whence
I take the state of my observation.

What I have here said on the small-pox, I extend to
all epidemic fevers, the measles, the plague, the yellow,
the spotted fevers, &c. which, when very destructive,
ought, on my principles, to be inoculated, as well as the
disorder in question. Nay, it is my opinion, they will be
inoculated, as soon as necessity shall have opened the eyes
of mankind, as it did the eyes of a Turkish bashaw, who,
it is said, successfully inoculated the plague ; and as soon
too as the physicians shall have found out a right method
of conveying the respective infections. By my conjectures
on the leading fact, stated as above, it would seem to fol-
low, that peparation for inoculation is not necessary. Not
so necessary, I confess, as hath been imagined, but still
very useful, and therefore by no means to be neglected.
Every disorder incident to the human body, is more or less
mitigated by a right and sound state of the humours, to
which purging and a well-judged regimen may, no doubt,
contribute somewhat, although by no means so much as a
light and wholesome diet from infancy upward, together
with a good air, and continual exercise, seldom pushed to
a profuse sweat.

And now that my subject naturally leads me to that of
temperance, give me leave to say, as a clergyman, that al-

8

REASONS FOR INOCULATION.

though the small-pox, and other infectious disorders, are
each of then\, ' sui generis,' and but little connected, if at
all with other disorders, as might be made appear by in-
numerable experiments, yet all of them are considerably
connected with the state of the constitution. Here tem-
perance, that is, the use in sufficient quantities of light and
wholesome food, appears to be no less calculated for health
as a physical regimen, than for virtue, as the prescription
of Christianity. It is equally well fitted either to guard
against, to subdue, or to mitigate, all kinds of bodily dis-
orders ; or those of the mind. Infidelity, and her natural
daughter intemperance, are more lucrative friends to the
faculty than is commonly imagined. Christianity, if once
thoroughly tried, will be found, that universal remedy
which hath been so anxiously and so unsuccessfully sought
after every where, but in that obvious, yet almost obsolete
receipt book — I mean the Bible.

The physical part of this letter I do most humbly submit
to its proper judges, the gentlemen of the faculty ; in some
feeble hopes, that this additional reason for inoculation
may augment the frequency of that most useful practice ;
the religious or moral part of it, I submit only to experi-
ment, which if the public will not make, much good may
its ill health and vices do the public.

SOME ACCOUNT

OF

A WELL OR POOL

IN THE COUNTY OF MONAGHAN,

FAMOUS FOR CURING THE JAUNDICE.

About three easy miles from Clones, on the way from
thence to Monaghan, and very near the road, is the pool,
or well, as the country people call it, of Grallibois, wherein
great numbers have bathed for the jaundice, and been
cured, from time immemorial (to my certain knowledge for
more than forty years), after trying all other methods re-
commended by their friends and physicians, but in vain.
There is not a year, wherein cures enough are not per-
formed here to give this water a vogue, superior to all other
remedies in this disorder, had it never been resorted to be-
fore. People of all ranks and conditions, and under all
circumstances and stages of the disorder, excepting such as
are far gone in a black jaundice, come hither extremely ill,
and go away in a few days perfectly well. The notoriety
of what I here assert is so established throughout the
whole country for twenty miles round, and to a much
greater distance, among the acquaintances of such as have
come from other countries to be cured, that it is wholly
needless to assign particular instances. A very great
number have fallen within my own knowledge, and some,
of persons who were growing black. So far humanity
obliges me to vouch the benefit of repairing to this pool.

I hope the physicians wiH allow me to speak from the
same principle, when I attempt to carry its effects a little
farther on this subject. To do so, I must give a particular

10

SOME ACCOUNT OF

account of the water itself, and the method Of cure, which
have somewhat in them extremely curious, and almost
incredible.

This pool, which is not over a foot and a half in depth,
and not more than four or five feet over, is situated within
three feet of a rivulet, from whence it borrows all its water
by a short inlet or gut of two or three yards, and by a
soakage from a mill-race, flowing entirely from the same
rivulet, and running along the side of a hill, about eight
or ten feet higher than the well. This latter supply how-
ever is very inconsiderable. Passing this way in June 1769,
with a very sensible young gentleman, we stopped to make
observations on this pool; and having smelt and tasted the
water both of the rivulet and wrell, with all the accuracy
we were masters of, we had reason to judge them precisely
the same wrater to all sensible evidence, and likewise the
same with common river water. Not satisfied with this
trial, which might have deceived us, we carefully shut out
all influx from the rivulet, and from the adjacent ground, and
then caused the pool to be emptied to the last drop, whereby
we perceived, that here is absolutely no spring, nor a single
drop of any fluid arising from within the cavity itself. Yet
all the people, who live in the neighbourhood of this pool,
declare the water of this rivulet to be as incapable of curing
the jaundice, either above or below the pool, as any other
water. They insist, it hath been tried, and found ineffec-
tual. Their report of this trial however is to me very
doubtful and improbable, as the method of cure by the
water of this pool hath somewhat so uncommon, and ap-
parently dangerous in it, that I can hardly think any patient
in his senses, having come to the spot, would risk his
life, merely for an experiment, when he might as well use
the water, vouched by every body there to be safe and
sanative, as that which they all must have declared to be
useless. The reader will judge of this, when I acquaint
him with the method of cure, which is this.

The patient, stripped to the shirt or shift, sits down in
the pool, and some body heaves the water of the pool upon
his or her head, and all over the body. Thus thoroughly
Avet, the patient, still keeping on the wet linen, is again
clothed, but^ tears off a rag of his clothes, no matter from

A WELL OR POOL, &C.

what part of them, and ties it on an Alder-tree, which grows
very near to the pool, then is carried off to some house
in the neighbourhood, put to bed, sweats profusely with-
out any farther medicines or means made use of for that
purpose, and finds himself prodigiously relieved as to all
the symptoms of his disorder, and calls impatiently for
food. To perfect his cure he repeats this method a second
and a third time, and fails not to go away perfectly sound
and well ; so well, that I have never heard it said, the dis-
order returned. I forgot to tell the reader, he need not
repeat the ceremony of the rag, the Alder or the genius of
the pool, being always content with one offering of this
kind from each patient.

Here is all I know concerning the facts, but only, that
forty years ago, I was told, some stranger, acquainted with
the method of cure, but not with the pool, nor the ragged
Alder, had thrice bathed, in the manner above-mentioned,
at some other part of this rivulet, or in a larger river, into
which this little stream discharges itself, not two hundred
yards below the pool; and was perfectly cured. The
oldest people who live near the pool, declared to me, they
never heard of any such patient or cure ; and the report
appears very improbable, as every one, coming from a dis-
tance, would be careful to inquire for the right place to
bathe in, and as hardly any one would be so cruel, as to
give him wrong directions in a matter so hazardous as to
his life.

As I lay no great stress on the qualities of this water,
applied but superficially to the skin, and prevented from
penetrating through the absorbent vessels into the blood
or habit, by the great and almost immediate diaphoresis
which ensues ; I am very much inclined to an opinion, that
the cure is owing to the method, not any peculiar virtue
in the water, and in short that any other water so applied,
would work the same sort of cure ; and I am the more con-
firmed in this opinion, because, in dry weather, this rivulet
does not bring with it the fortieth part of the water, which
is passed by it in time of heavy rains. Yet in all seasons
of the year, and be the quantity of water more or less, out
of which the pool is supplied, the method of cure equally
succeeds, and consequently the cure cannot depend on

12

SOME ACCOUNT OF

any peculiar virtue in this water, since, supposing such a
virtue, it must be greatly diluted in rainy weather, and
often forty times weaker, than after a continuance of fair
weather. You must therefore either attribute the cure to
a supernatural power, as the common Irish do, who shew
you the mark of St. Patrick's knee in a large stone on one
side of the well, or to method only. The monks, in the
darker ages of the church, took infinite pains to furnish
themselves with nostrums, especially for unaccountable
disorders, and with methods of cure, as like miracles as
possible. Hence their carmina or charms for epilepsies ;
and especially for all disorders accompanied with a flatu-
lency, which they applied along with the nostrum, giving
the whole credit of the cure to the charm, that it might
seem a miracle, but allowing the nostrum, however, to
carry the appellation of carminative. It was their common
practice to give a locality to their method of cure, when
bathing or drinking a particular mineral water, was chiefly
depended on, by affixing their miracle to a certain well,
and drawing the diseased from all parts to that well ; where,
after all, nothing could be done without masses, charms,
amulets; nor they obtained, without stated taxes paid to
the attendant priests. It is very probable Gralliboi owes
its vogue to this sort of pious fraud, and the cures it per-
forms merely to a method which might succeed as well
with any other sort of water. Nothing could be better
chosen than this pool, to improve a natural cure into a
miracle, as it is evident, the pool hath no water of its own,
nor can, with any colour of reason, be supposed to impart
the sanative virtue in an instant to the water of the rivulet,
and as instantaneously to withdraw it again, when that
water regorges into the stream. A medicine, or method of
cure is apt to abate the credit of a miracle, supposed to be
wrought with it, as necessary to the success; but the
oddity and seeming danger of this method, with the rag-
offering, were very well fitted to parry the supposition of a
natural or mechanical effect. I am convinced also by the
repeated experiments made at this pool, on persons as
susceptible of colds as any whatsoever, that there is little
or no danger of taking cold by the process mentioned, ab-
solutely none, of taking any other cold, than what is instantly

A WELL OR POOL, &C.

13

thrown off by the plentiful perspiration ensuing. Not one
of the patients, who have gone through with this extraor
dinary method of cure, ever complains of the slightest cold
in consequence of it, no more than the Laplanders, Labra-
dors, nor some of our northern Irish, who still retain the
custom, complain of colds in consequence of a contrary
practice, much more likely to obstruct both sensible and
insensible perspiration, that, I mean, of sitting in a stove,
till they are almost dissolved in sweat, and rushing from
that immediately into the coldest water, or a deep drift of
snow. But these things, whether matter of theory or
practice, I submit wholly to the judgment of those gentle-
men, whom much study, and long experience have taught
to reason on medical subjects with incomparably more
ability and accuracy, than I can pretend to, I at the same
time submit it, whether or no the trial, so often made with
success at Gralliboi, may not be safely made with other
water, and on the encouragement of so many incontestable
facts in that which, I am pretty sure, is but common water,
with very good prospect of benefit. All I dare insist on
is, that the facts in this narrative, are incontestably and
notoriously true, and that any physician may have full
satisfaction of their truth at the place, either by going
thither to inquire into it, or by sending his jaundiced pa-
tient to the pool.

I am sensible, it will be objected, that in case the liver
should be considerably obstructed by a schirrus, or should
be affected by even a recent ulceration, or should produce
the bilious juice in too great abundance, or of a morbid
disposition, no cure can possibly be hoped for a jaundice,
proceeding from any such causes, be the means made use of
what they will. To this I can say nothing, but that among
so many thousands, cured at this pool, it would be too
bold an assertion to say, that not one of them had his liver
affected with any of the ailments, just now mentioned. It
is rather highly probable, that many, or most of them,
actually had, and carried off this bowel in good enough
order, be the amendment as unaccountable as you please
to suppose. It is not easy to assign a greater absurdity
in any branch of knowledge, than that among medical
writers of condemning and casting medicines, long ap-

14 SOME ACCOUNT OF, &C.

proved in practice, because they can find in them no sen-
sible qualities, answerable to the sanative effects ascribed
to them by former physicians. Allow this criterion, and
you shall deny, that opium can alleviate pain, mercury
salivate, crocus metallorum puke, or Peruvian bark do
any service in intermitting fevers or gangrenes. There is
nothing in these drugs to promise our senses the extraor-
dinary effects they produce, nor in the odd sort of a cold
bath at Gralliboi to heal a distempered liver, or cure the
jaundice; yet that it actually does the one is not to be
contested, and therefore, that it does the other, is a point
too probable to be given up on a mere assertion, that ob-
structions, schirruses, indurations, ulcers of the liver, are
incurable, at least by the Gralliboi process.

N. B. Grally or gralliagh signifies pool or puddle, and
bois or boi, yellow, in Irish.

AN

ACCOUNT OF LOUGH DERG,

IN A

LETTER

TO THE RIGHT REVEREND

THE

LORD BISHOP OF CLOGHER.

My Lord,

Your curiosity concerning Lough Derg, and the penances
performed at that place, is the same, and likely to be gra-
tified, if I may be allowed so to say, in much the same man-
ner, with that of other Protestants, who actually go thither.
They at the peril of every bone, pass over a rocky moun-
tain, to view that, which once seen, is found not worth the
seeing ; and your lordship, through this tedious and rugged
detail, in order to be informed of certain particulars, either
not worth the knowing, or known to the reproach of human
nature. But till they are known, it is not to be believed,
that such a noise could have been made at a distance by
matters so extremely trifling. Yet, howsoever insignificant
they may be in themselves, as they bear some analogy to
religion ; as for three or four centuries they have been much
talked of in the world ; and as they still draw together an-
nually in that remote part of your lordship's diocessnot less
than four thousand persons, it undoubtedly concerns your
lordship to know the cause of this concourse, what is there
done, and what is the scene of action, on the part of the
priests, or of suffering on that of their deluded people.

In the county of Donnegal, at the distance of four miles
from Lough Earn, and in the midst of mountains and mo-

IP)

LOUGH DERG, &C.

rasses, extending every way to a considerable distance,
there is a very fine lake,' in ancient times called Lough
Fin, or White Lake, but for several ages past, called Lough
Derg, or Red Lake. This piece of water is about a mile
and a half in breadth, and'somewhat more in length, spangled
here and there with small rocky or heathy islands. In the
largest of these, still called the Island of Saints, are the
ruins of a small well-built chapel, at which the penances
were, some ages ago, performed. But that island standing
too near the shore, the penitents often stole in at nights, the
water being there but shallow, without paying for waftage.

On this account it was that.the penitential scene was
shifted to another island, somewhat more central. To this
latter, from the beginning of May until about the middle of
August, every year, the penitents resort from all parts of
Ireland (as in old times they did from most parts of Europe)
to expiate their sins. This they do in obedience to their
confessors, who may enjoin them any other penance at dis-
cretion, to be performed nearer home. The number there-
fore of the pilgrims who take this tour, depends more on
the friendship of distant priests to the prior of Lough Derg,
than on the opinion of superior efficacy in this particular
expiation. However, to keep up that opinion, and give a
countenance to the lucrative practice, founded on it, the
priests frequently, the titular bishops sometimes, and now
and then a romanist of some fashion, appear among the
penitents. The rest are all of the poorer sort, to the num-
ber of three or four thousand every year. Of these the
greater part are only proxies for wealthier people, who at
a small expense in cash thus discharge their sins through

the feet and knees of their indigent neighbours. As

soon as a pilgrim hath arrived at the summit of a neigh-
bouring mountain, from whence the holy lake i&to be seen,
he, or she, is obliged to uncover both head and feet, for all
is holy from sight to sight, thus to walk to the water side,
and thence at the expense of sixpence, to be wafted into the
island. On this are erected two chapels, and fifteen other
houses, all thatched, for the accommodation of the priests
and penitents. Formerly the poor penitents had little other
covering than the sky ; but as this proved mortal to some
of them, and consequently detrimental to the views of the

LOUGH DERG, &C.

17

priests, sufficient shelter is now provided. In these houses
there are several confessionals, so contrived that the priest
cannot see the person who disburdens his conscience. Each
pilgrim on landing here, is confessed anew, and enjoined a
longer or shorter station (so the performance of this penance
is called) according to the quality of his sins, his leisure, or the
judgment of his confessor. He subsists on oatmeal,sometimes
made into bread, and on water, during his stay in the island,
which lasts three, six, or nine days, as the station is more ov
less extended. Thus, bare at both ends, and half starved,
his body pays for the tricks it hath played on his soul. The
more delicate however are a little indulged in point of food
and covering. This article of suffering is not a little ag-
gravated by the sight of cold meat and wine, given by the
priests to such protestant gentry as come hither out of cu-
riosity.

To have a right idea of that part of the penance I am
going to mention, your lordship must first be told, there are
seven little heaps of rude stone, with each of them a cross at
top, about five or six yards from one another; at a couple
of yards distance from each is a circular row of the like
stones, not above a yard in height drawn round the cen-
tral heap, with a little gap or passage on one side. The
pilgrim is obliged to foot it, without shoes or stock-
ings, nine times round the outside of each row on a path
consisting of very rough and sharp stones, and must by
no means pick his steps, for this would hinder the emis-
sion of his sins at the soals of his feet, their proper outlet,
and besides might divert his attention from the Ave Marias
and Pater Nosters, whereof he is to mumble a certain num-
ber, letting fall a bead at each, as he circulates, for on the
holy string depends the arithmetic of a devotion, which
hath number, but no weight. These heaps and rows are,
for what reason I know not, called, the beads of so many
celebrated saints in the Roman calendar. When this is over,
and the penitent's conscience and pocket, are called to a fresh
account, for, every day, sometimes more than once a day, he
confesses and pays sixpence, he is sent to traverse on his
bare knees, and on stones as sharp as before, the shorter
path'witrTin each row, and round the little heap, nine times
repeating over and dropping beads, as at first.

IS

AN ACCOUNT OF

This done he continues kneeling before the central cross,
repeating and dropping, till his account is out, at the end
of which he kisses the cross, and his knees make holy-day.
It is not, till all this is over, that he is admitted into purga-
tory ; but to conceive a right idea of this penance, your
lordship should be told what purgatory is. You have
heard and read a great deal of this in various writers, and
may possibly have seen what Matthew Paris says of it, on
the subject of Lough Derg, through tw elve folio pages. But
though the Romanists are at liberty to romance on a place
of their own contrivance, as they think fit, I must assure
you, my lord, purgatory (for I saw it) is nothing more, than
two parallel rows of pretty large stones, set upright at the
distance of scarcely three feet, with others as large, laid
over, and altogether forming a kind of narrow vault, of not
more than four feet elevation, pervious here and there to
the light, not of burning brimstone, but of the sun, for pur-
gatory is rather above, than under ground. This vault is
only so long as to hold twelve penitents at once, who sit
close to one another in a row, with their chins almost
touching their knees, without eating, drinking, or sleeping,
for the space of twenty-four hours, repeating and dropping
as above. To prevent, in this situation, the danger of a nap,
each penitent is armed with a long pin, more poignant it
seems, than conscience herself, to be suddenly inserted into
the elbow of his next neighbour at the first approach of a
nod. But not to depend wholly on either, the priest hath
inserted into his mind an article of faith, more stimulating
than even the pin, namely, that if any one penitent should
fall asleep in purgatory, the devil thereby acquires a ple-
nary right to the whole covey, having already swept away
two, and having a prophecy in his favour, that he shall get
a third. It is therefore a clear case, that holy as this place
is, the devil is always hovering about it.

Nothing farther, at least so highly deserving remark,
as the former very important particulars, occurs at present,
unless it is, that they sometimes add an extraordinary ex-
posure or two in cases uncommonly criminal, such as set-
ting the delincments to roost on the beams that go across
the chapels, with their busts sticking through the broken
places in the thatch; and here the women are often placed

LOUGH DERG, &C

19

as well as the men, while the congregation is beneath em-
ployed in prayer.

The sufferings hitherto mentioned do not carry off the
whole mass of sins. Some are forced out through the feet,
some through the knees, but the remainder is so softened
and loosened, that a good wash is sufficient to scower them
away. In order to this, the penitent is placed on a flat
stone in the lake, where, standing in the water, up to his
breast or chin, according to his stature, and repeating and
dropping, to I know not what amount, he is reduced to the
innocence of an infant just christened. — When all is over,
the priest bores a gimlet hole through the pilgrim's staff,
near the top, in which he fastens a cross peg, gives him as
many holy pebbles out of the lake, as he cares to carry
away, for amulets to be presented to his friends, and so
dismisses him an object of veneration to all other Papists,
not thus initiated, who no sooner see the pilgrim's cross in
his hand, than they kneel down to ask his blessing. — They
here shew a bass relief of Keeronagh, the devil's mother,
rudely done on a coinstone of one of the chapels, a figure
somewhat resembling that of a wolf, with a monstrous long
tail and a forked tongue. — It seems this infernal princess,
allured, we may believe, by the coolness of the element,
took up her habitation in this lake in the third generation
after Phin- Macool (when he lived every slender chrono-
loger knows as well as I), and from thence sallying out every
day, devoured great numbers of the inhabitants here and
there throughout the neighbouring countries. But at length
the poor people brought her to terms, not very untoward,
considering who she was, namely, to abstain from her cus-
tomary depredations, on the condition of having one annual
victim chosen out by lot, placed on the top of a mountain
about three miles from the lake, from whence, such was the
force of her suction, she drew him into her mouth, and at
one gulp swallowed him. Connon, the grandson of Phin-
Macool, that is, of the great Irish hero, voluntarily under-
took to be the victim, was drawn in, and cut his way out at
her broad-side. So great a quantity of blood followed him
through the aperture, that the whole lake looked red, and
was eVer since sirnamed Derg. But as she had been ac-
customed to breakfast on burning brimstone, so great was
c 2

20

A NT ACCOUNT, &C

the heat of her maw, that his suit of armour was melted off,
and all his hair and skin singed away, from which time he
was always called Connon Muil, that is, Connon the bald
or hairless.

One may see here also on a rude altar of stone the bones
of a man, who had vowed the pilgrimage ; but finding him-
self on the entrance of another to the next world, and not
furnished with means of carrying his bones with him, or-
dered them to the place of designation in his vow, where
they have continued doing penance for his soul, during a
long succession of years.

Your lordship may perhaps look on the account of the
devil's mother, &c. as a little legendary. However, it
passes current enough with the generality of our devotees,
and is nothing to a variety of particulars gravely detailed
by Matthew Paris, in the body of his history, on the affi-
davit of a very pious pilgrim, who swore that, at Lough
Derg, he had passed through the purgatory of the dead,
seen innumerable souls in torment, was plunged into the
mouth of hell, escaped, had a conference with two departed
saints at the gate of paradise, and then returned into this
world. All this, with a horrid list of particulars, con-
tinued an indisputable truth, from Matthew's time, down to
the Reformation.

Whether this narrative should have been given in a tragic
or comic style; or should excite tears or laughter, is
wholly submitted to the state of spirits your lordship shall
happen to be in when it shall arrive from

Your lordship's
Most obliged, most obedient, &c.

VALLIS LONGIVADA ;a

SIY«

MEDITATIONES POETICS.

ALLUSIO.

Haud procul Ergaliis,b quae nunc cecidere minis,

Atque ubi cum gregibus pastores pascua carpunt,

Qualia caprinis nunquam tribuere Pelasgi,

Qualia nec poterant Itali praebere suillis,

Continui montes viridantia culmina tollunt, 5

Solis et antrorsum radiis Australibus ardent.

Hie celsos inter colles torrente revulsos,

Vallis hiulca patet, curvisque anfractibus aegre

Pandit iter luci sinuosum, in viscera montis.

Torrens ille ruens convallem permeat imam, 10

Quem Phoebum versus de stagno despuit Arctos.

Hinc, illinc, pendet scopulus, vultuque verendo

Terret et oblectat pariter spectantis ocellos.

Extat in iramensum hinc sublato vertice rupes,

Pronaque in adversum jam jam ruitura videtur : 15

Inde recessuras similis, perterrita cautes,

Pene supinata facie fugit ilia retrorsum.

Culmina dum fremitu resonant praerupta minaci,

Dum rabiosa cient insani praslia venti,

Etsursum vires luctantia ilaraina tentant ; 20

Alta quies infra est, et pacatissimus aer.

Murmura vix imum penetrant moribunda recessum.

Gaudeat excelso, quem non deterruit, inde
Praecipitem lapsu conspergere saxa cruore ;

a Anglice, Longford's Glen.

b Juxta Ticum non ita magnum, qui hodie Clogherensis nuncupatur, eivitas olim
erat, nomine, Ergal, necnon palatium cujusdam Reguli TJItoniensis, cujus posteri-
oris vix extat memoria. Saxura autem, (Hibernice Clogh) in caemeterio, antiquum
sane, sed illiteratum, dat nomen nunc temporis vico, sedique Episcopali.

22

VALLIS LOXGIVADA

Elatumque caput summa inter nubila condat, 25
Quisquis in extentum librat vestigia funem.

Me, quem delectat subsellia tuta prementem,
Atque metu vacuum, placidas indulgere quieti,
Pone sub immotse recubanteni tegmine rupis,
O qui perpetuara ccelis largire quietem. 30
Cespite muscoso, viridi vel stratus in herba,
Supremum curis dicam, raundoque, valete.
Hie tibi mens, Genitor veneraude, sibique vacabit,
Hinc atque hinc rigido lapidum circumdata vallo,
Blanditias toto prohibebit pectore sensus, 35
Teque, verende parens, solum captura patebit.
Ut nihil hinc liquidi est nisi cceli tecta videri,
Sic te, te tantum, ccelorum, sentiet, author.
Hoc mihi distendens animum mentemque silentum,
Numinis ingenti complebit pectora sensu, 40
Suppeditante loco specimen mirabile visu,
Immensi ex nihilo facti, meditantibus, orbis ;
Nec minus haec sedes exponet inania vitae,
Signa parans rebus, justoque emblemate pingens.

Nubila sublimes circum fluitantia rupes, 45
Ambitione mala magnatum more tumescunt.
Nunc Boreae cedunt rlabris, nunc flatibus Austri,
Obsequio facili varias imitantia formas ;
Dumque colore, vapor, nunc hoc, nunc pingitur illo,
Furtivos radios, et lumina non sua jactant. 50
Albida nunc rident, et multa luce coruscant,
Temperiem, claros et promittentia soles ;
Nunc facie nigrent torva, vultuque minaci
Intentant furibunda graves, rapidasque procellas.
En radiant l'ulgore vago, velut aemula solis ! 55
Authoremque sui nebula splendoris obumbrant !
En sublime petunt correpta per aethera ccelum,
Despiciuntque procul planata cacumina montis !
En iterum detrusa ruunt, et desuper imis
Vallibus irfiguos condunt lachrymantia luctus. (iO
Nunc, ubi volvebant moles, quis monstrat inanes ?
Quis loca, quis sedes, quis nunc vestigia monstrat ?c
Nubis ad exemplum sic transit gloria mundi.d
Defluit exiguus juxta sine nomine rivus.

r Psal. xxxvii. 10. xlix. 10. ■» Sapientia, ii. 4.

SIVE MEDITATIONES POETICS.

Montibus hie siccis parca profunditur urna ;
Diluvium, nimbis tumidus, devolvit aquarum.
Non auri quamvis rutilantes versat arenas,
Me tamen.egregiis opibus ditabit, et amne,
Ut speculo, sortem locupletis pinget iniquam ;
Divitiasque docens contemnere, munera menti,
Dum monitis ausculto catis, donabit opima.
Haurit enim stagnis latisque paludibus undas,
Limpida nec luteis distinguit flumina, captans,
Et quodcunque venit, nec non quocunque colore.
Accipiens alveo collectas undique sordes,
Praecipitique vorans disjectos eethere nimbos,
Turget, et exundans ripas supereminet udas.
Vix tamen illuviem ccenosae tempora spumae
Jactandi praebentur aquis ; cum desuper ecce !
Dejicit in praeceps tumidum cataracta fluentum.
Dum sonitu lapsus plangit gemebundus, eodem
Et sonitu torrens spumantes intonat iras.
Dum fremit indignans, rauco resonatque fragore,
Indignante fremens scopulus simul ore remugit,
Dum terit obstantes, tenditque refringere rupes,
Irritus illidit solidis, et disjicit undas.

Attamen haud semper lapsu procumbit inulto
Est ubi convellit praerupti fragmina secum
Montis, et impingens immania pondera sylvis,
Obruit umbrosas sonitu crepitante ruinas.
Opprimit, aspergit, conterritat omnia casu,
Diffugiente fera attonita, scopuloque tremente.
Cum semel attigerit locapraeceps infima vallis,
Paulatim rabies desaevit, et ira quiescit.
Vix exauditur sonitus, vix spuma videtur ;
Murmure vix querulo saxis sua damna susurrat.
Deinde tenebroso sinuantes tramite cursus
Obtegit unda pudens, tacitas et permeat umbras ;
Donee ab aeriis arcentur tractibus imbres,
Et siccata palus renuit lutulenta tributa ;
Turn redit in sese purgatus, et influit arvis
Rivus, etillimis florentia prata revisit.

Praeteriens mihi me reflectit bulla pusillum ;
Et generis nostri, casus, variosque labores,
Atque pericla necis, rapidaeque negotia vitae,

24

TALLIS LOXGIVADA

Ante oculos ponit, liquida fingitque tabella.

Bulla refert hominera fragileru, flatuque tumentem.

Spuraa levis plebs est ; minimarum constat acervo ;

Haec, simul, est aliquid, separatira, singula nil est;

Amnis ut exagitat, nunc hue, nunc fluctuat illuc. 110

Sunt et patriciae sublato vertice bullae,

Infra quae positum despectant mobile vulgus;

Non taraen inamotum figit fundamen et ipsas ;

Flaraine nam leni tremulum quatit aura tumorem ;

Tempore turbato superat plebs, nobilis almo. 115

Altior insurgit nunc base, nunc altior ilia,

Principis et ritu proceres supereminet omnes.

Destruithaec alias, alieno turgida vento,

Tollit et aeriam spoliis piratica molem ;

Insidetilla aliis, totis dominata catervis, 120

Et capite erecto, graviter substantibus instat.

Una perit nimii sub pondere pressa liquoris,

Attenuata nimis perit altera, carcere rupto,

Efflataque anima tenui dispergitur aura.

Hac pereunte, statim tumefacta supervenit ilia, 125

Perpetuoque novae nascuntur in ordine bullae.

Rara diu durat, variis exposta periclis ;

Plurima veloci succumbens occidit aevo ;

Confligunt aliis aliae, superantque vicissim,

Cummunique omnes circumglomerantur in amne. 130

Hie sese vacuo recipit mens fessa recessu,
Congressuque Dei, curis resoluta, suique,
Gaudet, inire vices sacri sermonis avetque.
Cuncta premunt voces, et mutasilentia praestant,
Acsi colloquio vellent taciturna favere. 135

Pectoris ergo mei quaecunque quiescite turbae,
Ambitus, invidiam, scelerate libidinis aestus,
Nummorumque sitis, pacique inimicior ira.
Conticuere soni ventorum ; contice tuque,
Mens mea, praescriptis auscultatura verendis. 140
Astat enim Niunen, nec dedignabitur ultro,
Si piget errati, blandis sermon ibus aures
Demulcere, habitans humili cum pectore, quanquam'
Degit in aetemo, super aethera, vertice coeli,

* lsa. Ivii. lo.

SIVE MEDITATIONES POETICvE.

25

Luce suaque lalet, condens penetralia flammis,' 145

Exteriusque domum nirabis et nubibus atris ;e

Unde subinde ruunt rutilantia tela tonantis,

Queis trepidant homines, tellus, ccelique columnae.'1

Ecce Deus fatur venerabilis! audiat o-rbis.'

Xon tonat horrificus, scopulos nec famine frangit, 150

Voce sed exigua proponit dicta trementi.k

Omnis homo gramen, periturus graminis instar. 1

Bis periturus olim, ni retro citissime vitam

Retrahat, et vitii taminatam labe vetusta,

Mordicus et gemince pascentem semina mortis. 155

Ad vitam fortes vestigia vertite rectam.

Heu pereo misere ! quis me servabit utraque ?

Et necis et vitce ad me pertinet exitus tmum.m

Flagitium mortis fons est, et origo ma(orum.a

In te flagitium mactato, et vivito semper." 160
Oh ! quantum vellem ! nequeo tamen ipse. Sed ecce,

Omnia qui possum, curabo hoc te quoque posse.v

Spiritus omnipotens a me descendet, et intus
Velle tuofoto, veterem mactare docebit,

Inque novam vitam, cceli lumenque renasci.'* 165

Hac Nati precibus tribuo, natiquecruoriJ

Ne dubites solum ; mecum tua fcedera serves.
Continuo invigiles, votisque innittre crebris.'

Quis me mundabit sceleris paedore prioris ?
Hue ades, expandit lateris de fonte lavacrum 170
Christus, et ex anima purgabit sanguine ccenum,1
Sicut aquis sordes purgantur de cute rivi
Illius, ante oculos juxtim de monte fluentis.

Praecipitem quid me, et titubantem margine mortis
Fulciet, aut sceleris sinuosa indagine solvet? 175
Robur ego, columenque tuum, cautesque salutis,"
Dono tibi in miseros animum mentemque tenellam,"
In vitii illecebras irritamentaque, quernam.
Stat pro te scopulus ventorum flamina ridens :
Hand, secus insidias sceleris ridebis et hamos. 180
Quid trepidas ? cceli dominus corroborat intus,

1 1 Tim. vi. 16. s Exod. xix. Psal. xcvii. 2. h Job xxvi. 11.

' Isa.i. 2. k 1 Regum xix. 12. 1 Isa. xi. 6.

■ Prov. Ixviii. 20. u Rom. v. 12. ■ Rom. viii. 13.

p 2 Cor. xii. 19. 1 Prov. v. 17. Eph. iv. 24. ' Hcb. vii. 25. x. 19.

* Matt. xxvi. 41. 1 Zecb. xiii. 1. u Psal. x viii. 2. 31.

* Ezck.xi. 19.

26

VALLIS LONGIVADA,

Tutaque te circum muri munimina figit.*

Impetus infidos mundi carnisque fatiscit.

Incassurn aggreditur fidos antiquus et hostis.

Te gere victor em ; promittitur ecce corona, 185

Et cito cantabis /estiva voce triumphum.

Gaudet in immensum, sacro mens acta tumultu.
Efferor ex memet, in te, Deus optime, raptus.
Exardens animo, sublimibus erigor alis
Justorum in patriam, divina fronte serenam. 190
Perpetis hie matrix, hie incunabula vitae ;
Hie amor accensus cerni est, et amoris imago,
Grati animi speculo ad vivum benefacta reflectens.
Luminis immensi fons hie prorumpit in aevum,
Cui nihil est densum, cui nulla opponitur umbra, 195
Quem calor aequaevus passu comitatur eodem.
Et calor et lumen radio sociantur in uno ;
Lumine dirigitur virtus, stimulata calore ;
Hoc candet virtus, vitiumque extinguitur illo.
Mens mea persolvit grates, quod sentit utrumque. 200

O Pater omnipotens, solis sermonibus orta
Quanta tuis extant, et quot systemata rerum,
Sparsa per imrnensos spatiiet radiantia campos !
Ex illis manant, et sustentantur ab illis.
Prae reliquis atomus levis est hie terreus orbis. 205
Si tamen aspicias, fugiunt, seseque recondunt
Primaevi in nihili spatioso gurgite sorpta.y
Dicis et existunt, vultu pereuntque reverso.1
O Pater omnipotens, tua me pensata potestas
Territat, attonitum verbique tonitrua justi 210
Percutiunt animum, diras minitante reatu.
Haud tamen injussus voco te Dominumque Patremque,
Quem miseret servi, puerique extrema timentis,
Cui placet apprime perfracti victima cordis,"
Quo spondente, scelus fuerit dubitare nefandum. 215
Spes igitur vires animi concepta f'ovebit,
Et, cum spe fota, resonantia carmina s urgent.
Omnia quantumvis tua tanta potentia possit,
Et ccelo et terris non est qui sistere dextram
Aut valet, aut demens, tibi dicere, quid facis, audet ;b 220

* Jerem. xv. 20.

* Psal. li. 17.

J Apocal. ix. 11.

« Psal. civ. 30, 31.
b Dan. iv. 36.

SIVE MEDITATION ES POETIC. ■E.

27

Non minus immensa est bonitas tua, quae patct omni

Humano generi, quamvis in peccata ruenti.

Etmihi presertim, vitiorum mole coacto,

Cum gemitu, cunctos rae praecessisse fateri

Delictis ; hortare tamen sperare salutem. 225

Spero equidem, et plausu geminato gaudia testor.

Alme parens hominum, de te nec liugua silebit,

Nec deerit linguae succensi pectoris aestus.

Dummodo, rejectis vitiis, resipiscimus ultro,

Te semper faciles, et condonare paratos, 230

Sentimus revocare animos. Tu pendis amorem

Pro noxis, fragili, et creto pulvere terrae.

Quid tibi pro precibus, meritis et sanguine reddain,
O prognate Deo, a flammis animaque redemta?
Ah pudet ! at laetor, pro me ludibria, sputum, 235
Et colopho* passum, te profudisse cruorem ;
Te mutasse chori caelestis carmina probris
Pro me, criminibus nil praeter dura merentem.
Horreat ergo novis, iterum te figere cruci,
Mens mea, terrifici trepidans formidine facti ; 240
Atque malum potius patienter ferre paretur,
More tuo facili, quam compar reddere cuiquam ;
Aut etiam infestis dubitet benefacta referre.

At mihi deciduo caelestis spiritus adsis,
Atque animam dono fragilem septemplice fulci, 245
Quo minus, ob pronos in pristina crimina lapsus,
Me Pater iratus merito exaudire recuset,
Nec pro me precibus vellet certare Redemptor.
Tu vitae vita es, virtus virtutis et ipsa.
Tute animos animas, hominemque ad sidera tollis. 250
Ne patiare meam telluri inserpere mentem,
Sed pietate graves ad ccelos erige sensus,
Afflatuque novo da vitam ducere verara,
Qua per sponsorem summo cum judice pax sit.

Conscius haud pridem sceleris, nunc inscius idem, 255
Laetor, et auctorem niutatae sortis adoro.
Ut mea fervescunt sacris praecordia flammis,
Fidelique animo pignus retinetur amoris,
Clara per ingentes ibunt prceconia montes ;
Atque, domus si non, resonabunt lustra ferarum. 260
Omnia plena Deo, sint omnia carmine plena,

28

VALLIS LONGIVADA, &C.

yEterni laudes totnm resonante per orbem.
Plaudite Lucicolam, radiantia lumina solis ;
Numinis atque manum ductantis plaudite, stellae.
Fulmina, terribili sonitu memorate potentem ; 265
Judicio celerem furibundi dicite venti.
Vos, genus humanum, miserantem dicite sontis.
Vos, chorus aetherius, sursum cantate benignum.
Vos quoque tartarei, sociis ululatibus aequum
Proclamate Deum, diris in faucibus orci. 270
Inferni tonitru threnis, et murmure rauco,
Concentus resoni gemebundum reddite bassura.
Omnia quae in ccelis, terris, pontoque profundo,
Hie, procul, et passim, nomen dispergite magnum.
Omne quod intus habet mea mens, et lingua, manusque
Collaudate Deum, pariter magnumque, bonumque.
Parce pater misero mihi, peccatumque remitte.
Christe, preces placeat geminatas fundere pro me.
Spiritus interna mentem virtute foveto.
Gloria in aeternum, ccelo, terraque, Triuni.

A CURIOUS

PRODUCTION OF NATURE,

OBSERVED NEAR MONAGHAN, IN THE YEARS 1737—40.

PUBLISHED SOME TIME AFTER
IN THE

TRANSACTIONS OF THE ROYAL SOCIETY.

In the beginning of May 1737, the warmest season that
any body now alive remembers to have felt in Ireland, the
cornel-trees, of which, in the plantations of Monaghan there
were about a hundred, appeared almost covered with small
caterpillars, of a dirty green or mouse colour, for the greater
part, though some, considerably larger than the rest, were
yellow. These worms, were employed partly in feeding
on the leaves of the cornel, which was their only food, and
partly in crawling, with a very swift motion for a worm,
over the bark of the tree. As they crawled, they left each
a fine thread scarcely visible to the naked eye upon the
bark. These threads being almost infinitely multiplied by
the inconceivable numbers of worms employed in the work,
formed a silken web, as white as snow, glossy, and strong
beyond the proportion of its thickness. In this web, the
threads are not interwoven, they only cohere by the gluti-
nous quality of the matter from whence they are extracted.
By the end of May there was not a leaf to be seen on any
of the cornels, except a few reserved for a very curious
purpose, which I shall mention presently ; but the worms,
in the room of the green clothing of which they had rob-
bed these trees, gave them one of white, so entire that it
covered the whole bark, from the ground to the points of
the slenderest twigs, and of so pure and so glossy a colour,
that the whole tree shewed in the sun, as if it were cased

30

A CURIOUS PRODUCTION

in burnished silver. The web was so strong, that if one
disengaged it from the .tree near the root, one might have
stripped it at one pull, from the trunk to the branches, and
even the very twigs. As soon as the worms had covered
all the cornel trees, they removed from thence, and co-
vered all the ash, beech, lime, crab-tree, and weeds that
stood near them, with the same, but a thinner kind of work-
manship.

The reader may desire to know how they travelled from
one tree to another. Many of them crawled along the
ground, and over every thing in the way, still leaving a
thread behind them, and dispatching part of their business,
as they went towards a more convenient surface to finish
the rest on. But I did really imagine, some of them took
an easier and more ingenious way. I have found many
of them hanging by their own threads from the highest and
most extended branches of the cornel. While they were
in this situation, a gentle puff of wind might, by exciting
a pendulous motion, waft them to the next tree. This
seems to be the method, by which those very minute spi-
ders, whose threads are made visible by the drops of water
adhering to them in a foggy morning, transport themselves
from one bush to another, though destitute of wings, nay,
and sometimes across roads and rivulets.

As these worms seemed neither then, nor afterward, to
make use of these webs, thus left on the bark of the trees;
I take it for granted, they only wrought them to rid them-
selves of that glutinous mass, out of which they were drawn,
and which nature producing in greater quantities than
were necessary for the wrapping and stowing the worm in
its crysalis state, prompted the creature to work it off the
best way it could. The method it took for this purpose
was admirable. It fastened its thread to some little emi-
nence on the bark ; and choosing, for the greater conve-
nience of crawling, that even surface, kept continually in
a brisk motion, till its troublesome burden was discharged.
I was for awhile greatly at a loss for the reason of its re-
moving from its native tree, and spinning abroad upon the
neighbouring ones. But it is possible the web might have
grown too bright for its eyes, or too smooth for its feet, be-
fore its whole burden was exhausted ; and so it might for

OF NATURE, &C.

31

this reason have been obliged to spin out the remainder
elsewhere.

About the beginning of June, the worms retired to rest,
and their manner of preparing for, and executing this, was
very ingenious and curious. Some of them chose the
under sides of the branches, where they spring from the
trunk, that they might be the better defended from the water,
which, in a shower, flowing down the bark of the tree, is
parted by the branches, and sent off on each side. There
they drew their threads across the angle made by the
trunk and branch, and crossing those with other threads,
in a great variety of directions, formed a strong tegument
on the outside. Within this they laid themselves along
among the threads, and rolling their bodies round, spun
themselves into little hammocks of their own web, which
being suspended by the transverse threads, they did not
press each other in the least. That they might stow the
closer, they lay parallel to each other, and in the nicest
order imaginable. Others still more ingenious than these,
fastened their threads to the edges of certain leaves, which,
no doubt, they had saved from their stomachs for this pur-
pose, and with that slender cordage pulling in the extre-
mity of the leaves, drew them into a kind of purse, in the
inside of which they formed the same kind of work, and
laid themselves up in the same manner as above. By this
method they saved themselves a labour, which the rest were
at the expense of, for the leaf served them very well for an
outward defence against the weather.

These worms laid themselves up in their chrysalis state,
in great numbers together, probably because they might
help to keep each other warm, while nature was preparing
for the great change, or in order to confine some subtile
vapour issuing from their bodies, which was necessary to
their reviviscence, and which had been easily dissipated
had they not lain close together, and caught it from one
another.

Between the worm thus laid up, and the hammock in
which it was enclosed, a tough and pliant shell of a dark
brown colour was found. This I take to have been formed
by the perspiration, or some other cutaneous effluvia issu-
ing from the worm, which, beiug stopped by the close tex-

32

A CURIOUS PRODUCTION

ture of the hammock, consolidated and made the interior
covering of this delicate creature. As the worms them-
selves were of a colour inclining to a dark brown, this su-
perficial tincture seems to have been entirely purged off"
into the shell. For

After the worms had continued in this state during the
whole month of June, whether they gnawed their way
through the ends of their shells and hammocks, or that exit
was prepared for them by some corrosive matter oozing
from their mouths, I know not, but they came out almost all
in the space of one morning, the most beautiful fly or moth
my eyes ever beheld. Its shape was extremely elegant ;
its head, upper w ings, body, legs, and antenna?, were of the
purest white, and glittered as if they were clothed with
some shining kind of substance. I rubbed some of this oft',
and upon viewing it in a microscope, found it looked like
small cones of polished silver, or down cut into bits ex-
tremely small and pointed. The upper wings were regu-
larly studded with black spots, and extended themselves
somewhat farther than its tail. The under wings, which
were a little shorter, were of a duskish colour, and prettily
fringed at the extremities. This lovely work of nature
seemed, after its resurrection, to have no dependence on
material food. The cornel had recovered a new set of leaves
by the time the fly appeared, but it never touched them ;
and those that came out in my room, lived as long there as
the rest, which enjoyed the open air, and the tree on which
they were bred. If they did feed, it must have been on
some other adventurer of the air, too minute to be visible.
Those that were confined in my room, discharged a small
drop of brown liquor, in which I suppose their eggs were
contained ; but as they were not deposited in a proper re-
ceptacle or matrix, they did not produce wTorms the next
season. As the cornel-tree is the peculiar habitation of the
worm and fly, and supplies the former with food in its
leaves, so it is certainly the only nurse of the egg. It is
likely the eggs were discharged into the little apertures
about the buds, where they might most conveniently be
nourished, by the return of that genial juice or spirit, with
which the cornel is by nature fitted to cherish and raise
them into life. The flies seemed to be of the most delicate

OF NATURE, &C.

33

nature in respect to beat and cold. The former they could
bear with difficulty, the latter not at all. Scarce any of
them survived the 1st of August. They loved rest, and
did not care to flutter much about. While they were yet
in their chrysalis state, I brought great lumps of them to
my room, and those which happened to be bruised in pull-
ing them from the trees, produced flies distorted, either in
the wings, or other parts ; but this distortion generally wore
off in a little time, and the pretty creature recovered its
natural elegance of shape.

The place where these cornel trees stand, is surrounded
by steep hills, and sheltered beside with a very thick plan-
tation. This was certainly no inconsiderable help to the
prodigious increase of this puny and delicate creature. I
verily believe, both an unusual warmth of air, and a deep
shade were equally necessary to it, for I observed that
those cornels that stood more exposed to the cool air and
sun, abounded less with worms than the rest.

In the beginning of May, 1738, the worms began again,
in prodigious numbers, to work; and having' covered some
trees, they were stopped, and most of them destroyed by
the foul weather that followed.

In 1739 they appeared in small numbers, and much
shrunk in their size ; they wrought only sufficient covering
for themselves.

They appeared again last year, but it was plain the
great frost had destroyed most of their eggs, and checked
the growth of those that escaped, for there were very few
of them to be seen, and twelve of them were scarcely as
large as one in May, 1737.

It may be asked, how these creatures came to be bred
on these trees, and what occasioned the prodigious in-
crease of them at that time ? I can only offer conjectures
by way of solution to these queries. I hope however they
will not seem improbable ; but rather help to clear up these
difficulties, and at the same time carry our eyes a little
farther into nature, than merely what concerns this species
of insects.

There is not an animal, nor a vegetable, that may not
be considered as a little world, in respect to the habitation
and nourishment it affords to certain insects peculiar to
vol. v. d

34

A CURIOUS PRODUCTION

itself. The scheme of life begins in vegetation, and where-
ever on the earth, or in the water, nature is able to produce
vegetables, she always obliges them to pay for their ele-
mental nourishment to certain insects, animals, or fishes,
which she billets on them. These again are forced to re-
fund to others, and to diet, and lodge, each of them, a set
of living creatures, assigned them by the universal scheme
of things.

This traffic in life, this just community in nature, which
suffers nothing to subsist merely for itself, is found not
only every where on the face of the earth, but also in all
lakes, pools, rivers, and in the ocean. By microscopes we
discover a prodigious variety of little creatures in the wa-
ter, all feeding either on the floating vegetables, which that
element in a state of stagnation produces, or on one another.
As to the sea in particular, we know only what happens
about the shores where we see vegetables of various kinds,
on which a like variety of insects are bred and nourished.
These, with a prodigious number of others bred in the mud,
become the prey of the smaller kind of fishes, and they
again of the greater. That this scheme of nature, found
every where else, dives also into the depths of the ocean,
may appear probable both from the wise frugality of na-
ture, which hath a useful end in every thing, and besides,
rejoices in filling the world with life and motion ; and from
the wonderful kinds of fishes (some of them partaking of
a human shape) which are now and then washed up by
violent storms from the deeper waters, or happen to pursue
their prey from the low-lands of the ocean, to the higher
grounds at the shores.

Franciscus Redi, in his curious and learned treatise
concerning the generation of insects, hath not only refuted
the foolish notion of equivocal generation, but also hath
shewn us, that each animal and vegetable hath its own pe-
culiar insects to maintain; and Eleazar Albin, in his col-
lection of various caterpillars, and the butterflies into which
they are changed, hath given us a beautiful demonstration,
from above a hundred instances, that each species hath its
own proper plant, to which it is by nature necessarily adapt-
ed, and on which only it can feed, and live any time.

The cornel now is the plant, on which alone this species

OF NATURE, kc.

35

of caterpillars, of which we have been speaking, can be
propagated and fed. As is the case throughout the whole
vegetable world, in regard to the respective insect of every
plant ; the specific qualities with which the juices of this
tree are impregnated, fit it for the support of this, and per-
haps no other worm. The chymists tell us, that in the es-
sential oil consists the peculiar and distinguishing qualities
of a plant. If so it is, then it follows, that the insect of
each plant is furnished with such organs either of niandu-
cation, or digestion, as enable it to extract better than the
nicest chymist, the essential oil of its own plant, in which
consists that nutritive specialty by which it is fitted to be-
come its peculiar food.

As to the question, how this plant came to receive the
eggs of this fly, it may be answered that it received them
just as all other plants come by the eggs of their own flies.
Before such trees are removed from the neighbourhood of
those from whence they sprung, they receive sufficient co-
lonies from those already peopled, and so carry off a stock,
which they extend again to their suckers ; and it is pro-
bable that no single plant is destitute of its own insect;
because the flies of every plant have continual access to
their own plants, and no doubt are prompted either by the
sight or smell, or some other quality, of their native
vegetable, which is congenial to them, to propagate their
kind upon them. And as this act is probably attended
with some degree of pleasure, it keeps them continually
busy in the work of impregnating the proper plant.

So much may suffice to shew how this tree came to be
peopled by this kind of insect.

I will now assign such conjectural reasons as have oc-
curred to me for the extraordinary increase of this insect
in 1737.

The succession of seven or eight mild winters, which
preceded May, 1737, might, by preserving their eggs, give
occasion to the surprising increase of these worms at that
time. And as they are one of the earliest kinds, the pro-
digious warm May of that year, so hatched their eggs for
them, that they all came to perfection. Whereas the more
common worms and flies that do not make their appearance,
till later in the season, meeting with the sharp easterly
n 2

3G

A CURIOUS PRODUCTION

winds that blow during- the months of July and August,
wTere in a good measure destroyed; otherwise it is possible
they too might have had an extraordinary increase that
summer.

However I own this reason hath its objections, and
doth not fully satisfy me. There is scarcely a year that
is not remarkable for an extraordinary production of some
one kind of insects and flies, when no colourable account
can be assigned for it, from the known temperament of the
year. Insects, as well as fevers, are epidemical, and probably
depend, like them, upon a certain unknown constitution of
the air. Nay, who knows, but all epidemic disorders are no-
thing else but prodigious flights of invisible flies, of which,
each sort, according as the constitution of the year favours
it, takes its turn to multiply from equally little worms, bred
in putrid carcasses, especially after great battles ; and
being raised from thence into the air, are wafted, not only
from one body to another, but also into distant countries.
Sydenham, and if I forget not, others have observed that
the season immediately preceding that in which the plague
raged, abounded unusually with all sorts of flies ; which
shews at least, that the constitution of the air doth at
those times greatly favour the production of those crea-
tures. Besides, as the usual preservatives against infec-
tion, such as vinegar, tobacco, rue, wormwood, &c. are
endued with very acrid and pungent particles, perhaps
they defend us from the contagion no otherwise, than by
stinging and killing the invisible flies, before they can lay
their eggs.

Be this however as it will, it is certain, there is such a
constitution as we have been speaking of, in respect both
to distempers and insects. But whence this proceeds,
whether from the sun alone, or from the joint influence of
other planets, or the transudations of mineral vapours, or
fermentation in the soil of the earth ; and farther, whether
this sort of cliraacterick in the seasons, be stational or ca-
sual, I leave the naturalist to judge. I only insist that such
a temperies or crasis there is, which, running through all
nature, doth at certain times, give more than ordinary
energy to the prolific powers of such animals or plants, as
are of nature congruous to such crasis.

OF NATURE, &C.

37

This plainly appears to us in plants of all kinds, and in
trees of all sorts and sizes, even excluding the considera-
tion of warmer or colder, of drier or moister seasons, which
only appear to have their share in this work. They fre-
quently bear more blossoms and fruit in a bad, and less in
a good season ; nay, and that season which is favourable
to one kind of vegetable, is prejudicial to another ; which
shews that every plant hath a specific vegetation of its
own, and that there is something else concerned in the bu-
siness, than mere warmth or moisture.

We may now proceed to lay it down for a rule, that the
constitution of the year disposes the vegetative spirit, whe-
ther residing in the air, the earth, the water, or in all, to
supply sometimes these, and sometimes those plants, with
a greater or less proportion of aliment. By this means a
greater quantity of that juice, which distinguishes the plant
from all others, and enables it to feed its peculiar inhabi-
tants, must necessarily be prepared, one year, than an-
other; and, consequently, the eggs deposited in the cavities,
or, perhaps, in the perspiratory pores of its bark, must be
better cherished, and the worm more plentifully fed by the
leaves, which, in such a year, contain greater abundance
of the specific juice, and that too more perfectly elaborated.
From hence it may be reasonable to rest in this conjecture,
that the annual constitution being more indulgent to the ve-
getation of one plant than another, promotes the growth of
this, which is of a similar, and checks the increase of that,
which is of a dissimilar nature. The plants, thus differently
supplied, supply their insects accordingly. Hence again
it comes to pass, that, as many kinds of birds were almost
totally destroyed by the great frost in 1739 and 1740, so,
many species of insects, having been injured by some more
delicate disposition of the air, or earth, which we can be
no otherwise sensible of, seem almost extinct in one sea-
son, and swarm out again in another, as if there had been
a new creation of them. One year the farmer complains
of a worm, not known to him before, that destroys his
corn; and the gardener does the same, in respect to another,
that falls greedily on his roots, as if they were then just
brought into being, to plague him, and waste the fruit of
his labour. The African locusts come some years into

38

A CURIOUS PRODUCTION, &C.

Spain, in such swarms, that they cover the face of the earth,
and when they have devoured the whole herbage of the
country, retire again to their own, or die, on a change of
season, and do not revisit Spain, at least in such numbers,
for many years. Not many years ago, a great part of
Germany was afflicted with such clouds of these insects,
coming from the east, as darkened the air, and devoured
almost every thing that was green. Large orchards are,
some years, suddenly stripped of all their leaves, by a
prodigious increase of the apple-tree-worm ; and whole
groves of oaks have been served in the same manner, by
the caterpillar peculiar to that tree.

If it be objected to this hypothesis of mine, that the
tree ought to increase in size, and the insect in number,
always at the same time, and in the same proportion,
whereas the contrary is plain from experience, I readily
confess, that the cornel trees have not yet recovered the
check they received from the prodigious increase of their
worms in 1737 ; but I do not think this fact bears upon my
hypothesis. The prodigious number of eggs, hatched by
the vegetative spirit of the tree, must have greatly exhausted
that spirit ; and then the worms coming out in the begin-
ning of May, before the year's growth was well begun, and
devouring all its leaves, nay, and gnawing even the tender
ends of the shoots, could not but greatly injure it, and
check its growth, especially as it was at the expense of
a second set of leaves, the same summer. Had it not
been for this drawback, it may be not unreasonable to
conclude, that the cornel might have made extraordinary
advances that season.

I have now finished what I had to say upon this sur-
prising subject, at which some gentlemen, stupidly impor-
tant, may laugh, as at an affair not worthy of so much
notice, or so many words. But for my part, who admire
not merely the bulk, but the excellence of an object, I can
find sufficient reason, in this little worm, to adore the wis-
dom and power of that God, who hath displayed those
attributes as gloriously in the minutest insects, as in the
whale or elephant.

SO ME

OBSERVATIONS

ON A LATE

RESIGNATION.

en in the year 1747 I carried over to London the
Dialogues, which make the first volume in this edition of
my works, I had inserted in the last a pretty large enco-
mium on Mr. Whiston, then alive, as on an honest man,
who had voluntarily given up his collegiate emoluments,
not conscientiously tenable on the footing of subscriptions,
and declarations, contrary to his afterward-adopted prin-
ciples. "With this encomium I had contrasted the conduct
of those established clergymen, some of them then arrived
to the highest preferments in the church by solemn sub-
scriptions to her articles, and solemn declarations of their
unfeigned assent and consent to all and every thing con-
tained in the book of common prayer, repeated at every
stage of their advancement; who nevertheless had, all
along, laboured in conversation, in the pulpit, and through
the press, not only to represent those subscriptions and
declarations as an iniquitous and pernicious tyranny in
the imposers, and as marks of slavery and servility in
the subscribers ; but had also done their utmost to per-
suade mankind, that the fundamental principles of reli-
gion, which they themselves had so often subscribed to,
and declared for, were absurd and unscriptural doctrines.

had not, however, been many days in England, ere I was
made sensible of my mistake, in regard to Mr. Whiston,
who, I found, had been removed from his professorship,
&c. by a university prosecution, after a very; strenuous
defence on his part, and the utmost struggle to retain his
emoluments.

That, which I then intended, but could not execute, for

46

SOME OBSERVATIONS ON

want of a single clergyman known in either England or
Ireland, who was justly entitled to that particular honour,
I wished to do to one who forfeits his bread for his con-
science; the Reverend Mr. Robertson, by resigning his
benefice of Rathvilly in the diocess of Leighlin and Ferns,
hath furnished rne with a fair occasion of doing.

That this gentleman is possessed of talents, equal to
any of those who have hitherto declared for, and opposed,
our articles and liturgy ; nay, and that, in regard to fine
conception and expression, he is much their superior, will,
I think, hardly be questioned by a reader of taste and
judgment. Strongly attached as I was to principles, the
very reverse of his, and deeply as I abhorred the practice
of subscribing, and writing against that very subscription ;
I was nevertheless charmed with the ingenuity of his At-
tempt, &c. a book, as agreeably written, as any thing on
so dry a subject, and as judiciously, as any thing on his
side of the question, can be. That his understanding hath
outgone those of all the other clerical writers in the same
cause, is now made too evident by his resignation, to be
at all questioned. They had sense enough to make objec-
tions, to nibble and double between their scruples and
subscriptions ; but not one of them had the force of under-
standing to see as clearly, as he did, the extreme inconsis-
tence between declaring an unfeigned assent to principles
of religion, which their consciences kicked at w ith all the
reluctance of such consciences.

The honesty of Mr. Robertson in his resignation, which
we must ascribe to a sound conscience, and an ingenuous
heart, governed by an uncommon understanding, (yet how
minute is that understanding which cannot make an honest
man !) ought indeed to be an object of love and esteem to
every man, and must be, to every honest man. Having
sacrificed his bread, and all the views of preferment, which
a man of his extraordinary merit might have reasonably
entertained, to his conscience ; in what circumstances he
is at present, I know not ; but too much reason there is to
fear, that he is not a little distressed. The clergy of his
party before his resignation, so miserably attached to
wealth, are not likely to support a man, who hath in the
severest manner exposed their prevarication by his own

A LATJi RESIGNATION.

41

integrity. Of all the clergy, the orthodox alone, who are
offended at his book, are the only ecclesiastics from whom
an honorary contribution may be reasonably expected.
Whether a mind, so high-pitched as Mr. Robertson's, would
accept of aids in this channel, equivalent at least to the
income of his late living, may be doubted; but sure I am
it ought to be tried. Nothing could do us more honour,
than an overture of this kind ; and nothing is more agree-
able to the principles we avow, if they are not, as our ad-
versaries often loudly assert, a set of merely speculative
principles. This paper will shew, that my heart in parti-
cular is as open to Mr. Robertson as to a beloved brother ;
and I am ready to prove by facts that my purse is equally
open. As soon as I can learn his address, I shall make it
my business to demonstrate both, in a more effectual way.
But I am only one, and my finances are not great. It is
for this reason, and to testify an ingenuous heart, that I thus
call on my benevolent brethren to lend their assistance in
an act of goodness, too apparent to require any farther en-
forcement.

As to Mr. Robertson's delicacy, it must be founded on
as great a mistake, as some of his notions in matters of re-
ligion, if he thinks, a tribute, paid by the good sense and
honesty of one man to the good sense and honesty of an-
other, less honourable, than the revenues of the crown are
to his majesty.

It is true, common honesty demands it of every man,
circumstanced as Mr. Robertson was, to act as Mr. Ro-
bertson hath done ; but (pardon me, reader, if it seems a
blunder) when I lament it, that common honesty is become
an uncommon thing, indeed little short of a rarity; and if
tried and proved as in this case, ought to be admired and
rewarded, like a sort of heroism. Mr. Robertson thinks in
a manner, different from us, as to matters of religion. And
do not we think in a manner different from him? But Mr.
Robertson is an honest man ; hath proved his right to this
appellation at the expense of all he had, perhaps of all he
hoped for some time ago in this life. He must therefore
be applauded, beloved, and aided, by every one, conscious
to himself of the like integrity. I know him not, but in his
ingenious book, and in his more ingenuous resignation ;

42

SOME OBSERVATIONS, &C.

but I should think myself extremely happy, were he and 1
to pass the remainder of our days together. We should
often argue, but never dispute. If we could not concur in
one creed, we should, however, coalesce in one heart ; and
our differences in point of judgment would only serve to
enliven the conversation of men, too like in dispositions,
to be entertaining to each other, without some diversity in
sentiment andopinion.

It hath been said, that his change of principles was
owing to a perusal of the Candid Disquisitions. I can
hardly think it; because Mr. Robertson's good understand-
ing must have, previously to the publication of that work,
made him a more able master of every point handled in it,
than any of its authors were; and because he is of too
open and ingenuous a heart, to be pleased with, to be
either converted or perverted, by a book so covertly and
so artfully written. At least, if this report is true, we must
do him the justice to say, the disciple is a much honester
man than his masters. Though they declare themselves to
be, all or most of them, clergymen of the established
church of England, the resignation of any one among them
is yet unknown to the world, at this day, I believe, more
than twenty years since their book appealed to the world
against the archbishop of Canterbury, and other heads of
the church, to whom it was but seemingly submitted in pri-
vate, ere it was printed, in order to a farther reformation
of the church, or, in plainer words, to an abolition of its
most fundamental principles.

JUVENILIA:

CONTAINING

TRUTH IN A MASK.

Ades, et prirai lege litoris otam.

Viro. Geoi

■ ■ Garrit aniles

F.x re fabellas.

Hor.

TO

THE RIGHT HONOURABLE

JAMES,

LORD VISCOUNT CHARLEMONT.

My Lord,

Your Lordship may remember, that, during the short space
of time in which I was charged with the care of your edu-
cation, I asked and obtained leave to dedicate the follow-
ing allusions to you : although for many and weighty rea-
sons, which, in charity, I forbear to mention here, I chose
to quit you so soon ; yet, so far as you were considered, it
was with the greatest regret I did it. As neither of us can
justly charge the other with the cause of this separation, so
give me leave to hope, that these little performances will
not be less acceptable to you, on that account, especially
as they are not presented with less good-will and esteem.
As your Lordship, and every body else who knows me, are
sensible I am very far from being a flatterer; and as I have
not now the honour to be a relative to you in any sense,
so, T hope, I should not be suspected of design or insince-
rity, though some of my sentiments, on this occasion, should
be delivered in the usual style of dedications : that style,
however, and the baseness of those who use it, as an in-
strument of their own designs, and an incentive to the
vanity of their patrons, I, from my soul, abhor ; and the
public, to your honour, shall observe, that I, who know
you, can, without the least fear of offending, address you
in quite another manner.

That estate, that rank, and those natural endowments,
which, in another dedication might be called yours, and
much enlarged on to flatter your pride, on this occasion
shall be called the property of your country, and of man-
kind, and be mentioned only to alarm you. Do not, my Lord,
let any low, designing flatterer persuade you that such ta-
lents were absolutely bestowed on you by a wise and pro-

4G

DEDICATION.

vident God. Do not listen to him ; the wretch gapes at a
reward for his detestable casuistry. I must insist on it,
they were only deposited with you for the public use, and
must be accounted for to the real owner. Infinite wisdom
could never intend so much for the use of one man. No,
my Lord, we have (I speak in behalf of the public, of which
I make a part) a just right to the utmost improvement, and
the best application you can possibly make, of all the afore-
mentioned talents, particularly, the great abilities with which
God hath enriched your mind, in comparison of which, we
esteem your fortune and titles as trifles. My intention in
speaking thus to you, is to apprize your country of the
great things they have a right to expect from you ; and
you, of the mighty debt, which, in a few years, you must
begin to discbarge. It is happy for you, my Lord, that, to
your excellent talents, God hath joined the most amiable
dispositions, without the assistance of which, it is incom-
parably more difficult, for reason and principle, to govern
a great than a little mind : yet, though good dispositions
are qualified to reflect such lustre on great talents, and lend
good principles such powerful succours, they may be, and
often are, so unhappily turned, as totally to subdue the latter,
and by that means fatally corrupt and pervert the former.

How amiably will your good nature adorn your title, if
it humbles you to a prudent degree of condescension for
persons in a lower rank ! How happily will it help you to
apply and enjoy your fortune, if it opens your heart with
tenderness and generosity to proper objects ! How glo-
riously will it employ your talents, if it attaches them to
the service of your country, and the good of mankind ! But,
if it opens your ears to flatterers, and your affections to the
followers of vicious pleasures, your great estate wont
hinder you from being a beggar, nor your title from being
the contempt of mankind, nor your fine talents from being
styled a good-natured fool. It is true, there is no being
either a good or an agreeable man, without good nature;
yet so it happens, that more young gentlemen of rank and
fortune are destroyed by that one good quality, than by all
their bad ones put together.

The adviseable disposition with which you are blessed,
will make the wisdom and goodness of all, who approach

DEDICATION.

47

you, your own, provided you can distinguish between the
real and pretended friend, between the useful and agree-
able advice. The art of doing this is highly necessary now,
and will be more so every day ; because people of your
Lordship's rank seldom get a sight of real persons or things,
and are doomed to be treated with mere appearances, during
their whole lives.

As to persons, suspect those who comply with you in
every thing, and seem to live only to give you pleasure ;
be assured they please you only for their own sakes, and
self is the grand object that terminates their views in all
the complaisance they shew you. Rather depend on him,
who, on some occasions, where truth, and the duty of a
friend, require it, disobliges, in order to set you right. Such
a person, it is to be presumed, hath no eye to himself, no
by-ends of his own. Be neither carried away by the seem-
ing wisdom, with which one sort of- advice may be incul-
cated ; nor deceived by the artifice, with which another
may be insinuated ; but strip the substance of what is re-
commended to you of all its circumstances ; maturely con-
sider it in itself, and compare it with your duty, your ho-
nour, and your real interest on the occasion.

As to things, my Lord, you are sure to be greatly, per-
haps fatally, deceived by them, if you do not examine
them with candour, I should rather say, inspect into them
with severity. They are seldom what they appear to be.
All is not good, that pleases ; nor all evil, that disgusts.
Pleasure, and that of the lowest and grossest kind, is the
quagmire, in which the wealthy heirs of this inactive and
abandoned country generally plunge themselves, their for-
tunes, and their honours; it is the foul sink, in which they
are carried down to contempt and destruction; it is a sand-
bank, which, though covered itself by the water, is, never-
theless, rendered both infamous and formidable enough by
the wrecks of a thousand great estates and families. Here
floats an empty title ; there flounders a sickly heir ; in an-
other place, fluctuate the shattered remains of a great for-
tune, that are already mortgaged to the bottom ; in a fourth
place, reputation is the sport of the winds; and the soul is
sinking, at a vast distance, from all the aids of religion.
May Heaven give you an early discernment in this matter,

4$

DEDICATION.

and not leave you to the late tuition of time and expe-
rience !

I am the more emboldened to suggest such sentiments as
these to you, and hope for success, the rather, because I
have found in you a sound and clear judgment, a readiness
to resign your inclinations to that, and the advice of your
friends, and a firmness in the midst of artful solicitations,
and severe trials, which few men are masters of. On these
excellent gifts, and dispositions, I cannot help erecting the
highest hopes, especially when I see a true love, and a deep
sense of religion affording them the most solid foundation,
and the most unerring direction. You have the honour and
happiness, my Lord, to be descended frcm ancestors, emi-
nently distinguished for true piety, and its inseparable effect,
virtue. And it is a very sensible pleasure to your friends,
that this glorious character of the family, infinitely out-
shining all its honours, is not likely to die in you. Let
others, in this libertine and abandoned age, absurdly bend
their principles to their vices; do you, my Lord, subdue the
wild and degenerate part of your nature to the dictates of
Divine wisdom. Consider what restrictions the reformation
of your affections may require, rather than what indigen-
cies the gratification of them may plead for. Consider what
principles are necessary to the preservation and well-being
of society, and to the refinement of human nature, in order
to its being exalted to a condition more commensurate to
its wishes, and the dignity of its original frame and end.
In the next place, candidly consider the Christian religion,
as a history of facts, and you will find it true, and as a
system of moral precepts, and you will find it excellent.

I have found, by experience, that the naked truth is dis-
pleasing to most people, and even shocking to many. I
have, therefore, in the following allusions, given religious
truth such a dress and mask, as may, perhaps, procure it
admittance to a conference with some of its opposers and
contemners. I have also led it out of the direct path, where
the disingenuous never look for it; because they are afraid
of finding it, that it may have an opportunity of meeting
them in their own ways. It is also as necessary, that truth
should thus go in search of many, who sincerely admire it,
but are carried to a great distance from it, by the pursuit

DEDICATION".

40

of a counterfeit truth. Light seems, at least, to fall with
greater brightness and power on our eyes, when reflected
from a mirror, than in a direct beam. Reason, in like manner,
strikes with more force at a rebound ; and, what we can
scarcely conceive, when applied directly to ourselves, wre
often suffer our minds to be convinced of, when set at a dis-
tance in somewhat else, in which our prejudices are not
concerned. The passage to most men's minds is narrow and
winding ; and therefore those truths, that cannot be thrown
in directly, must sometimes be insinuated by approaches,
that do not seem to point too fully on them. Our blessed Sa-
viour, who made the heart, knew the intricacy of its inlets,
and entered it with wonderful address by his parables : his
example alone is sufficient authority for the use of such per-
formances ; but whether the following allusions are in any
sort or degree so executed, as to answer the end proposed
by them, is humbly submitted to time, and the reader. I
shall only here observe to your Lordship, that they cannot
be understood, without a competent knowledge of church
history, and a near acquaintance with the present reigning
controversies in religion ; and that as they are calculated for
the perusal of the learned and judicious alone, so it is not
hoped they will please many. Give me leave, however, to
please myself with the imagination, that they will be re-
ceived by your Lordship, as a testimony of the most sincere
affection and esteem, from,

My Lord,

Your Lordship's most humble,

And most obedient Servant,

PHILIP SKELTON.

Nov. 14, 1743.

VOL. V.

E

JUVENILIA.

ALLUSION I.

A caterpillar happening to spy a more convenient and
inviting leaf, than that on which it crawled, advanced to-
wards it, and being just upon the point to pass from the one
to the other, was aqcosted by a fellow-worm, a citizen of
the same leaf, in the following speech : ( Brother, beware of
venturing from your present situation in quest of a better ;
I own that leaf you attempt seems to promise more tender
food, sparkles with brighter drops of dew, and makes a
loftier figure than this we live on. But then, the way thither
is dangerous. Should you, in passing from hence to it, drop
from the edge of either leaf, consider the height you are
to fall from, consider the certain ruin and death you are to
suffer, but above all, consider the loss you will sustain in
never becoming a butterfly.' 'A butterfly (said the other),
what is that?' ' It is the most beautiful kind of bird (said
he), into which every caterpillar is by nature converted at a
certain age.' ' What assurance can I have (said the tra-
velling worm) that such a change shall happen to me, should
I live to that age in which you say it always happens ? for
could I be well assured of it, I should be less willing to ha-
zard my life for pleasure or promotion ; the difference be-
tween one leaf and another being nothing in comparison
with the happiness of becoming a bird.' ' You may be fully
satisfied (replied the other) provided you can credit what I
tell you, without a possibility of having any other interest
in so doing, than the pleasure of preserving my friend and
fellow-insect.

' I lived in a miserable ignorance of the happy change
incident to caterpillars, till the rising of yesterday's sun,
Avhich no sooner began to shine upon us over the edge
of that leaf to which you aspire, and which you know for
some time throws its shadow upon ours, but I was sur-
prised with the sight of a creature the most beautiful I had
ever beheld, situated so near me, that I could view it to full
E 2

.52

JUVENILIA.

advantage, which, whilst I was doing with great amazement
and pleasure, it told me that my astonishment at its figure
and colour would be much increased, did I know that it was
a creature of the same origin and kind with myself. Surely,
it is impossible, said I, that a creature whose body is covered
with such elegant down, and whose look is rendered so ma-
jestic by those tall and straight horns that shoot from your
forehead, should have ever been in the odious and abject
condition of a caterpillar. It is impossible, said I again,
with a deep sigh, that so glorious a bird, whose wings rising
to such a height from your back, discover such variety
of colours so beautifully disposed, that the finest flowers,
or even the most sparkling gems in the drops of dew, are
scarce equal to them, should have any affinity with such a
wretched crawling worm as I am.

« Be not so incredulous (answered the wonderful bird);
it is but a short time since I found myself awaking out of
a state little differing from that of death, and bursting a cer-
tain shell in which I had lain protected, I know not how
long. I perceived I was hanging at the very same place to
which I had fixed myself some time before, when a cater-
pillar. The wonder of this soon gave way to the greater
pleasure and amazement that attended my transformation,
which was infinitely increased upon my moving these wings,
and finding I could pass with such expedition through
the air. I no sooner knew my power, but I employed it in
the gratification of my curiosity. I roamed from flower to
flower, from tree to tree, and saw things impossible to be
described by me, or conceived by you. Transported with
the beauty, the magnificence, and variety of such objects,
I spend my days in pleasures, as inexpressible as the won-
ders that excite them. My understanding is no less enlarged,
than the means afforded to its improvement by these wings,
with which, as I can transport myself in a moment to a
greater distance than you can in many days; so with the
like wonderful agility of mind, I can vary the objects of my
contemplation, even while I remain fixed in the same place.
Whilst my body can make such swift flights on these wings,
I can, with the greatest ease and expedition, remove to
the means of newr delights, when cloyed with the old ; or
elude those dangers with unimaginable agility, which to the

JUVENILIA.

53

slow-paced caterpillar, are unavoidable. But such is the
activity of ray thoughts, that they leave even these wings
far behind, and make such noble sallies from myself, that
I can foresee the dangers, and taste the delights of places,
to which I am not yet arrived. Preserve thyself, my friend,
concluded the lovely bird, for this happy state, to which, if
thou be not wanting to thyself in care and prudence, nature
shall one day bring thee.

' So saying he flapped his wings and rose into the air,
farther than my eye could well attend him, and returned
again, accompanied by several others, as beautiful as him-
self. They seemed to divert themselves by sporting with
each other in the air, whilst the sun, methought, shone on
their wings with more pleasure and lustre, than on all the
works of nature. In hopes of becoming one of these, I
am resolved to take all possible care to preserve my life,
and not risk it for such enjoyments as caterpillars are
capable of ; and you, my dear friend, desist from your dan-
gerous attempt. In the same delightful assurance of a
happy transformation, so far despise the pleasures of your
present reptile condition, as by no means to hazard those
that are incomparably more desirable for them.'

Here he ceased, and the rash, adventurous caterpillar
replied. ' For all this incredible tale, sir, I have only your
word, which others, more easy of belief than me, may listen
to, if they please ; but for my part, I will choose those
smaller enjoyments, which I see before me on that
other leaf, because they are present and sensible, rather
than abstain in distant hopes of higher delights, which I
have only another's word for. Nature courts me to enjoy-
ment, and I will not resist. As for you, you may take your
own way, and distract the present moment, which alone you
can command, with an idle and whimsical concern for the
future, of which you have neither knowledge nor posses-
sion. But why do I trifle away my precious moments in
this idle speculation? It is loss of time to consider how to
spend it, when instinct is so ready both to prompt and to
direct. Fare thee well, my friend ; live thou in hopes,
whilst I live in pleasures ; and much good may thy gay,
party-coloured wings do thee, when thou shalt have tucked
them on, thou believing and obliging caterpillar.'

54

JUVENILIA.

With this he attempted the passage, but fell to the
ground sorely bruised ; which, together with the heat of the
earth on which he lay, in a few moments put an end to the
life of the poor incredulous worm. The other, pursuant to
his resolution, lived careful of his life, fixed himself to a
place pointed out to him by his winged adviser, and the
next season changed his narrow shell for the wide range of
the air, and the privilege of visiting a thousand fields, with
all the sweets the spring and summer produce.

ALLUSION II.

On the bank of the Thames stood a young oak, which by
the freshness of its bark, and the vigour of its shoots, proved
itself sound and the soil strong; it gained upon the clouds
by swift advances, and seemed to aspire towards heaven
with a more exalted head than all the trees of the forest.
Its upright stem that rose to a vast height, without any
considerable branches, looked graceful in a calm, and
waved majestic in the wind. Below, it was clothed with a
plain and comely bark, nor wanted it above the ornaments
of fair and goodly leaves. The birds seemed to rejoice in
perching on its twigs ; and as it raised them nearer to hea-
ven than any other tree, seemed to sing their Maker's praise
among its branches with peculiar delight. For this all
other trees are said to have hated, and even its brother
oaks to have envied it. To what noble heights it would
have ascended is impossible to tell, had not one of its
branches dissented from the stem, and carried off with it a
great part of the strength that should have fed and aggran-
dized the head. It swelled and spread into variety of lesser
ramifications, and seemed to set up for an independent
tree. It was crooked and misshapen, and rather inflexible
than strong. The owls perched upon its boughs, and the
ravens nested among its branches. When the head of the
tree perceived its pride, its dissenting and rebellious spirit,
it ceased to shoot higher into the air, but spread above into
large and shady branches, that took up a wide space, and
afforded a secure shelter against storms, from which it pro-

JUVENILIA.

55

tected even the rebellious branch that grew beneath. But
so unreasonable was that ambitious and malecontent
bough, that it broke forth at last, into the following bitter
expostulation. * O thou overgrown branch (for it would
not call it head) with what assurance canst thou intercept
the sun and the dew from me, who have an equal right to
them with thyself? With what justice canst thou draw to
thee all the sap and substance of those common roots, to
which the several branches of the tree are equally entitled ?
Permit me, thou proud oppressor, to enjoy my natural
rights. Is it because I am lowly-minded, and have placed
myself in an humble station, that thou bearest thy head so
far above me, and insultest me with the rain at second-
hand? How much stronger had our tree been, how much
more majestic had it appeared, hadst thou suffered me to
mix with thee, and make one top of both. Our united
strength and beauty had raised us far above all other trees,
and made us queen of the forest. Then should the British
oak have exceeded the cedar of Libanus ; then should the
Thames have reflected nobler shades in its clear and peace-
ful streams, than all the rivers of other lands, than the
Rhone, the Elbe, or the Tiber. Cease then thy pride, and
give me room to rise, or I shall gall thy sides, and join the
thorn, and thy other enemies, to destroy thee.'

To this the oak's shady head replied, with a sigh that
was heard through all the grove. ' Instead of answering thy
speech, made up of complaints and insults, with that dis-
dain which the lofty top might look down with on strag-
gling and dissenting branches, I shall reason with, thee as
if thou wert my equal. Thou shalt see, that although I am
high, I am not proud, as thou wouldst represent me ; but
willing to give thee an answer, although thy presumption,
and the justice of my cause, might warrant my silence.
First, thou takest it for granted that I am but thy fellow-
branch, which, were it true, I ought to be allowed the pre-
cedence due to my birthright, as the elder branch. But I
am the head of the tree, and it is thy own fault that thou
art beneath, and not a part of the head. Why didst thou
dissent from the main stem, before it had formed itself into
a head? Was it thy humility? No, thou didst, for some
time, vie in pre-eminence with me ; and even now art only

56

JUVENILIA.

discontented because thou art not upon a level with, or
higher than me. If thou wert so very humble, why should-
est thou stomach the lowness of thy situation? Is it not
of thy own choosing? Is it not suitable to that humility
thou pretendest? Wouldst thou have two heads upon the
same tree ? No, I know thou wouldst not. It is thy am-
bition to oppress me, and rise alone thyself. Thou would-
est rather be the head of that low, that crooked and decrepit
tree, thy designs, if successful, must make us, than be a
part of it, stately as it is. Thou wouldst rather have us
resemble that fir, which hath lost its main top, in the room
of which one of its branches, before on a level with the rest,
presumes to top it; than that other, which always shooting
upwards, in a direct stem, riseth to such a height. How
stunted, how distorted, how awkward is the first ! How
graceful, how majestic the latter! But supposing thou
shouldst only aspire to an equality with me, being satis-
fied to share that power, which I now enjoy entire ; even so,
thy ambition would be as detrimental to our glory as it
could, were it carried to greater heights. Look round thee
and behold the miserable figure those plauts make, who
have shot out into more tops than one ; how low, how de-
formed, how entangled by the brambles, how overborne by
the higher trees that grow near them ! Mark that oak our
next neighbour, that rises with two stems, almost from the
ground. Its strength is not doubled, but divided, and it is
impossible its separation should ever sutler it to become
considerable. How the one stem galls the other ! What a
rot there is between, the habitation of foul insects, and
troublesome flies ! How its branches, in time of storm, fret
each other, and impoverish it in the midst ! Call not that
humility in thyself, which has only happened by a disap-
pointment of thy ambition, and is owing to the superiority
of my genius. Thou art low, but it is not with thy will, as
may be gathered from thy own complaints and discontents.
Nor call it pride in me, that I lift my head towards heaven,
whither all the trees of the forest, nay, the humblest shrubs,
and even the grass aspires. Favoured by the genius that
directs the water to my roots, and parts the clouds, to let
the sun-beams down upon my leaves, I hope at least to
preserve my present exaltation, and, if thou and the axe do

J UVENILIA.

57

not prevent me, to rise yet higher towards those blue
plains that lie above me. Call me not oppressor, who pro-
tected thee with thy ravens from yesterday's storm, and
bore all the violence of its wind and hail myself; and who
only overshadow thee, either to defend thee, or protect the
main interest of the oak, from that ruin, which thy pride
and dissension would certainly bring upon it, were they
fed by the sunshine and the dew. What I do, thou thyself
dost compel me to ; and it is with great sorrow, that I be-
hold thee separated from the other branches, and envious
of the glory of the whole, which thou oughtest rather to
augment, by making thyself more a part of it. I take not
from thee what is thine; but thou unjustly claimest, as of
particular right, what belongs to the whole. Thou art my
shame and reproach amongst trees, the check of my growth,
and the destroyer of my beauty. Well didst thou say that
we should be the queen of the forest, had we been united ;
but to give us that majesty which we want, whether is it
more reasonable, that thou shouldest ascend in one trunk,
and become a part of our common head, or that I should
lower my glories, and shrink into thee, who ait by confes-
sion only an inferior branch, and as it is evident to all the
forest, of a sidelong and distorted growth ? I know thee
an alien from the stem out of which thou springest, and
which thou wouldest draw aside. I know thy spleen, and
expect the usual effects of the selfish spirit that actuates
thy crooked nature. However, stick thou to thy malice,
and I will abide by my resolution. Know, that I hold
thee too inconsiderable to destroy my life, although
thou mayest impair my power ; but if thou shouldest be
able to destroy me, remember, in so doing, that thou de-
stroyest thyself. Thou shalt be little if I continue ; if I
perish thou shalt be nothing. To the genius of our tree I
- refer my cause, and recommend my preservation. Live
thou, although to repine and curse me for thy own follies.'

58

JUVENILIA.

ALLUSION III.

Not far from the verge of a spacious forest stood a sheep-
fold, the possession of a careful and wealthy shepherd. So
strong and so high were its fences, that the wolf and the
tiger in vain attempted to overleap them. Even the lion
roaring for his prey was forced to seek it elsewhere ; here
there was no entrance for the proud destroyer. Many a
quiet night had the tender flock reposed itself within its
wooden fortification, and fearless heard the neighbouring
forest echo with the cry of ravenous beasts. But at length
a ram or two of more boldness than became sheep, began
to persuade their fellows, that they spent their nights like
slaves and cowards, and in a way unbecoming sheep of
spirit.

' * Come (says one of these heroes a little more eloquent
than the rest), come, my fellow-rams, and my dearest ewes,
let us sally from this miserable pen, in which we are ra-
ther imprisoned by the tyranny of man, than protected
from the fury of wild beasts. Let us sally, I say, into the
open plains, and enjoy that delightful liberty, in which the
free denizens of the forest spend their happy days. O li-
berty ! liberty ! thou inviting condition, how desirable art
thou to the wretch in confinement, who pants and pines for
thy charms ! how delightful to the generous soul, that dis-
dains restraint, and thinks even its body a confinement !

' Is it not most unworthy, is it not most shameful, my
fellows, to take laws from animals of another kind, and
live by rules altogether foreign to our nature? To what
end our slender limbs, and the swiftness of our feet, if we
are to be cooped up within such narrow limits, or driven
about at the pleasure of a slow-paced and sluggish animal ?
To what end these formidable horns, that arm our brows,
which, helped by the rapidity of our career, make our on-
sets irresistible, if we are to owe our safety to artificial
arms in the hands of man? All animals are provided by
nature for their own support, and armed for their own de-

* Tins speech is founded on the reasonings, and accommodated to the manner, of
lord Shaftesbury.

JUVENILIA.

59

fence. Since nature hath been as bountiful to us as others,
let us enjoy her gifts, and live according to nature. O na-
ture ! nature ! nature ! thou sovereign of the world ! thou
mighty empress of the creation! thou mild mother and
cherishing nurse of all! when shall I break forth from sla-
vish rules, and fly to thee ? When shall I pursue thy .dic-
tates unrestrained by laws, by servile and tyrannic laws?
It is better thou shouldest lead me, than that man should
drive me. Is not thy wisdom inexhaustible ? are not thy
directions infallible? why should others be added? to
what end should those of man be superinduced ? I feel, I
feel thee kindling in my breast ! behold it enlarges to take
thee in, thou generous, thou welcome guest, thou only law-
ful sovereign ! Let me now, long enslaved to strange arts
and unnatural inventions, with pristiue sense of thee, adore
thy power, and invoke thy assistance, not only to free my-
self, but also to restore the liberty of these my kindred and
my fellows. And, O you dear sharers of my good and evil
fortune, join one and all to assert with me the natural li-
berty of our kind. No more be driven in herds, but join
in arms. No more be pent within this narrow fold, but
issue forth into the spacious plains, and range without re-
straint the flowery fields ; as free, as dauntless as that ram-
pant lion, that shakes the echoing forest with his roar, and
terrifies mankind, our coward masters.'

So saying he ceased, and such of the flock, as were
moved with his harangue, found means to elope with him
from the fold. As soon as they had their legs at liberty,
they played a thousand gambols in the neighbouring
grounds, frisking and insulting the poor cowardly slaves,
as they called them, that kept within the sheepfold. They
were wondrous witty at the expense of the tame wretches
that had not spirit to venture as they did. They rambled
round the fields; they straggled through the forest. The
lion devoured one ; the bear worried another ; and some of
those that survived suffered so much, that they heartily re-
pented of their ill-advised rashness, in quitting the care of
the shepherd, and the protection of the sheepfold. In this
miserable plight, one somewhat more sensible of their af-
flictions and dangers than the rest, thus bespoke his fel-
lows :

60

JUVENILIA.

f Although it is not many days since we quitted a place
of safety, under the specious pretence of liberty and en-
largement, to expose ourselves to dangers and hardships,
which we might have been sufficiently aware of, had we not
been blinded by appearances, and spirited away from rea-
son and safety, by the plausible harangue of one, who was
so cunning as to impose upon himself as well as us ; yet
we have had time enough to make woful trial of our folly,
and feel the melancholy effects of it, in a great variety of
misfortunes. We have been told fine things of nature, and
taught to follow her as our only guide and security. But
either we have mistaken her, or she is unable to perform
those promises, which our ringleaders have falsely made
us in her name. Are not the natures of all other things en-
tered into a conspiracy, to punish our presumption? We
dare not repose ourselves in the grass for fear of being
stung by serpents, or bit by other poisonous worms. Every
thorn wounds our tender legs, and every brier seizes us by
the wool, and tears off our fleeces. We have neither swift-
ness sufficient to fly from, nor strength to resist the beasts
of prey, that seem to have a peculiar taste for our blood.
There are a thousand things to frighten us, and our own
natural timidity adds ten thousand more, that are not real.
Should we live to see the summer at an end, which is al-
most impossible, how shall we encounter the difficulties of
the winter 1 Although there were neither bears, nor tigers,
nor lions to invade us, yet the frosts, the snows, and the
dreadful storms of wind and rain are not to be resisted by
any defence which creatures so feeble and improvident can
make against them. Had we not widely mistaken nature,
we might easily have seen that she never designed us for
an independent state. It never was her intention to form
any thing absolutely capable of subsisting apart from other
things. To make one whole of all her works, she hath left
every thing deficient in some particular, which is to be sup-
plied by another, in order to combine the whole. Between
us and man there seems to be a natural, original, and ne-
cessary league arising from the exigencies of both, which
we mutually supply. As for our part, it is but too plain
that we cannot subsist without his help ; he prepares our
food by the sweat of his own brow ; he cures our distem-

JUVENILIA.

01

pers ; and he erects such fences round us, as are neces-
sary to protect us from the fury of our foes. Surely to treat
us in this manner, is by no means tyrannic. So far we are
from being slaves to man, that he rather seems to render us
such attendance as could be expected from nothing but a
servant. And what have we gained by our elopement from
him, but the privilege of being more exposed to dangers,
and more distracted by fears, than while we permitted him
to watch for us ? O liberty, how much do we mistake thee !
If this is to be free, give me back again the happy security
of my former confinement. While I kept within our fold,
in that place at least, I could do what I pleased ; but now,
nowhere. I have only multiplied my masters, and en-
larged my slavery ; and all this, for the fantastic hope of
being assisted and protected by nature in the most unna-
tural attempt that folly or frenzy could inspire. I am re-
solved, if I can escape the dangers that lie between me and
the fold, to return, and put myself again under the protec-
tion of man. It is~better to help out the natural weakness
of my kind, by the wisdom and power of a superior nature,
than perish in the lion's paws, as the speediest relief I can
hope from the distress of my present condition. As for
you, my friends, I do not expect you should follow either
my advice or example, so strongly doth your vanity seem
still to possess you. Fare ye well, and learn from farther
calamities, what you have been too stupid to gather from
the former.'

ALLUSION IV.

In the garden of a wealthy farmer stood a bee-hive, inha-
bited by a nation of frugal and laborious bees, than which
no other was governed by an abler king, or wiser laws.
And as the garden with the adjacent country abounded
with all such flowers as that climate in the several seasons
was wont to produce, so they made store of honey, lived
peaceably and plentifully within themselves, and planted
so many colonies as reached almost from one end to the
other of the quickset that defended them from the northerly

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winds. But as bees are fallible as well as men, their pub-
lic happiness began at last to be disturbed by a spirit of
party and dissension ; the origin of which was this. There
was a certain daily tribute of honey paid to the king or
master-bee, as he is called among men, which by law and
custom immemorial was to be extracted from the sweetest
flowers, and presented pure and fine to the royal bee. The
king appointed certain officers to collect this tribute, whose
business it was, not to force it from the people, but to re-
ceive it as a free-will offering. Although his right was
unquestionable, and his power irresistible, yet he was bet-
ter pleased that his subjects should give, than that he
should exact, and thought love a better medium of govern-
ment than power. His officers therefore were only to ex-
hort them to a voluntary and generous payment of the
royal dues, and in all other respects, to such a behaviour
as becomes good subjects and honest citizens. Between
these and the people there arose certain disputes about the
purity and goodness of the honey set apart for the king's
use. From hence it began to be debated what was the
purest honey, and which the sweetest flowers. Concerning
this matter there were many and warm disputes among the
people; nor were the officers of the crown less divided.
There differences did not stop here, nor were they long
confined to the king's revenues ; for a thousand idle scru-
ples began to be raised about the honey that was to be
made for common use. Eveiy different opinion was sup-
ported by a sect and party of its own; and, such was the
extravagant humour of the times, the more wild and fan-
ciful any of these notions were, the more numerous usually
were its abettors. Some were for having the hone}' made
at all seasons, maintaining that so good a work should
never be intermitted ; others contended to have the work
confined to certain seasons ; insisting, that in foul weather,
it was impossible to work, and that, as for the king's honey
in particular, it ought only to be wrought on certain days
set apart and consecrated to that particular purpose.
There was not a flower in the field that had not a party in
its favour, and that was not condemned and prohibited by
the party of some other flower: so that, had they collected
honey from none but such as no party had declared against,

JUVENILIA.

G3

they must have collected none at all. Each party took a
name either from the flower it affected, or the ringleader it
followed, and these names were contended for with all
imaginable zeal and earnestness by numbers that knew
nothing of their own party principles, and were kept warm
only by the name. One of the king's principal officers set
up a very powerful sect under the name of financers, so
called, because they pretended to farm the king's revenues,
and tax all petitions delivered to his majesty, as having
the sole right of presenting them in themselves. Many
were the impositions and usurpations of this sect, which
for some time tyrannized over the rest, notwithstanding
that the king, unwilling to inflict condign punishment on
so great a part of his subjects who were misled by these
financers, protested against their proceedings, and disal-
lowed the authority by which they acted, in frequent ma-
nifestoes. But at length the better sort of bees becoming
dissatisfied with their unwarranted usurpations, shook off
their authority, and paid their tribute to the king through
more honest and less oppressive officers. However, even
these fell out among themselves, partly about the former
differences that had embroiled the hive, and partly about
new ones arising from ignorance, or zeal, or ambition.
And, as on former occasions, what could not be determined
by the tongue, was decided by the sting; so now again
they began to fight for their several opinions. Great was
the confusion, and miserable the slaughter that ensued
upon these unhappy dissensions ; the whole hive raged with
fury and uproar; the king's revenues remained unpaid, and
the public work was at a stand till the needless niceties
about the manner of doing it should be settled.

Things being brought to this pass, an ancient bee, who
had always distinguished himself, not only by his industry
in the public work, and a punctual discharge of the king's
dues, but also by the readiest obedience to the king's of-
ficers, and by a meek and gentle spirit in the midst of tur-
bulent and contentious times, assembled all the citizens of
the hive in the vacant space on the floor; and with that
authority which his well-known wisdom and integrity had
given him, leaning from a comb that hung over them, ad-
dressed them in the following manner :

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JUVENILIA.

* My dear fellow-subjects, it is not because our king
wants either authority or power to reduce us to the obe-
dience we owe him, and the peace and good agreement Ave
owe ourselves, that he rather chooses to let reason and ex-
perience make us sensible of our interest, than to compel
us to our duty by force ; but because he desires to rule with
clemency rather than rigour, and as a king among bees,
not a tyrant over wasps. The frenzy and rebellion that
have possessed us, might justify more severe methods in
our king ; but those he seems to defer as the last remedy.
Let me in the mean time, with that honest zeal which I
have always endeavoured to demonstrate in the service of
the public, try if I can prevent the necessity of harsher
means, by applying those of reason and sober advice. Let
me earnestly entreat you to remember those happy times,
when there were no differences among us ; how pure was
our honey, and how plentiful our stores ! with what kind
affection did we assist and encourage each other in the
public work ! how agreeably did the sense of our general
interest sweeten all our toils ! and how joyfully did we feast
on the delicious stores provided for us by our mutual la-
bours, and secured by our unanimous counsels! the only
contention then was, who should set least by himself, and
promote the public welfare with the greatest zeal and abi-
lity. Did any of you pine through want then, as you do
at present? was your provision disagreeable or unwhole-
some to you? or, can any of you say that your king slighted
his free-will offering as scanty or unclean? What moved
you then to raise such idle scruples about that which
was to be presented to him, seeing he never shewed the
smallest disrelish to it? why do you contend about the
manner of preparing that which you are to share among
yourselves, since before your pernicious refinements, our
honey was pure and perfect, our subsistence plentiful, and
our enjoyment of it peaceable and fearless ? Suspend your
contentious spirits, cool your party zeal for a moment, and
calmly reflect how absurd it must be to spend that time in
disputing how your honey ought to be made, which should
be actually employed in the making it? nay, what wild in-
fatuation must such scrupulous disquisitions argue in you,
who knew so well before how to provide all things neces-

JUVENILIA.

05

sary for the public weal ? For shame, cease your airy spe-
culations, fit only for the idle and brain-sick, and betake
yourselves to the solid practice of that knowledge which
you had at first, and which will always be sufficient for
you, if you do not puzzle it away with vain refinements.
To what end are your disputes, if they are to last for ever?
do you not perceive that the summer is far advanced, that
the winter approaches apace, and that we are utterly un-
provided of that which is absolutely necessary, while you
are busied in trifling debates about certain useless niceties,
that spring from the intemperance and luxury of your own
imaginations ? Why will you dispute about the most conve-
nient seasons for making honey, when you will not make
it at any ? Why will you strive about the flowers out of
which it is to be gathered, when you will not gather it at
all ? A wasp, such is the malignity of its nature, extracts
poison out of all kinds of herbs and flowers, as well the
wholesome as the baneful. So, on the contrary, a bee, let
the flowers be what they will among which it plies, draws
wholesome and odoriferous honey. Let me therefore be-
seech each of you to gather from such flowers as lie nearest,
in order to make the quickest returns; or from such as fur-
nish the greatest abundance of sweet juices, that our sup-
ply may be the more plentiful; or from whatever flowers
he is best pleased with, provided he do not fail in bringing in
every day the quantity required. Let me advise you all
to lay by those party names by which you have distin-
guished yourselves, and embroiled this kingdom, and to
value yourselveSi not upon the name or credit of a sect,
but upon the privileges of our excellent constitution. Let
me also advise you, who are appointed public inspectors of
the work, to receive all good and wholesome honey that is
brought you, and to stow it immediately, without inquiring
what hour of the day it was gathered, or from what vege-
tables extracted. Our king, thanks to his unlimited boun-
ty, has given us a free grant of all the gardens and fields,
and proclaimed the various flowers that bloom at the se-
veral seasons, or enamel the whole face of the earth, to be
clean and fit for the use of bees. Let not one part of us
pretend to live upon the labour of the more industrious,
vol. v. F

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while they spend their time in disputing about opinions,
which, be they ever so right, they have no inclination to
put in practice. It is of dangerous consequence to ridi-
cule those as silly, unskilful, or slavish, who honestly
labour for the common support of our society. There are
many among us that pretend to direct and dictate, without
any authority from our king; and others, who although au-
thorized, take the liberty to contend with and rail at one
another, while they should give all their diligence to regu-
late the public affairs. When his majesty thinks it conve-
nient, no doubt he will punish the first as intruders, and the
last as disturbers of the public peace. By unanimity and
mutual assistance we shall again thrive. If we lay by our
vain and foolish speculations, and industriously apply our-
selves to the necessary business of the hive, we shall again
flourish. Peace, and security, and plenty shall be again
restored. The fields shall contribute their golden wealth,
and the gardens their rich perfumes. But, if we shall still
persist in our absurd and dangerous folly, let us remember
that we have a king, who since he cannot reform us by
his counsels, will undoubtedly subdue us to a sounder
and better mind by that power which he holds not in vain.

' We may be sure he will neither be regardless of our
interest nor his own honour. Choose you now whether you
will be wisely led by advice to consult your safety, or be
forced into a better conduct by the unhappy effects of your
present folly, and of the royal displeasure. It is true, I
am but one of yourselves, and no farther authorized to
speak in public, than as reason, necessity, and concern for
the public calamity have imboldened me. However, it is
your interest to be guided by reason, although it should
be conveyed to you through the meanest vehicle, as well
as to gather honey from flowers the least showy or stately.'

Saying this, he withdrew. The bees, ashamed of their
past folly and perverseness, and tired with the miseries
their broils and contentions had brought upon them, be-
take themselves, silent and repenting, to labour and in-
dustry. Nor was it long ere they had sufficient reason to
rejoice at the restoration of their ancient simplicity; for
with it peace, wealth, and order returned, and all things

JUVENILIA.

07

were set to rights within, while each bee, studious of the
common good, cheerfully traded among the meadows and
fields, and gladly saluted his fellow-citizens as he met them
among the flowers.

ALLUSION V.

It was about the middle of summer, when nature enriches
the fields, and stores the gardens with unstinted bounty,
that a pretty numerous company of students and other
gentlemen, set out .from Oxford for London. As they were
most of them men of taste, and particularly enamoured of
nature, with a certain cast to freedom of thought, they
communicated their observations on the country they rode
through, to the no small entertainment of each other, al-
though there was scarce any agreement in their sentiments
or tastes. Some were best pleased with gardens, others
with fields. The rivers had their admirers, and the new-
mown meadows, with their haycocks, theirs. This liked
one gentleman's seat, and that another ; and if there was
any thing in which they agreed, it was in commending the
commons and the downs, inasmuch as, there principally,
nature and liberty appeared. This diversity of sentiment
afforded at first a good deal of variety to their conversation,
and gave it a sprightliness that does not always attend a
uniformity of taste and opinion in company. However,
it was not long ere it degenerated into disputation, each
party growing so warm in defence of his own, and contra-
diction of the opposite opinion, that the most positive
bigots could not have expected greater resignation from
others, than these free, these fair and candid thinkers.
They all talked at once, and wrangled with such vehemence
and noise, that other travellers who met them, thought them
mad, and those who dwelt by the road, came out to stare,
while their dogs barked, the boors shouted, and the con-
cert consisted of the most confused set of noises that were
ever heard.

All this time Aerius, who had ever before been careful
to have his share of noise and contention, was quite silent,
f2

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and seemed so unusually wrapped up in thought, that the
rest, happening to observe him, ceased all of a sudden, and
fixing their eyes on him, expected in deep suspense the issue
of such intense meditation. As soon as he found there was
silence made, he broke it with a loud exclamation.

' O, how miserably are we debarred of our natural
rights and privileges ! Behold that garden, a spot of deli-
cious ground, to which all mankind have an equal right,
enclosed by strong walls, and engrossed by one ! Nay,
behold the whole country on our right hand and on our left,
that ought to be as free as light or air, occupied by par-
ticular persons, who call themselves owners and lords of
it, and all its produce! Away with these hedges and
ditches erected here without my consent, to shut me and
mankind out from our own ! Who can endure, that, of all
this noble country, so stored with the necessaries of life,
and the materials of pleasure, not a foot should be left us,
but this narrow road, bare and barren, and void even of
nourishment, for the beasts that carry us ; insomuch, that
we are forced to purchase necessaries on the road, and
submit to buy our own, or starve. Is it not, my friends,
the mark of a most slavish and abject spirit, to suffer our-
selves to be cooped up between the ditches that bound this
road, to follow the crowd, to jog on contented with the beasts
of burden, while we dare not pass into our own grounds,
while we dare not pull those flowers, nor taste those fruits
that spring spontaneous from a soil, common to mankind,
and reserve not their sweets with an intention to please
any particular person, but invite all, and areas ready to
regale you or me, as him that presumes to monopolize
them. As for this dull beaten track, I leave it to the
wretches that are satisfied to be led or driven by others.
Let them poorly content themselves with the confinement
and restraint that others are pleased to lay upon them,
since they have not resolution to assert their own, nor spirit
to trace out a free and generous path for themselves. I,
for my own part, will dismount immediately from this
horse ; such helps I despise, they are a false acknowledg-
ment of weakness, I have legs of my own, of sufficient
strength, and shall not borrow from an animal so much
my inferior. Where is the good of thinking freely, if I

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69

may not act with suitable freedom? Whilst nothing in
nature, no not even reason itself, can bound my thoughts ;
must I suffer ditches to confine my feet, and locks my
hands ? How dare any man shut me from my natural and
indefeasible rights ? Are not these grounds mine, as well
as his that has caused these arbitrary fences to be made ?
He might as well presume to measure out the sea by
marches and mearings, and erect particular possession and
dominion on the waters ; taxing the fish, and renting out
the waves, as to engross any part of the land, which was
at first as common as the sea, and hath been since can-
toned and occupied by tyrants and oppressors, whose rights
I disallow, as I defy their power.'

There was something so new in this resolution, so free
in the expostulations with which it was defended, so ani-
mated in the whole harangue, that, like the cry of a master-
hound, it opened the mouths of the whole pack, who, almost
to a man, seconded what he said with a loud cry of nature
and liberty, and forthwith declared against the common
road, and were preparing to take the fields, when Polites,
who loved freedom as well as Aerius,but knew how to dis-
tinguish between that and madness, observing that they
were in earnest, begged that Aerius would, in the name of
the rest, answer him a few questions before they parted,
which was readily granted him, and it produced the follow-
ing short dialogue.

Polites. ' Pray, Aerius, with what intention did we leave
Oxford?'

Aerius. ' To visit London.'

Polites. * Ought we not to take the readiest, the safest,
and the most agreeable way thither ?'

Aerius. * No doubt, w e ought ; and there it is ; directly
over those fields, and through that garden.'

Polites. ' Why do you not think the highway a more
ready path to London, than over hedge and ditch, after
Will-with-the-wisp ?'

Aerius. ' By no means. It winds and turns so many
different ways, and makes such needless semicircles and
angles, that I have not patience to follow it. Not I. I
am for the near cut. I love to go the shortest way to my
point. Order the road to be cut in a right line, and then

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perhaps I may not altogether disapprove it ; but remember,
it must be mathematically direct, or I will have nothing to
say to it.'

Polites. ' How can that be done, when it is to serve other
people's occasions, as well as yours, and must now and
then make an elbow at a country town, that there may be
a communication thence to the city V

Aerius. * Pugh. What have I to do with other people's
occasions? What serves all, serves none effectually. If I
can find a shorter, that shall serve my occasions.'

Polites. 'But how can you find a shorter? Setting
aside the labour of leaping ditches, and scrambling through
hedges, is it possible for you to pass from hence in a right
line to London ? Every hill you come to, will oblige you
to quit your direct path, and betake yourself to a curve.
There is no darting through the centre of a hill, to avoid
going about. Then, a lake, or a rapid river, or a walled
town, will put you quite out, in spite of your teeth. At the
end of your journey, you will certainly find, that travelling
on the open road with a good horse under you, was a
readier way than trudging it on foot, through briars and
thorns. We will give you demonstration for that, by seeing
a good part of the town before you arrive.'

Aerius. 1 Why look you, Polites, that may be, because
we shall be greatly taken up in contemplating the beauties
of nature as we pass through them. But perhaps the high
road may be the readier of the two. I am sure, you will
allow, it is not the safer. Such imposition at inns, on a
road so beset with footpads and highwaymen, greatly
frightens me. Give me the rural honesty of those fruitful
fields, and flowery lawns, where I may walk, or sleep,
or divert me as I list, without fear of robbers or pick-
pockets.'

Polites. * Have a care how you call names, Aerius ;
those persons whom you asperse, are men of the same way
of thinking, and the very same principles with yourself.'

Aerius. ' With me, sir ! No, sir, I am a man of honour,
sir, and would scorn to rob or pilfer.'

Polites. * How do you mean? are not all things in
common?'

Aerius. ' Yes, sir, so I hold.'

J UVENILIA.

7J

Polites. ' Is not therefore the money in my pocket as
much yours as mine V

Aerius. ' Undoubtedly it is.'

Polites. ' And is not the money in your fob as much
mine as yours ?'

Aerius. ' Hum. Why, why ; I believe it must.'

Polites. ' Well, then, what need you fear on the great
road, since you carry nothing but what you acknowledge
to be the right of any man you meet? And, why will you
load people with reproachful names of thief and robber, for
claiming what they have a natural right to ; and which, if
you refused, you must be an encloser and a monopolizer,
by your own principles, as much as he that shuts you out
of a piece of your ground, which he calls his garden, be-
cause he hath built a wall about it, and carries the key ?
Then, again, I am surprised to hear you talk of imposition
at inns, as if the host could do you any injustice, who
carry his money as well as your own. Nay, is he not very
civil in giving you either meat or drink for money, wrhich
he hath as good a right to as yourself?'

Aerius. ' Civil ! there you are out. Have not I a right
to his meat and drink ? Are they not mine ? Is not all
he hath my own? Are we not free? And what is liberty
without property ? Liberty that hath bounds is no liberty,
but unbounded liberty itself, without commensurate right
and property, would not be worth the very wishing for.'

Polites. ' And why, then, don't you travel with us, and
treat your friends, since you have such plentiful provision
laid in before you?'

Aerius. ' Because I have the very same here in the
country, at every gentleman's seat, and farmer's house.
And then, I am better pleased with the tour of the fields
and gardens, which will lead me through flowers, and
fruits, and beautiful scenes, where I can tread on nature's
green carpet, and hear the sweet chorus of the grove, than
the dusty track of this tedious road, where I must beat my
feet on the unrelenting stones, and be tortured with the
shrieking of cart-wheels, the rumbling of coaches and wag-
gons, and the harsher sound of their voices who drive them.
I own to you, all roads must be alike safe to me, who travel,
as the birds do, without cost or charges, or any thing to

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lose, which I claim a special right to : but you will as rea-
dily own, I hope, that the way I am taking is infinitely more
agreeable than this which you seem resolved to choose.'

Polites. ' Depend on it Aerius, I will, if you can prove
it practicable. Do you think you can travel to London
without your horse ? or if you should, would not the labour
outweigh the pleasure?'

Aerius. < By no means. I can do it, and with pleasure
too ; besides, though it should be a little toilsome or so, it
is better than to be beholden to a brute for that, which na-
ture has qualified me to bestow on myself. I cannot en-
dure to see one creature mounted upon the back of an-
other. It is unnatural and tyrannic, and unworthy of that
freedom, which, as we desire it ourselves, we should not
infringe in other creatures.'

Polites. ' But, tell me, do you really expect that the in-
habitants of the country, will permit you to break down
their fences ; welcome you to their houses, and freely give
you up your share of that provision, which you say they
have keeping for you ? Do you think they will readily ac-
knowledge your right of nature ? you know the English are
a stubborn people, and talk much of liberty and property ;
what now, if they should treat you like a sturdy beggar,
and kick you from their doors, or knock out your brains
for a housebreaker? for, it is certain, not one in a million
of them know any thing of the justice of your claim upon
their goods and chattels ; and, what is worse, if you pleaded
it to them until doom's-day, they would never be convinced,
being as well entitled to think for themselves, as you or
any man else, and as tenacious of their substance, as you
are of your opinions.'

Aerius. ' Why, truly Polites, our English are a very un-
natural kind of people ; however, I hope to convince them
by the undeniable arguments I shall offer. There is reason
in all men, and I shall make so strong an appeal to that
sovereign arbitress of truth, that they must all presently
yield.'

Polites. ' I do not know that. You see plainly you
cannot convince me in a case in which I am concerned :
how much less will you be able to reason them out of what
they value more than their lives V

JUVENILIA.

73

Aerius. ' It has always been my opinion, that scholars
are the most bigoted wretches upon earth. You read, Po-
lites, you read. Hence your inexpugnable prejudices, and
intellectual slavery to authorities, and received errors. But
among the country people there is more of nature, and an
open ear to instruction.'

Polites. ' Well, this may be true ; and, it is certain,
reading has never biassed your reason. But tell me, dear
Aerius, would those grounds on the other side of that
fence, you are going to break through, be so beautiful or so
richly stored with all manner of plenty as they are, did not
somebody take care to enclose them with ditches, or to ma-
nure them?'

Aerius. ' It is likely they would not.'

Polites. * And would any one take the pains to cultivate
them, had all the rest of the world as good a right to the
produce, as himself?'

Aerius. ' I believe no one would. But what then?'

Polites. ' Why then it follows, that if all particular
right were taken away, those grounds that you now claim
so strenuously, would in one season become useless and
unfruitful, insomuch, that neither you nor any body else
would think them worth his claiming. But now I think on
it, as I believe you are resolved to have your swing, and
such a one, that there is little hazard of my ever seeing you
again; I must not let you go off with my clothes on your
back. That coat and the rest are as much mine as yours :
come, strip and divide before we part.'

Aerius. ' What, take my clothes from me, that I bought
with my own money ! no, that is unreasonable and un-
just. But hold, since I have as good a right to

yours.'

Polites. * Ay, that may be, but as I am the stronger, I
am resolved to have both ; and I want to know how you
will find your remedy.'

Aerius. ' What ! would you have right and possession
decided by force ?'

Polites. * Yes, undoubtedly in the goodly state of na-
ture you propose, for there being no laws, right can be
founded on nothing else.'

Aerius. ' Yes, nature has her own laws, and those so
binding that, were they not buried under the unwieldy su-

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perstructure of statutes and revelations, they would suffi-
ciently secure the rights and privileges that are founded on
them.'

Polites. ' Are not the laws of nature to be found in

every man ?'

Aerius. ' They are.'

Polites. ' Are they equally strong in all V

Aerius. ' No, in some they do operate with that force
that were to be wished.'

Polites. ' How then are those that obey the law of na-
ture, to defend themselves against the injustice and oppres-
sion of the lawless?'

Aerius. 'Now are we come right upon society, and
civil government, and then the ditches are safe again, and
my claim to the lands enclosed, quite defaced. But I tell
you, Polites, society is nonsense. Your politicians make
a great stir about forms of government, some crying up a
monarchy, some an aristocracy, some a democracy; but
away with them all, say I ; because there can be no such
thing as liberty in any of them. Either one or a few must
govern, and all the rest must be slaves ; or else, if all go-
vern, why then, matters are to be managed by the majority,
all the rest must submit, must act contrary to their judg-
ments, and suffer many things against their wills. I tell
thee, Polites, society is nothing better than a trick imposed
on the many by a few cunning and designing knaves, to gra-
tify their avarice and ambition, and that they may live at
the expense of others. It is plain, that this is the case
from the struggles with which governments are obtained,
and the tyrannic use that is always made of them. I never
gave my consent to any form of civil government or so-
ciety ; and therefore am not obliged to submit to this usur-
pation under which my countrymen are enslaved ; nor will
I. Down with the thrones of kings, and the senate-houses
of commonwealths ! can we not live without such artificial
trumpery, as well as foxes or lions ? Into the fire with your
acts of parliament, your canons, and your volumes of the
civil law. They are nothing but the instruments of impo-
sition and cousenage. If you don't know that they are, go
to law, Polites, go to law. A little attendance in West-
minster-hall, or a chancery suit, will soon give you the
same aversion to law that I have.'

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75

Polites. ' Well then, Aerius, it is agreed that we have
no government, no laws."

Aerius. * Ay, agreed, agreed, man. Come, shake hands
on it. How you and I shall love one another in a state of
nature !'

Polites, ' Stay, not so fast. No shaking of hands, no
combining, for you say we are to lay aside all society. As
for loving each other, that is as your submission to my com-
mands shall render you agreeable to me.'

Aerius. 'Your commands! what does the man mean?
why, I tell thee, we are now in a state of nature, in which
there is no authority, no sovereignty, no laws.'

Polites. ' That is what I say ; and now that I am just
about twice as strong as you, I will force you to do what
I please. Your coat is better than mine, I will have that in
the first place. You have about forty guineas in your
pocket, come, deliver them up to me quickly. If you make
any resistance ; by all the rights and privileges of nature,
I will dash out your brains against the pavement. Why, I
like this state of nature hugely. If we are to have no courts
of justice, no executioners nor gallows, I shall live most
deliciously. I do not know whether there be a man in the
nation, whom I could not get the better of at pulling,
and hauling, and drubbing ; if you turned us out naked,
do you see, et in Puris naturalibus.''

Aerius. ' I mean, that in a state of nature, there are no
laws, but those of nature, which will secure my rights
though I be the weaker.'

Polites. ' Do not trust to them, for I assure you, now
that we are in a state of nature, and utterly unaccountable
for all we do, I find the law of self-love stronger than all
the rest, and with the assistance of these hands, I shall
gratify it to the full, let it cost you or others what it will.'

' Do you hear this, gentlemen (said Aerius, turning to
the rest of the company), do you hear the threats of this un-
reasonable and imperious monster? You are concerned
as well as me. Stand by me therefore, and do not suiter
the weaker to be oppressed, since it must be your own
turns next.'

Upon this, they were all preparing to lend Aerius their
assistance, when Polites cried out ;

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' Look ye, gentlemen, you are now deciding this ques-
tion fairly in favour of me, without knowing it; and Aerius
himself, in having implored your aid, has given up the pos-
sibility of subsisting out of a society. My strength, too
great for any one of you, has forced you into a society, a
necessity that must ever change a state of nature, if there
could be such a state, into government, and clearly evince
the absolute want of laws and penalties, and public admi-
nistration of justice. The wall that keeps us out of that
garden, would be but a weak defence for the fruit within,
were they not surrounded with a stronger fortification ; I
mean the statutes against felony and petty larceny, which
can keep out those who would easily climb over the wall.
You may leap these ditches too without much difficulty,
but you won't so easily get over the laws against trespass,
that fortify those ditches to better purpose than any quick-
set. Be advised by me. Mount your horses again, and
pursue the king's highway, like honest men, who dare keep
the crown of the causeway. There is no slavery in so
doing. The king himself, God bless his majesty, must be
satisfied with it, when he travels.' Here he stopped, and a
sudden shame seized the whole company. They sneaked
to their horses, and galloped forward, as fast as they could,
to make amends for the time they had lost.

So ended this contest, in which, for once, sober sense
and reason got the better of that specious kind of madness,
which under the pretence of liberty, would turn us wild into
the fields, a kind of beast more savage than any other, as
not sparing its own species, and whilst it is misled by
a false notion of nature, committing things that nature
abhors.

ALLUSION VI.

SCIAGENES AND SELAS.

Sciagenes. Say what you will, and magnify the good that
is done by the Christian religion, at what rate you please ; I
say, it doth more harm than good in the world. There are
two things in which a man may be rendered better or worse,

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77

by the doctrines he hears, and the principles he embraces ;
to wit, his mind and his actions. Now in both, your reli-
gion hath greatly injured us As to our minds did they ever
shew such extravagance under the influence of any system
of doctrines that has obtained in the world, as under the
Christian ? To illustrate this by a recital of all the strange
and senseless opinions that your several sects have contend-
ed for, would be a very odious and tedious undertaking. As
to our actions, which it should be the business of religion to
regulate, how miserably they have been perverted by the
Christian religion, any one may perceive, who reads the
history of the Christians. The author of your religion has
told us, that we are to know a tree by its fruit ; by this rule
his must have been a very corrupt tree, for its fruits have
always been very unwholesome, as well as distasteful, ever
since the first planting. Christianity has affected the ac-
tions of its professors in two different ways. It has fur-
nished some with a hypocritical covering for such enor-
mities as cannot bear the public inspection, it has tempted
them to put on the appearance of virtue, and make that
serve instead of the thing ; whilst it hath supplied others
with pretences, for openly committing the most horrid
crimes. Persecution, rebellion, tyranny, and bloodshed,
hang in clusters, on the gospel vine, and weigh it down, in
spite of the support afforded it by priestcraft, and the
power of the church.

Selas. You judge most unfairly, Sciagenes, in ascribing
those ill effects, to the Christian religion, which are directly
contrary to its doctrines, its precepts, and the examples it
recommends to our imitation. The absurd opinions, that
some, who called themselves Christians, have broached and
abetted, were the produce of their own extravagant imagi-
nations. Our Saviour sowed wheat, but the folly and wild
enthusiasm of mankind, have sown tares among it. Nor,
can wicked actions be attributed, with any justice, to prin-
ciples, altogether rational and virtuous, although they may
be committed, by the professors of those principles. You
are a lawyer ; must we burn our statutes, and the whole
Corpus Jurum, because you secretly take fees on one side
of a cause, and openly plead on the other ? Must physic and
surgery be prohibited, because an ignorant quack shall mis-

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take and give hemlock for a cordial ; or, because a murder-
ing physician shall take a fee, from a young libertine heir
to send his sickly father out of the world ? Christ planted a
viue, and its fruits are meekness, and charity, and obedi-
ence to the higher powers, and self-denial ; which, as they
are virtues, much against the grain of the world, we maybe
sure they must have weighed down the Christian religion,
with that load of odium that attends them, among the more
disorderly part of mankind, had it not been supported by
the vine-stock of God's continual grace. Pride indeed and
avarice, spring up near the root of the vine, and twisting
themselves among its branches, mix their pale and baneful
berries, with its beautiful and wholesome clusters.

The greater part by far, both of the knowledge and vir-
tue that is in the world, springs from the Christian religion;
though idle pretenders to knowledge have taken occasion
from thence, to pester the world, with a thousand vain spe-
culations, and pernicious refinements ; and, although wicked
and self-interested men have impudently pretended to draw
the motives of their unrighteous practices, from a desire
to promote its welfare. If indeed, mankind had never
reasoned absurdly, nor acted wickedly, before they em-
braced the Christian religion, we might with the greater
shew of truth, ascribe the folly and vice, too often to be
met with among Christians, to our religion, rather than to
the infirmity, and degeneracy of our nature. But as it is
quite otherwise, and as there has really been more know-
ledge and stricter virtue among the worshippers of Christ
Jesus, than among those who were ignorant of Christianity,
experience is against you. I will tell thee a tale, if thou
wilt listen to it, O Sciagenes.

' In the old Egyptian chronicles, we are told, that the
sun, once upon a time, being highly provoked at the
wickedness of mankind, which he was daily obliged, not
only to behold, but to lend his light to, resolved never more
to offend the purity of his eye, nor pollute the lustre of his
rays, with the corruptions of the human race. Full of in-
dignation he turned his foaming steeds, and drove the bright
chariot of the day so far into the eastern sky, that it ap-
peared like a star of the third magnitude. From thence,
with a certain penury of light, he twinkled faintly on this

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79

ungrateful world, that had so much abused his bounty.
However, not intending to leave himself entirely without a
witness, nor to plunge the world in utter darkness, he or-
dered his sister, the moon, with her train of planets, to stay
behind, partly to afford mankind a small portion of that de-
rivative light which they enjoyed ; and partly to observe,
in their periods round this world, the behaviour of mankind
during his absence. Mortals, instead of lamenting his de-
parture, hailed the darkness, and rejoiced in that secrecy
which it afforded their crimes ; the beasts of prey rushed
from their dens, and exercised their fury, without restraint
or fear : their savage nature grew ten-fold more outrageous,
by the boundless and uninterrupted licence the continual
night afforded them : the fruits of the earth, with all the
variety of sweet-smelling herbs, or beautiful flowers, faded
away, and shrunk into their primitive seeds, whilst nothing
but the baneful yew, and the cold hemlock, with other poi-
sonous weeds, overspread the damp and dreary soil. As
these, with now and then a dragon, or a tiger, when they
could kill them, were the only food of mankind, they filled
them with various distempers, and shortened their fearful
and miserable days. From thence, too, as well as from the
coldness and inclemency of the air, together with the con-
tinual darkness, the heart of man grew numb and insensible,
grew fierce and boisterous, grew gloomy and sullen. Charity
grew cold, and hardened to an icicle. Humanity, in passing
from man to man, was frozen by the bleakness of the air ;
and being shivered to pieces, was blown away by the winds
in snow. Fraud and theft, and rapine, screened by the black
wing of darkness, with lawless and ungovernable impunity,
blended right and wrong, and confounded property. Pride
and anger, envy and malice stalked abroad in the thick cloud
of night, and made such hideous havoc, that the moon is
said to have sickened at the sight, and fallen into those faint-
ing fits, which have ever since, at certain seasons, oppressed
her, and overcome her light. Every one kindled up a fire
of his own, and called it his sun ; while those who happened
to live near each other, made greater fires by their common
labour, on every high hill, which they also called their pub-
lic suns, comforting themselves with those, and forgetting
the true &un ; by which, at the same time that they despised

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its absence, they acknowledged the necessity of its influence.
At length, the fuel began to fail, and the fires to go out.
The wicked lived and died in works of darkness, in fury,
and violence, and terror. The virtuous few that still re-
mained, wandered up and down, a prey to all they met, and
sought in vain for light. The moon, pitying their undeserved
sufferings, and fearing the total extinction of human nature,
sent a message by a comet, which approached the most dis-
tant part of the orbit, acquainting her brother with the state
of human affairs, and beseeching him to return, if not to
save a race ungrateful to him, yet, at least, for the preser-
vation of those who loved the light, and lived a life becoming
it. The sun,' says the chronicle, ' moved with compassion,
and hoping that the miseries man had suffered by the ab-
sence of his rays, would have subdued his inordinate pas-
sions, and disposed him to a more decent conduct, set out
again for this world ; and, as he drew nearer, the heavens,
to the eastward, shone with glorious light, and glowed with
unusual heat. Lest he should surprise and dazzle the world,
by a sudden and unexpected arrival, he sent the morning star
before him, as his harbinger, to prepare his way ; which the
eastern astronomers no sooner observed, but they published
the glad tidings, to the great comfort of the good, and the
no small dismay of the evil. However, notwithstanding this
preparation, there were but few, even of those who wished
for his return, who could bear the brightness of the day-spring
when it visited them ; so tender had the long continued dark-
ness rendered their eyes. It was some time before they could
inure themselves to the strong beams of light that shone
so powerfully on them. There were numbers whom the
length of night had entirely blinded, who comprehended not
the light, but attributed their stumbling and straying to a
continuation of darkness, when it was really owing to a de-
fect in their own optics. All nature welcomed the return
of the sun with a joyful salutation, except the owls, and
beasts, and men of prey, who had tyrannized in the dark.
The lions, the tigers, the bears, and the wolves, betook
themselves to their dark caves and gloomy dens, because
their deeds were evil. The more subtle serpent put on a
shining garment, which it pretended to have borrowed from
the new beams of the morning, and practised its frauds in

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81

daylight. The more impudent vulture and hawk, stayed
and out-faced the sun, directing themselves by its light in
the bloody deeds they committed. Among men, some roused
by its arrival, rejoiced, and went forth to their honest la-
bours in the vineyard, or among their folds, whilst others
took the advantage of it, to oppress their neighbours with
open robberies and cruel wars ; and, when it served them
ill for such purposes, they reviled it, and wished that those
clouds which it had raised, might shut out its light from the
world, or entirely extinguish it. At length there arose a
sect of philosophers, falsely so called, who endeavoured to
prove, that the sun was of bad consequence to the happi-
ness of the world.

'They bade their disciples observe how its heat sublimed
the poison of the baneful weed, giving growth to the horrid
bramble and the prickly thorn ; but took no notice of its
calling forth the useful tree, with the wholesome herb, and
clothing nature in its splendid attire of flowers, perfumed
with ten thousand odours. They accused it with causing
calentures and fevers, ungratefully forgetting that it had re-
moved those numberless disorders that proceeded from the
immoderate cold, and the damp vapours. They made it
the cause of putrefaction and stench in pools and fens, with-
out considering that its genial heat ferments the warm spirits
and volatile odours of the spices. They were too short-
sighted, to see the remote benefit of those seeming or im-
mediate inconveniences that attended the influence of the
sun. They could not dive so far into nature, as to find out
the secret properties of things, and therefore did not con-
sider, that what is hurtful in one case, is most useful in an-
other, for which it is peculiarly designed. They taught that
it was the source of violent passions and madness, without
remembering that, whilst it gently softened and warmed
the material world, it infused a sympathetic tenderness and
mildness into the intellectual. They apprehended it would
set the world on fire, because it had thawed its ice. They
contemplated the comets with more pleasure, and com-
mended them as brighter luminaries than the sun. They
admired the meteors, as infinitely more glorious than the
source of day. They said, the sun was the prison of im-
pious souls, and that its light was elaborated by fiends,

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ascribing all the wonders it performs in this world, to the
devils that work in its fiery furnace. Nay, they cursed the
moon and the planets, for no other reason, but because they
borrowed their light from the sun. Some of them lighted
up candles at noon-day, and pretending to do their evil
deed by those, ascribed all the light about them, each to
his own glimmering taper. Others maintained, that the
eye itself was a luminous body, endued with innate light ;
by the emanations of which, they said, vision was performed;
and that it was not only superfluous, but dangerous to let
in the adventitious light of the sun, lest it should extin-
guish the natural rays of the eye. All this, and a great
deal more they urged, because the daylight was an enemy
to their works of darkness. The all-seeing sun was not
ignorant of their hypocrisy, their ingratitude, and malice ;
but he neither approached to set them on fire, nor retired
again to leave them in darkness ; he only said,

' My sister moves and shines on, without being disturb-
ed or detained by the ill humour of those curs, who bark at
her from the earth. In like manner, I shall pour out my
heat and light promiscuously on all, on the evil as well as
the good, that whilst it directs and comforts these, it may be
a continual witness against those. My influence is good
in itself, and its lustre glorious, as well when it shines on a
dunghill, as when it paints the radiant bow in the clouds.
I decree, that my rays shall be to every man, as he is
disposed to receive them ; good to the good, according
to his nature ; and evil to the evil, according to his.
Whilst they shall enable some to see, they shall deprive
others of their sight, who have a previous disposition to
blindness. Whilst they direct and enlighten the upright,
in his honest calling, and are a blessing to him, they shall
detect and accuse the fraudulent, and bring a curse on his
ways. They are calculated for good, and by nature fitted
for that only, yet they may be turned aside, from the direct
pursuit of that end, and made to co-operate with evil causes
in perpetrating works of darkness. They are, by nature,
the vehicles of truth, although demons may array them-
selves in robes of light in order to deceive.'

JUVENILIA.

^3

ALLUSION VII.

Xo city was more commodiously situated, governed by
wiser laws, nor inhabited by a more virtuous and courage-
ous people, than Hierapolis. The consequences of this
were, that, in the space of about three hundred years, it be-
came mistress of jnany nations, and gained ground apace
in all the other parts of the known world. It did not long
enjoy this power, until it began to abuse it. Luxury, which
subdues even conquerors, supported by wealth and ease,
spread apace among the Hierapolitans, banished the ori-
ginal simplicity of their manners, and substituted foppery
and vanity in the place of it. This corruption of manners
was soon followed by an affectation of useless niceties and
novelties in knowledge, and by false politics. Hence it
came to pass, that, in a little time, the laws, although as in-
telligible as common sense itself, and as determinate as the
utmost caution could make them, began to be variously in-
terpreted ; insomuch, that they were forced, by an infinity
of glosses, to speak the language of artifice and faction ;
nay, and of contradiction too, oftener than that of truth and
justice. This clogged the wheels of the government ; and,
what was worse, turned them aside from the right way.
Different parties founded themselves on different interpre-
tations. Folly, enthusiasm, and fraud, had each its own in-
terpreters, to extract such opinions from the laws, while
they were forced to pass through bad heads and worse
hearts, as threw all into confusion, and stopped the pro-
gress of their arms abroad, and shed their blood within the
walls inmutual slaughter and destruction.

At length, one party, growing more powerfulthan the rest,
engrossed the revenues of the city, new modelled (he body
of the laws, adding or taking away what they thought pro-
per, imposing their own sense of what remained, and pro-
hibiting, under severe penalties, the popular perusal of the
laws themselves. This party chose a head, whom they
called Dictator, and on him conferred an unlimited power
to impose such interpretations of the laws, as he pleased,
on the Hierapolitans, and to govern them at his own discre-
tion.

g 2

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This tyrant, thus invested with the supreme authority,
changed the name of the city, and called it after his own,
Dictatoria. He also contrived a very horrible kind of dun-
geon, to which he confined all such persons, as presumed
either to read the ancient laws, or dispute his absolute au-
thority, in any case. There was a kind of press in this
dungeon, in which the party offending being placed, his
fortune, his conscience, or his life, were squeezed out of him.
He erected public stews, from whence he drew considerable
revenues. To conclude, he made miserable slaves of the
poor Dictatorians, who were so enervated by luxury and
vice of every kind, and so entirely broken by the power of
this tyrant, that they had no strength nor inclination to
resist him.

At length his folly, his insolence, and his exactions, be-
coming intolerable, the few who remained still uncorrupted
and unenslaved agreed to quit the city, and commit them-
selves to the sea, in quest of some new country, where they
might settle and govern themselves, by the ancient Hiera-
politan laws, purged from all abuses, and laid open to every
member of the community. There were no more of these
found than three or four ships were sufficient to receive.
These vessels had scarcely provided themselves with ne-
cessaries, and put from shore, when the alarm of their de-
parture w as given ; upon which the tyrant, ordered out to
the pursuit, as many Dictatorian galleys as could be got
ready. But a storm arising, and they being ill provided,
as puttingout inhaste, and little acquainted with the service,
were all lost, but a few ; which, being for several days toss-
ed about by the storm, happened to meet, and come to an
engagement with the adventurers, who easily defeated them,
for they had none but Dictatorian slaves on board. The
adventurers, rejoicing in this victory, as a happy presage
of their future fortunes, pursued their course, as well as the
storm, which was now less violent, would permit. Their
captains knew well how to govern, and their pilots to steer.
Their sailors plied upon deck with diligence, and were
eager to assist and relieve each other. However, as there
was not a sufficient number of experienced seamen, toman
all the vessels, some of them were wrought by passengers
and sailors in conjunction, which occasioned great disor-

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ders ; for the passengers, not being acquainted with the
business, and yet very desirous to labour for the common
safety, did but embarrass one another, and hinder the work
they endeavoured to advance. Some, who thought they
could never do too much, pulled the ropes with such vio-
lence, that they frequently broke them. Others, by tugging
contrary ways, destroyed the effect of each other's strength.
The decks were so crowded by people, who knew only how
to make confusion, that the sailors had not room to stir ;
and there was such a loud and distracted clamour, of some
roaring one thing, and some another, that neither the cap-
tain nor the pilot could be heard. Whenever the ship
heeled, they cried out, We are all lost! And tumbled
over one another in heaps, some being sorely bruised, and
others falling overboard, into the sea.

By these means, and the darkness of the nights, the
ships lost sight of one another, and fell off to different
courses. The largest of them, which was also the best
manned, made towards a certain island, which was at a
sufficient distance from the power of Dictatoria, and yet
so near, that it might be reached, without exposing the
vessel to the many dangers incident to too long a voyage.

There was a passenger on board this vessel, who, by
the time it had been a week at sea, had gained a smatter-
ing of the sailor's art, and being very whimsical and over-
bearing, thought himself capable of giving law to the mas-
ter, and all the crew. He pretended great dislike to the
ship, and the government of it, and practising secretly with
the simpler sort, in which he was assisted by certain
Dictatorians, who, making a show of abhorrence to the
tyrant, came on board, purely to raise disturbances ; he
gained over some to his party, and made them serious con-
verts to his feigned discontents. These he assembled one
day, privately in the hold, and harangued them in the fol-
lowing manner :

* I cannot but lament, my fellow-sailors, that after all
our endeavours to fly from the wickedness of Dictatoria,
and the divine judgments due to it, we are still deeply in-
fected with the former, and consequently have but too
much reason to dread the latter. In the first place, we
left a tyranny, in order to put ourselves under the kinder

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influence of a free government. But what have we gained
by our attempt ? Are we not still under the government
of one ? What security can we have, that he will not ty-
rannize like him of Dictatoria ? Nay, I can assure you,
his principles are perfectly Dictatorian, and you yourselves
may perceive it, for he goes habited like the Dictatorians,
he cocks his hat, and laughs like one of the profane. He
cannot sink a dungeon in the ship ; but, as soon as we
come ashore, you may expect it, for he talks much of dis-
cipline and government; and it is but two days since, as
you all can witness, he confined me to this hold, for saying
we ought not to suffer ourselves to be guided by a pilot,
but commit ourselves to the steerage of Providence. Now
the hold is but another kind of dungeon ; and, since he hath
so soon begun to play the governor, we may be sure he
will in a little time act the tyrant. Trust him not, O my
fellow-sailors ; for he is a haughty lord, and a proud tyrant.
He is a Dictatorian in his heart. Again, we left Dictatoria,
in order to purge ourselves of the luxury, and strip our-
selves of the pomps and vanities of that wicked place ;
and yet, behold, we are still polluted with the same cor-
ruptions. How odious to my eyes is that dazzling paint
that adorns the side of the ship ! How detestable those
graven figures that glitter on the stern in various colours,
and shine in all the splendour of gold, the author of all
corruption ! How imperiously does the flag of pride wave
from the bolt-sprit in the wind ! But above all, O my dear
fellows ! how can you endure that wooden idol, that painted
whore, that stands naked frorn the waist upwards at the
prow ? To what fortunes, think you, can you follow such
a whore ? But farther, do we not shew the most unworthy
distrust of Providence, in committing ourselves to the
guidance of a human pilot, and the government of a mor-
tal's wisdom ? To what end the rudder, the mast, and the
tackle, those relics of our former abominations ? To what
purpose the sails, those rags of Dictatorian profanation ?
Is there the smallest mention made of them ? Is there any
command for them in our ancient laws 1 If there be not,
with what assurance can we suffer such unwarranted inno-
vations ? O how my soul abhors such human, such carnal,
such profane inventions ! Let us fly, my dear companions,

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let us quickly fly from this damnable machine, whose keel
I know to be rotten, and let us throw ourselves into the
cock-boat, a vessel that has nothing of Dictatorian art or
pride about it, and with firm faith, commit ourselves to the
prot ction of Providence.'

This speech made a strong impression on his unwary
hearers, and the more, because of that vehement aversion
they had to the Dictatorian abuses. So they, one and all,
protested against every thing that looked like Dictatorian,
and with one consent resolved to seize the cock-boat, and
attempt a voyage in it through the wide sea.

This resolution they put in practice the very next day,
and committed themselves to the ocean, without oars, with-
out rudder, and without victualling. They were no sooner
got to sea in their little bark, than they perceived it did not
stir, and that they were in danger of being left motionless
in the midst of the ocean, to starve for want of food, or
perish by the next violent blast of wind. It was then first
they had recourse to human help, and seized a rope that
dragged after the ship in the water ; so that they made
a shift to keep up with the vessel. The rest of the crew,
knowing nothing of their intention, threw out some other
ropes to relieve them from the distress they were in, and
haul them to again. But instead of thanking them for
their brotherly concern, they railed aloud at them, calling
them vile and profane wretches, proud Dictatorians ; and
whenever they saw any of them mounting the shrouds to
order the tackle, or sails, they called them tyrants and
high flyers ; and bid them beware of the hold and the dun-
geon, to humble their pride. In this mood they followed
the ship, till at length they began to feel the want of vic-
tualling grow fast upon them, which made them call aloud
for food to the ship ; but their extravagant madness made
them do it in such disobliging terms, that they on deck
thought proper to refuse them for some time, till pity, and
a tenderness for their lives, moved them to hand down
some mouldy biscuit, and some coarse beef to them. This,
although their hunger forced them to devour it, did not sa-
tisfy them. They insisted that they were entitled to an
equal share of the ship's provision, and cursed the crew
for refusing it. Their malecontent spirit was still more in-

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flamed, when the under sailors taunted them from the stern,
and derided, with great sharpness, their mad project, and
the absurd defence they made for themselves. At last, the
captain, having found what was the matter, appeared at
the cabin window, and spoke to this effect:

' I am much troubled, my dear friends, for the extrava-
gant spirit, with which I find you are possessed. Be as-
sured, I have not the smallest intentions to tyrannize. I
only took the office I hold at the request of you all ; I am
ready to lay it down again, if my administration has been
faulty. But then you must elect another, order and go-
vernment necessarily requiring it, and our laws giving suf-
ficient warrant thereunto. We all abhor the flagitious
lives, and miserable degeneracy of the Dictatorians, as
much as you ; but the rigging and ornaments of our ship
were none of their crimes, being harmless and indifferent
things. Without our rudder, our sails, &c. we cannot make
the voyage ; we must therefore retain them, as necessary
to our preservation. Nor do we shew, by so doing, any
distrust of Divine Providence, which we can only hope to
assist us, where human means fail. You yourselves per-
ceive, that your hopes in Providence, to do that for you
Avhich you can do for yourselves, were idle, because it has
deserted you, and left you to depend on that rope for your
way, and on us for your victuals. I do not, like the rest
of our crew, deride your folly, but I pity the unhappy re-
solution you have taken, which must inevitably end in your
ruin, if not speedily laid aside. Return, let me earnestly
beseech you, to your friends and fellow-sailors, and, in-
stead of destroying yourselves, help forward the common
good of the community you embarked in at our departure
from Dictatoria. In purging ourselves of abuses, we have
not so much regarded what was Dictatorial as what was
contrary to our ancient laws. Joined with us you may live
and prosper, but if you separate you must perish.'

Upon hearing this, one or two returned to a better mind,
and were hauled up into the ship. The boat being driven
against the ship by one wave, and overset by another, the
rest were all lost.

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ALLUSION VIII.

About one thousand seven hundred years ago, there was
a temple built, no matter where ; but its foundations were
sunk deep in a rock of adamant, and its dome pierced the
clouds : the materials were too hard for time to impair,
and the workmanship too firm for the most furious storms
to injure : the plan was drawn by the greatest architect in
the world, and the design was proportionable to the im-
mense and exalted genius of its author : it was built in a
plain style, so that, if it were viewed by one of a corrupt
taste, it had little that he could admire, for there was no-
thing extravagant or enormous in it ; nay, its height and
platform were so judiciously adjusted, that, although both
were very great, yet neither seemed prodigious. To one
of any judgment, the whole figure appeared wonderfully
majestic and stately. It had two excellences peculiar to
it; one, that if you should survey it for some time atten-
tively, it would seem to grow in size and grandeur, till,
without either straining the eye, or shocking the imagina-
tion, it had insensibly enlarged both, and taught the be-
holder a certain capacity of seeing and conceiving, which
he was unacquainted with before ; the other, that the in-
stant you entered it, you were struck with a sacred kind
of awe, which came so irresistibly upon you, that were you
of ever so gay or loose a disposition, you could not help
being grave. But then this was attended with no uneasi-
ness or fear ; for the beauty and cheerfulness of all you
saw was such, and the light, which entered by a thousand
spacious windows, was so great, that you were as much de-
lighted as awed. Every thing was disposed in so simple
and natural an order, and yet with such magnificence, as
could not but fill a judicious beholder with a serious and
solemn kind of joy, accompanied with that profound reve-
rence, which ought to be felt, when a divine nature is sup-
posed to be present. Some were more taken with one
thing, and some with another ; but all agreed, that the archi-
tect had shewn uncommon skill, in giving such abundance

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of light, which served to discover the symmetry, the beauty,
and masterly contrivance of all within. There was no
utensil that was not ornamental ; no decoration, that was
not useful. To say no more of it, it infinitely surpassed
the Ephesian temple of Diana, and even eclipsed the glory
of Solomon's temple at Jerusalem.

The architect, who had built it at his own expense, when
he died, left, in his last will and testament, an endowment
sufficient to keep it clean, and in repair ; and nominated
such trustees, for the purpose, as he could confide in, both
on account of their honesty, and the great skill in architec-
ture which he had communicated to them. He left them
also a fair copy of the plan, with strict orders, never to
touch any part of the work, without consulting it; and to
appoint such others as should either assist, or succeed them,
in this charge. For three or four hundred years, these per-
sons discharged their trust so sufficiently, and the general
taste continued so pure, that the edifice was admired for
the same beauty and majesty that recommended it at first.
They came from all parts of the world to see it and wor-
ship in it. It is true, the admirers of other renowned tem-
ples, bigoted to their own favourite notions of architecture,
and envious of the honours that were paid to this, often bat-
tered it with rams, and other warlike engines, but to no pur-
pose : so firm were its walls, that they could make no im-
pression on it, and so honest was the corporation of trus-
tees, and so zealous for its glory, that there was scarce a
man of them wrho was not ready to receive the shocks of the
battering rams on his own head, rather than suffer them to
touch the temple. There were, from time to time, several
among the trustees, who, either not rightly understanding
the rules of architecture, or else ambitious of getting a name
by innovations, pretended to find faults in the structure,
which they said had been put in by unskilful managers, in
the several ages since the death of the architect. They en-
deavoured, but in vain, to make this appear by the plan ;
and had their opinions condemned in several boards, held
by the trustees, on purpose to consider of these matters.
At length, one of the trustees, a covetous and intriguing
man, what by caballing and practising with some of the
most short-sighted, or ill principled, of the board ; and what

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by calling in the assistance and interest of a great lord in
the neighbourhood, acquired such an influence over the
trustees, that he might do what he pleased ; and it was never
in his nature or intention to do any thing, that was not for
his own private interest. He endeavoured to prove him-
self vested with a right to this superiority over his brethren,
from the testament of the architect; because the original
trustee, under whom he derived, happened to be first in
the list of trustees, and mentioned therein both by name and
surname : with the same principles with which he had
usurped, he also abused this power. He took the keys of
the temple into his own hand, and would let nobody in,
either to view the building, or to adore the Deity to whom
it was dedicated, without paying a very considerable tax to
him, of which he put the greater part in his own pocket, dis-
tributing the rest among the other trustees, who, by that
means, and others as dishonest and slavish, were kept obe-
dient to him. This was directly against the intention of the
architect, who had wrote over the entrance of the great gate
these words : ' Let this gate stand open to all people.' By
which, plain people thought a free entrance was ordered for
all : but he insisted, that the architect had given him the
sole right of interpreting that sentence, and judging of the
plan ; to this right, he pleaded, common sense, and reason,
and grammar ought to submit. He interpreted the sentence
thus : ' Let this gate stand open to all, who pay for entrance :'
the last words he said were omitted for brevity's sake ; and
swere a terrible oath, that he would never let any mortal
in, who questioned his authority: however, being conscious
to himself, that this interpretation was strained, he covered
the sentence with a brazen plate ; so people even gave him
his demand (for what other could they do ?) thinking it better
to pay, than be kept out. In process of time, mankind,
who are always upon the change, degenerated into a vitiated
and barbarous taste ; nothing, that was not extravagant
and monstrous, could please. In architecture particularly,
the wild, and the vast, the odd, and the whimsical alone,
were held in admiration. The usurper, in compliance with
the age (for he that would fill his pockets, ought to serve
the times) covered the walls both without and within, with
a thousand finical and Gothic ornaments, that were so well

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fitted to the ill taste of the times, that they drew an infinite
rabble of gapers to the temple, who, coming out of mere cu-
riosity, and with little or no taste in architecture, did greatly
increase his tax. He cut large niches in the wall, in which
he placed images, many of them of a very mean kind of
workmanship ; and yet they were worshipped by most that
came in, and admired by all. The niches were so frequent,
and so near the foundation, that they could not but greatly
impair the strength of the building : he dug a huge vault
under it, by which also the foundations were much weaken-
ed; there he flung the carcases of those dead persons, whose
friends paid him for the liberty of interring there, out of a
fond notion, that they would never rot in that place.

Although it was easy to perceive the absurdity of this
conceit, by the noisome stench that issued from that pit of
rottenness, and had the most unwholesome effects on all
who came into the temple ; yet the practice (such is the cre-
dulity of those who have given up their reason) went on.
He glazed the windows with a kind of painted glass, through
which a dim and livid light entered the temple, and brought
Avith it a great variety of odd and superstitious figures, that
seemed to place themselves in the windows, for no other
purpose but to intercept the rays of the sun. This, which
at noon was no better than a twilight, was reduced to abso-
lute darkness by the smut which the smoke of tapers, that
were burned there day and night, had left upon the walls
and the ceiling. Two ends very advantageous to the usurper
were answered by this artificial obscurity. First, the idle
and ridiculous ornaments he had added being seen by can-
dle light, were in less danger of having their deformity or
counterfeit beauty discovered ; again, the temple being dark
of itself, it was necessary that he should furnish lights to
those who went in, and as necessary that they should pay
him roundly for his service.

The upright and firm pillars of the Doric and Ionic
order, which supported the work above with a natural air
of grandeur and strength, he cut into feeble Tortilles, ena-
melled their surfaces with a thousand barbarous and crawl-
ing figures, and loaded their capitals with such extravagant
foliages, as were a sufficient weight for the shaft, had there
been nothing else.

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93

At length he added to it another building, or rather a
heap of almost an equal size with itself, but on a quite dif-
ferent plan ; by which means the uniformity of the figure
was entirely taken awTay. This new erection had false win-
dows on the outside, they were glazed, as if intended for
the reception of light, but the wall was continued at those
places on the inside, so that the light was entirely shut out.
It was so crowded every where with little quaint images,
and pictures, and grotesque figures, starting out from the
walls, that it seemed a burlesque on the old temple. He
was continually adding some new device, which brought
gazers to it, and money into his pocket. The front of
the old temple was shut up, and those, who wanted to
see either, were introduced by that of the new, which stood
the direct contrary way, and so were conducted through a
private dark passage, by which means it was pretty difficult
to know, when one was in the ancient and when in the
modern structure. His reason for this incoherent situation
was, to make his own edifice seem more magnificent, than
that of the ancient architect; for as you approached them
in this manner, you had the front of his pile, and only the
back of the old temple in view at once ; which he imagined
could not but set off his erection in the most advantageous
light; but good judges say it happened quite otherwise, and
that the wrorst view of the one, was incomparably finer than
the most elaborate prospect of the other. The mistakes in
this latter addition were so gross and so numerous, that
many, even in those times, perceived it was no great mira-
cle of art, and were so free as to call it a new-fangled and
modern performance. To this, the usurper, with his fellow
trustees had the assurance to answer, that it was no new nor
late erection, but of the same antiquity with what they called
the old temple, and built by the same architect ; who, if you
would believe them, told their corporation so, and left them
a verbal licence to make what additions or alterations they
should think proper ; but for this they had no authentic re-
cord to shew. It was easy to see the falsehood of all their
assertions on that subject, by a bare view of this latter edi-
fice, in which there were a hundred extravagancies alto-
gether unknown to the age in which the old temple was built.
However, to make what they maintained the more probable,

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the usurper positively asserted in tbo teeth of common sense,
and against the testimony of every one's eyes, that the whole
pile, as they then saw it, was raised together, that it was
impossible for either to stand without the other, and that if it
were not so, there ought to have been an entrance to that part
which they called the old temple; whereas you may observe,
said he, that you are all obliged to enter by the gate of that
structure which you call an addition, and so to pass on
through the whole building. Some of them told him, that
it was plain enough to any one's eyes, that there was an en-
trance in the front of the old temple, and at the same time
pointed to the gate. To this he answered, that what they
mistook for an entrance was quite another thing ; that if they
understood architecture, they would be of his mind : that as
they were ignorant of that art, they ought to give him leave
to judge for them ; and modestly submit their senses and
reason to his skill ; and that they were not to suppose any
analogy between a temple and a dwelling-house. Upon this
they desired to see a plan ; but he told them that was only
permitted by the architect to the board of trustees. "We hope
then, said they, we may see his will at least. No, replied
he, I am sole executor, and shall see it fulfilled. You have
nothing to do with these matters, but are a parcel of block-
heads and impudent puppies. You do not understand ar-
chitecture, and therefore can make nothing of the plan.
You are ignorant of the language, in which the will is wrote,
and therefore can make as little of that. Though there was
scarce any thing in which the old and new structure agreed,
although the front of each was turned a different way, al-
though their very clocks pointed the time, and their weather-
cocks the wind differently, yet the people through ignorance
or fear, suffered themselves to be overruled, and were sa-
tisfied to shut their own, and be directed by his eyes.

Having thus quieted the people, he governed all things
by his own will for a long time, and many a fair penny he
made by keeping the keys. As for the other trustees, they
turned empirics and quacks, and pretending that the bones,
or teeth, or hair of such as had died in the defence of the
temple, when it was besieged, could cure all diseases, they
sold them publicly in the temple ; and when they were ex-
hausted, brought more from the magazine of rottenness in

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the vault. By this means the temple was converted into a
kind of shop or exchange, in which all manner of arts were
used that knaves are wont to practise on fools.

But, at last, some, displeased with his intolerable ava-
rice and pride, to which he set no bounds, and the prosti-
tution of so sacred a building to merchandise and gain,
broke into the old temple, by the entrance that had been so
long shut up ; which they had the better right to do, as the
greater number of them were trustees. The first thing they
did was to search for the original plan, which they found
wrapt in an old worm-eaten covering, and thrown into a
dark corner. Having opened it, they immediately set
themselves to make such alterations, as might reduce the
building to its ancient plainness. They pruned the walls of
all the unnatural ornaments with which their beauty had
been concealed, and their regularity defaced . They brushed
off the cobwebs and the smut. They demolished the
images, and filled up the niches with the same materials
that had been taken out of them before. In order to for-
ward and direct their work, they broke down the painted
glass that darkened the windows ; and put the most trans-
parent glass they could get in its room.

Two things put a stop to this work, which, at first, went
on very briskly. The usurper, with those of his party,
which was by far the most numerous, set upon them while
they were thus employed, and killing a great many of them
on the spot, drove the rest into one end of the temple,
where, by the assistance of others, who came in to their
relief, they found means to barricade and fortify themselves.
These fortifications made an ill figure in the temple, but
there was no help for it. The usurper did not think it suf-
ficient to put a stop to the restoration of ancient architec-
ture by force, but he used a thousand sleights and strata-
gems to mislead and embroil the restorers, the chief of
which was this :— He sent many of his own gang, to take
on them the appearance of restorers, who, having artfully
insinuated themselves into their esteem and affection, put
on the show of more than ordinary zeal, finding fault with
the cowardice and coldness of those who had begun the
work ; and pulling all down before them, without distinction

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of good or bad, ancient or modern. Numbers of well-
meaning, simple people, were carried away with this ap-
pearance, and set themselves to demolish, with the same
ignorance and the same fury. Away went the sacred fur-
niture of the temple, pilfered by sacrilegious hands ! down
went every thiDg that was ornamental, though it was ever
so useful ! The windows were stripped of their transparent
glass, by pretended haters of painted glass, and pretended
lovers of light ; by which means the inside of the temple
was exposed to the weather; and the wild devastation
they had made, lay open to the eyes and scoffs of their
enemies. These barbarous and Gothic miners were not
a little assisted in their impious pranks by crowds of thieves
and robbers, who, under pretence of reforming abuses in
architecture, broke into the temple, and made plunder of
all they laid their hands on. In vain did the sober and
honest, who consulted the plan and the will of the archi-
tect in all they did, labour to hinder these abuses. But the
usurper did not inveigh against this havoc, and these
bickerings, which he himself had been, secretly, the author
of, in vain. He found it no difficult matter to infuse a
strong prejudice into people's minds, against such impious
and outrageous practices, having, by his clandestine emis-
saries, first rendered them such for that very purpose.
The consequence of this was, that people generally thought
it safer to continue in that party, and join themselves to
those who had added to, and corrupted the temple, than
to associate with such as seemed in a fair way to pull it
down upon their own heads, not considering that the firm-
ness of the work made this impossible.

In this condition stands the noblest edifice in the
world; distorted in its figure, by a rude and Gothic addi-
tion; disgraced, by idle and fantastic ornaments; and
spoiled of its ancient glories, by pretended or ignorant re-
formers. So unhappily are its beauty, its majesty, and
grandeur, impaired, that many prefer the temples of China,
or the mosques of Turkey, to it ; and some had rather
worship in the open air.

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ALLUSION IX.

For many ages, the good of mankind had excited some,
and curiosity and avarice, numbers, to search for a uni-
versal remedy, that might cure all distempers incident to
the human species. To this they were encouraged by an
old opinion, handed down from time immemorial, and ge-
nerally spread among the people, that there was really such
a thing in nature, though very hard to be found out. Phy-
sic was narrowly searched, philosophy was strictly exa-
mined, and even magic superstitiously consulted ; but all
to no purpose, the fugitive miracle eluded all their inqui-
ries. Some were so weak as to think, and others so dis-
ingenuous as to pretend, they had discovered it; but a
little time and experience fully demonstrated the falsehood
of the one, and the folly of the other. Some were of
opinion, that there was no such thing, but they were mis-
taken; for, in the garden of Uranion, a wise and mighty
prince, grew a tree of excellent beauty and wonderful size,
whose fruit, with which it was continually loaded, was a
present remedy against all kinds of maladies. The sub-
jects of this prince had once the privilege of walking and
diverting themselves in his gardens, the air of which, whe-
ther it was owing to the admirable qualities of certain sim-
ples, particularly this tree, or to some peculiar influence of
the heavens, was of such a benign nature, that it was im-
possible to feel any ailment of body, or grievance of mind,
from the time one entered the gate till one went out again.
But so foolish and ungrateful were the people, that they
abused the bounty of their prince, stealing his fruit, and
breaking down his trees, in such a rude and unsightly man-
ner, that he was obliged to shut them out of it, and place a
strong porter to defend the door. However, as Uranion
was the most gracious and merciful of all princes, he pitied
the unhappy condition of his subjects, who laboured under
a thousand disorders, without any remedy ; and died so
fast, that several parts of his once fair and populous do-
minions were left destitute of inhabitants.

While he was reflecting, with great compassion, on the

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miseries of his people, and considering how he might best
assist them, without debasing the majesty of his person
and laws ; his son, who had all his father's goodness in
him, and was, moreover, related to the people by his mo-
ther, generously offered to quit, for a time, the glories and
delights of the royal palace, with the finest gardens in the
universe, and expose himself to the contagious air, and all
the miseries that afflicted the unhappy people, in order to
make them sensible of their ingratitude, and reduce them
to a more reverend and obedient disposition.

Go then, said the good Uranion : and as many as will
follow your rules, and live in sobriety and temperance,
without which, you know, the universal remedy is of no
effect, shall, on your intercession and recommendation,
receive a portion of that fruit that cures all distempers.

Charged with this gracious commission, the young prince
left the palace, and living among the lowest and most mi-
serable of the people, laboured to recommend submission
and obedience to them, declaring the glad tidings he had
from his father, proposing the infallible remedy to them,
and teaching them how to live, in order to profit by it.
Some listened and obeyed; others, wedded to their old
methods of cure, rejected the tender of his. The preten-
ders to physic, who made a livelihood by their imperfect
skill, or the impostures with which they abused the people
fearing the ruin of their craft, and envying the wonderful
cures he performed, endeavoured to persuade the people
that his fruit would poison them ; but when this did not
take effect, they persecuted him with the greatest cruelty,
driving him from place to place, blackening his character,
and at length seizing on his person, and putting him to death
in the most ignominious manner, and with the sharpest
tortures they could invent.

The young prince, foreseeing that this would be the
case, had chosen out, some time before his death, certain
trusty persons, whom he vested with a power, to teach in
his name, and to distribute the universal remedy to as many
as were disposed to receive it. To these he confirmed their
commission, after his father had raised him to life again,
and procured them such a continual supply of healing-
fruit, as was necessary to the prosecution of the happy

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work they had in hand. Those who had conspired the
death of his son, the just Uranion dispersed and destroyed
in a manner suitable to his absolute power, and their mon-
strous crime. After this, Uranion, rightly judging that it
was beneath him to interfere personally with so ungrateful
and so degenerate a people, constituted his son sole
minister, devolving on him the power of transacting all
affairs whatsoever, throughout his dominions. All appli-
cation was to be made either to him, or through his recom-
mendation and assistance. No petition was to be preferred,
whether it was for the universal remedy, or any other grant
or favour, but such as the prince should authorize and for-
ward by his seal.

The persons, to whom the prince committed the work
of reclaiming the people, and dispensing the universal re-
medy, acquitted themselves of that duty with great inte-
grity, for a long time, during which the kingdom visibly
recovered, both as to the number and health of the subjects:
but, at length, many covetous and ambitious persons, get-
ting in among them, began to make merchandize of the
salutiferous fruit. One of the most considerable, who
dwelt in a town very commodiously situated for trade,
erected a monopoly of this kind of traffic, and claimed, for
himself and company, the sole right of vending the univer-
sal remedy. Not satisfied with this intolerable piece of
impudence, they squeezed the juice out of the fruit, alleg-
ing that it was not intended for common use, and that the
people must be satisfied with the rind ; which, to make it
go down the better, they steeped in a compound kind of
pickle, that gave it quite another taste, and such a one as
none but a very depraved palate could relish. The fruit,
thus drained of its own simple and wholesome juice, thus
bloated and adulterated with many ingredients of evil or
opposite qualities, poisoned the blood of those who took
it, and brought sickness and death, instead of health.

To this ill effect the careless manner in which it was
administered contributed greatly; for these mercenary
managers, contrary to the directions of the young prince,
who had ordered it to be dispensed gratis, and taken by
the temperate only, at their extreme peril, both sold it, and
with it a licence, to take it even in the midst of a debauch;
h 2

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so that, notwithstanding this precaution, they both took it
themselves, because it was of a very agreeable flavour,
and gave it to the people, because it sold at double value,
where the licence was tacked to it, without observing the
necessary rules ; by which means, they and the people
were infected with innumerable disorders, many of which
were never heard of before, and proved all mortal in the
end. By this means, they reduced the nation to a worse
state of health than it had laboured under before the use of
the universal remedy ; and not only that, but rendered them
also more regardless of the honour aud obedience they
owed their sovereign. This latter they brought about by
pretending that the fruit was of no use, except they cooked
and prepared it; by affecting to receive and prefer those
petitions for it, which ought to have been preferred to Ura-
nion, by his son only, and by persuading the people, that
the king would receive no petitions, but such as were pen-
ned in a mysterious jargon of their own, in order that they
might make a penny, by drawiug them with their own
hands. By these means, they held the people in such
slavery to themselves, that" they forgot their true and real
dependence, on the bounty of their king, and the interces-
sion of his son. Some of them turned public-notaries, and
earned unrighteous bread, by engrossing these petitions,
which rendered them, and the poor petitioners, odious to
Uranion. Others commenced cooks, and made money by
dressing out the universal medicine, so as to make it
please the vitiated taste, and sit easy on the squeamish
stomach of such as could reward them handsomely for
their pains. Others again, went about from place to place,
erecting stages in the country-towns, on which they set
the royal bounty to sale. These impudent empirics and
quacks assured the people, that the medicine which they
had to sell, as they had managed it, could infallibly cure
all distempers, without the trouble and confinement of a
regimen ; by which artifice, they drew in the generality
of the people to exchange their sterling for such coun-
terfeit or sophisticated stuff, as ruined their health, and
shortened their days, instead of restoring to them sound
constitutions, and securing their lives. They sold their
pretended remedies at random, among the poorer sort ; but

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101

undertook the constitutions of the rich, like the repair of
buildings, for a certain salary by the year. Uranion saw
these abuses with all the concern and indignation that a
gracious and just king can feel, upon seeing his subjects
pushed on to all manner of wickedness, and even rebellion,
and with their eyes opened to apparent destruction, by
those whom he had appointed to preserve them in their
duty, and their health. To appear in person, and make
use of the royal authority, to put a stop to these mon-
strous practices and corruptions, had been such a revers-
ing of his former wise and righteous methods, as was be-
neath him to stoop to. To withdraw the fruit, and dis-
continue the supplies stipulated for between his son and
the people, was dishonouring the young prince, and infring-
ing the covenant made through him ; to send a prince again
amongst those who had treated him so ungratefully and
barbarously already, and who were as likely now, as for-
merly, to be guilty of the same cruelty (for the modern
quacks were greater gainers by their imposture than the
former, and every whit as covetous and malicious), seemed
such an abuse of goodness, in favour of wretches so alto-
gether unworthy, that he did not entertain the least thoughts
of it. The prince, who always endeavoured to make as
favourable a representation of the people as he could,
interceded with his father to let matters stand as they were;
alleging, that no better method could be thought of, than
that which the managers had so grossly perverted ; that
there were still some, who not only distributed the fruit
pure, and without a price, but also protested against the
impudent traffic which their brethren made of it; that the
imposture was too gross, and its ill effects too grievous and
too sensible to be long patiently endured, and that the peo-
ple, having their senses still open, would at length take the
courage to hear with their ears, and see with their eyes,
the miserable havoc that was made among them. Uranion,
infinitely patient, and averse to precipitate resolutions,
yielded to the importunities and intercession of his son.
But the quacks, fearing lest the people should one day see
through an imposture, that at once picked their pockets,
ruined their constitutions, and swept them out of the world,
set themselves to contrive how they might most effectually

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prevent their ever using their senses. To accomplish this,
they took several ways. One was, to tincture the pickle in
which the fruit was steeped for vulgar use, in a certain
opiate that occasioned madness. The generality of those
who swallowed this, lost all use of their reason, and were
reduced to a condition little better than that of brutes ; after
which, as they were not sensible of any disorders under
which they laboured, so they made no complaints : but on
others, whose brains were stronger, this drug had not so
entire effect. To these the quacks pretended, that the
universal remedy could work no cure on them, unless they
underwent certain chirurgical operations, that were neces-
sary to prepare them for the fruit. As soon as they got
leave to use their lancets, they pierced the drums of their
ears, broke the coats of their eyes, cut out their palates,
maimed the olfactory nerves, and so mangled the sensible
parts on the ends of their fingers, that they could pass a
cucumber or a pumpkin on them for the all-healing fruit.

In short, so little good, and such a world of mischief
was done by these empirics, that many began to think the
universal remedy a cheat, and to doubt whether there was
any such thing or not. But the people at length opened
their eyes ; and several of those, who had been driven to
distraction, recovering their understandings, went about,
declaiming against, and detecting the imposture of the
empirics ; insomuch, that many, taking their constitutions
out of their hands, betook themselves to temperance, and
the assistance of such as gave the fruit gratis ; by which
means, they, in a short time, recovered their health, and
returned like good subjects to their allegiance. They pe-
titioned the king, in their own mother-tongue, and had their
submission so warmly recommended by the prince, that
they were immediately received into favour, and such plen-
tiful portions of the universal remedy were conferred upon
them, that they had not only sufficient for their own use;
but also for as many of their friends, as would consent to
return to a like mind with themselves.

J i \ KXILI A.

103

ALLUSION X.

This world we live on is a new thing in the universe, and
but of late creation. The inhabitants of our neighbouring
planets have scarcely yet got over their wonder at the
strange revolution that happened in our system about six
thousand years ago, when there was room made for this, by
the departure of an old world, that revolved in the same
orbit which we now describe about the sun. This prede-
cessor of our earth had a moon or satellite, of a magnitude
much more considerable than ours, which in like manner
reflected a borrowed and changeable light upon its inhabi-
tants. It happened that a comet of unusual size came
within the orbit of the old world, and approached so near
it, as to absorb its moon in her perigee or greatest approxi-
mation to the primary planet, by which its attractive force
became so powerful, that it drew in that also, being then in
its aphelium or greatest distance from the sun, and carried
both away with it from the centre of our system, into those
cold and dark regions that lie between the orbit of Saturn
and the fixed stars. There (whether it was that the attrac-
tion of the comet decreased with its heat, or from what
other cause is not known) they were again disengaged from
it, and left so equally suspended between the attractions of
the surrounding, systems, that they have remained ever
since in the same point of the heavens, fixed and immove-
able. The inhabitants of this old world must have been of
a nature very different from ours, or they had all perished
long ago, at such a distance from the source of light and
heat, supposing it possible for them to have survived the
fiery embraces of the comet. Many and unspeakable were
the miseries that attended this melancholy situation into
which they fell. They endeavoured to relieve themselves
from the cold by fires, and from the darkness by tapers
made of the most combustible kinds of wood that could be
found. These, we may be sure, supplied the absence and
answered the ends of a sun but very imperfectly. It re-
quired so great and so continual labour to prepare and
feed them, that few could provide themselves with them ;

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and even to these they afforded such a niggardly degree of
heat and light, with such glimmering and contracted views
of things, that had there not been an absolute necessity for
some such expedient, they had been entirely laid aside.

After several ages spent in this uncomfortable state of
cold and darkness, there arose one, who from the extraor-
dinary degree of wisdom and power with which he was en-
dued, seemed to be sent by the Author of nature, for the re-
lief of the Pyrandrians (for so are the inhabitants of the old
world called from thefr bearing torches), and to remedy, as
much as the nature of things would admit of, the miseries
of living at such an immense distance from any sun. This
extraordinary person, Avho was wonderfully skilled in the
secrets of nature, took a great deal of pains to teach them
the art of making a kind of portable lamps, which inspired
those who bore them with a kindly and agreeable warmth,
and diffused such a plentiful light about them, that they
could see clearly all round, and particularly, if they held
them right, to a prodigious distance before them. The
Pyrandrians expressed a w orld of gralitude to their bene-
factor for the admirable and useful invention ; they erected
temples to him after his departure ; and wrote the history
of his life and transactions in terms full of respect, in which
they dwelt copiously on the rules and precepts that he
gave them, about the method of making and managing their
lamps. This book was kept at tbe public expense, with
infinite care and exactness ; and that the art contained in
it might be rendered universally beneficial, copies of it
were taken by as many as desired them, which certain of-
ficers, appointed for that purpose, took care to correct
faithfully and scrupulously by the original. There was
one thing in the art of preparing these lamps, which made
it necessary for the Pyrandrians to erect themselves into
particular societies or corporations, and have frequent
meetings ; and it was founded on this observation in natural
philosophy, that fire is preserved by the union, and extin-
guished by the separation of that combustible matter on
which it subsists. When therefore a new lamp was to be
lighted up, or one that had been extinguished to be re-
kindled, or such as were declining in warmth or lustre
wanted to be renewed, the method was to call an assembly,

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105

where every one was lo repair with his lamp trimmed.
When they were met, all the tapers were set together, and
not only the dark one took fire, but all the rest were ob-
served to coalesce, and return from these meetings with
fresh brightness and vigour.

As the precepts, on which this art was founded, lay
scattered here and there through the history of its author,
it required some judgment to put them together ; and the
unskilful sometimes mistook in preparing their lamps, so
that while one could not get his composition to take fire at
all, another had mixed his so unhappily, that it blew up
the whole assembly that came together to kindle it. To re-
medy these inconveniencies, and prevent the contempt into
which the ast by this means might fall, the most noted for
skill and success in making lamps, and for the extraordi-
nary brightness of their ow n, met and made an abstract of
the rules in which the whole art was contained. This they
published for vulgar use, and it was found by the expe-
rience of many ages, to be of excellent effect in directing
the judgments of the Pyrandrians, so various in themselves,
to the one great point intended by the author, to wit, the
making a good lamp.

Although the benefit of these lamps, and the certainty
w ith which, by the help of the abstract, they were prepared,
was too manifest to be denied, yet there wanted not those,
who not only spoke contemptuously of the author, but en-
deavoured to oppose the progress of the invention. It can-
not rationally be supposed, that they had any other motive
for so doing, than the fear of having their lives, w hich they
say, were none of the best, exposed by the light : but, al-
though this was the sole motive of all who opposed the
art, yet they shewed their opposition in different ways ;
some openiy endeavoured to blow out the lamps, but were
mortified to find, that by so doing, they only dispersed the
snuff and ashes; insomuch, that they burnt with double
briskness and lustre. And some there were who tried to
depreciate them, by making others of their ow n invention,
which they pretended answered the end much better ; but
the contrary was manifest, for they w ere soon discovered
to be only the old wooden torches, a little better dried than
formerly, by the heat of the lamps.

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There were a third kind, more artful than the former,
who pretended to be true Pyrandrians, and with a sort of
counterfeit lamps, which, for an hour or two, burnt extreme-
ly like the right ones, entered into their assemblies, and
there in a kind of plausible harangues, laboured to dissuade
the Pyrandrians, from the use of the abstract. This they
did to make way for the opposition they intended against
the history itself, but covered their design under the high-
est encomiums on the excellence of the lamps, the wisdom
of the invention, and the goodness of its author. It is true,
at first they made a new abstract of their own, which took
prodigiously for some time ; for the inhabitants of the old
Pyrandrian world were, like ours and all other planetary
people, extremely fond of novelty and change. But it was
not long ere this abstract fell into contempt on comparing
it with the original history, and finding it widely different
from that, and very defective in practice. The pretended Py-
randrians, finding this artifice detected, with an assurance
peculiar to their sect, set themselves to rail at all abstracts,
denying their own, and condemning that and the old one,
as equally spurious and pernicious. They insisted, that
seeing the invention, as it lay in the ancient history, was
both perfect and intelligible, all abstracts or explanations
must be either vain or prejudicial ; that, if the author had
thought otherwise, he had furnished the Pyrandrians with
such of his owncontrivance, and not left his art to be man-
gled, under a notion of mending it by bunglers and pre-
tenders ; and that there was just cause of fear, lest in pro-
cess of time the history should be quite laid aside, the ab-
stract only used, and, by that means the art in a long suc-
cession of ages be entirely lost. Although the true Pyran-
drians declared they laid no other stress on the abstract,
but as it was authorized by a strict conformity with the
history, as it gave an entire and concise view of the neces-
sary ingredients in a good lamp, and as the expedient had
been found eminently serviceable in so entirely removing
those inconveniences mentioned before, that proceeded from
a lax, unguarded, and undirected perusal of the history,
that they were now generally forgot; although they refer-
red every one to the history, and took all possible pains to
preserve it genuine, and in full authority; yet those who

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107

opposed the abstract went on, and with a world of popular
sophistry and declamation pursued this first necessary step
to that primitive darkness which their real principles and
secret practices required. They used so much art and cau-
tion that they at first made many proselytes to their way
of thinking, whom they afterward farther initiated into
their dark designs, as they found means to wean them from
the love of light, and possess them with a fondness for
such absurd and abominable practices, as could not bear
the lamp.

However, notwithstanding the thick veil under which
they concealed their designs, the Pyrandrian world was
then too plentifully illuminated, for such an imposition to
pass long upon it. Several things assisted the discovery.
First, their counterfeit lamps with which they had found
admittance into the Pyrandrian assemblies were found out,
and so sufficiently exploded, that they were obliged to lay
them aside. Secondly, they could not be prevailed on to
draw together those precepts on which the art was founded ;
nor make lamps even by the history itself, lest, truly, they
should impose a particular sense on any part of it, or in-
troduce novel explications. This gave great cause of sus-
picion that they were not true friends to the invention.
Thirdly, they affected the same way of reasoning, and the
same latitude of thought, with those who openly opposed
the art, and were ever ready to cry them up as patterns of
good sense and sound judgment. Fourthly, they appeared
to have no light about them, and when they were ques-
tioned with, on that article, they shewed a dark lanthorn in
which, they said, was inclosed a most glorious lamp,
made by a new receipt, from whence they vain-gloriously
assumed, and the Pyrandrians in derision gave them, the
name of Augenei, or New-lights. They could not be pre-
vailed on to open these lanthorns, although they had no-
thing to fear, but merely the being convicted of imposture;
for the Pyrandrians used no violence or persecution, think-
ing everyone punished himself sufficiently who refused the
use of the lamps- The bare use of an abstract, that con-
fessedly contained nothing different from the history, seem-
ed to be too slight a foundation for the divisions that were
broached, and the debates that were set on foot. Since

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little or no inconvenience could rationally be feared from
thence, it was to be presumed the Augenei had something
of more moment at the bottom, and that they were enemies
to the lamps themselves. At least, if this was not the
case, some other principle or design, as detrimental to the
public welfare, must be supposed, from the industry and
art used to conceal, not only those lamps they pretended
to cany about, but the secret by which they were made,
and the whole plan of their designs. If the lamps of the
Pyrandrians were false lights, or their inventor a deceiver,
why did not the Augenei, who set up for more than ordi-
nary degrees of benevolence, openly expose the imposture ?
If their own were the only true ones, why did they not pro-
duce them, and publish the receipt by which they were
made ? Why were all things to be managed covertly, and
in the dark, by^me party, in a dispute about light, whilst
the other dealt openly in every thing, and taught the world
what they knew ? Why were the principles of the Augenei
so impenetrable and opake, while those of the Pyrandrians
were altogether transparent ? Was it not a most prepos-
terous thing, while the Augenei railed at the Pyrandrians
for the use of an abstract for which they could not assign
natural reasons, because the co-operation of the several
ingredients was inr itself mysterious and inexplicable, that
they should make a secret of what, if you believed their
own words, they could very easily explain ? All these and
a thousand other queries of the same kind, are no other
way to be answered, but by saying that the Augenei stood
up in defence of a pretended light, in order to establish a
real darkness ; because darkness was the only defence for
their deeds.

This controversy is likely never to have an end, because
light and darkness are incompatible, till one or other party
be destroyed.

But there is little room to expect this, since, if on the one
hand, the real and manifest use of the lamps must always
preserve the art of making them, and the history iu which
it is contained; so the Augenei have many helps to support
them on the other. In all controversies, obscurity has great-
ly the advantage of perspicuity. All the designs of the Py-
randrians are no sooner laid than discovered and obviated,

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109

while those of the Augenei are impenetrable. The Pyran-
drians lie open to a thousand shots from the dark, exposed
by their own light, while the Augenei are invisible, and only
to be attacked at random. If there be the least flow in an
argument that is thoroughly understood, it is immediately
widened to a dissolution of the whole ; or, if there be none,
it is easy seeing where a pretended one may most artfully
and feasibly be fixed.

But, on the other side, be there ever so many real de-
fects, obscurity can hide them all, and as there is no dis-
tinguishing right from wrong, there is neither safety nor
certainty in opposing any thing. "What, said the Pyran-
drians, is the use of light, but to be diffused about us, and
to present us with a view of the persons or things we are
concerned with ? The beneficent inventor of our lamps for-
bade us to hide them, but rather to let them shine before all
the Pyrandrians, that all might see and enjoy the benefit of
them, and provide themselves with lamps of their own ;
but these Augenei either envying us a share of their new
light, or else fearing it should be found to be no better than
darkness, conceal both their art and lamps ; and by their
stumbling and irregular motions, give shrewd signs that
they had no light, and by their pilfering and other dark
practices, that they desire none.

A thousand other circumstances too tedious here to
mention, concurred to confirm this suspicion ; but, at
length, an accident happened that put it out of question.
One of the Augenei was caught asleep, after a debauch, by a
company of the Pyrandrians, with his lanthorn lying by him.
They carried off both with them, and, in a full assembly of
their own people, examined him about the nature of his
new light. But there was such a world of shuffling and
ambiguity in all his answers, that it was impossible to
make any thing of him, only this, that such equivocal and
double dealing, plainly argued him an impostor; besides,
upon his being first roused, which was in the midst of the
assembly, he was in vast confusion to find himself surprised,
his eyes could not bear the brightness of the lamps, and he
demanded his lanthorn with the greatest marks of fear and
anxiety, in both his voice and looks. This was all the
helps they had to form his character, or that of his com-

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panions, from any observations they could make on him-
self: for his impudence soon recovered him from his sur-
prise, insomuch that he answered all their questions with
an innocent face, and an assured look. The Pyrandrians,
finding it impossible to drawr him out from the intricate
recesses, and dark lurking-places, which his manifold hy-
pocrisy and impudence afforded him, ordered his lanthorn
to be opened, in hopes of making a full discovery from
thence : but they spent a great deal of time, to no purpose,
in searching for a door. After handing it about, and exa-
mining it one by one, they were obliged to use violence to it.

Upon breaking it open, such a pestilential vapour issued
from the fracture, as made the lamps, for a moment or two,
burn blue, and seized the heads of all that were present,
with an unaccountable giddiness : but, upon its going off
immediately, they could observe no light in the lanthorn,
nor any room for a lamp or candle ; for the whole was
stuffed with implements of various kinds, which they drew
out and examined one alter another. First came forth a
large packet, with the word * New-light ' wrote upon it in
capital letters, and Touud the word, the figures of the sun,
moon, stars, and other luminous bodies, with rays, and
large encomiums interspersed upon the nature and excel-
lence of light. Upon breaking this open, it appeared to be
only the covering of several other packets contained within
it, and was all painted with clouds on the inside. The
first of the lesser packets had ' Truth ' wrote on it, and un-
derneath a naked woman held a balance, one scale of which
wTas immersed in a cloud, while the sun shone brightly on
the other; upon opening this, there was found another,
with ' Sophistry' wTOte upon it, and a figure with two faces
peeping from behind the curtain; and this, again, being
open, was found full of fine dust, which, by the least breath
of the by-standers, arose like smoke, and, for some time,
so far prevailed upon the lamps, as to render what passed
almost invisible. The next packet that was displayed, had
' Nature ' wrote upon it, and, underneath, the figure of a
savage Pyrandrian, frisking on his hands and feet, and
hastening with pleasure and eagerness in his countenance,
towards a herd of four-footed animals, that appeared at a
distance. Within, it was daubed with obscene and drunken

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Ill

figures, and rude battles of naked Pyrandrians, tearing
each other with their teeth. It contained another that had
' Pleasure ' wrote on the outside, and ' Vice ' within, and
was filled with dung.

The last packet had ' Liberty ' wrote upon it, with the
picture of a war-horse bounding over a wall, while his rider
grovelled at some distance behind him, with the saddle,
bridle, and other furniture lying in contusion round him.
On the inside appeared the figure of a hydra, whose hun-
dred heads, armed with fire and stings, waged furious war
with each other, and in the void spaces among the heads,
was wrote, ' Libertinism and Anarchy.' It contained only
a medley of small books, and warlike weapons, cut in wood,
that looked like an arsenal and a library huddled together.
It was observed, that on one of the books, these words were
carved, ' Darkness to be felt.' Such were the contents of
the packets. The rest of the lanthorn was filled with
daggers, poisons, pick-locks, rope-ladders, and all the va-
rious instruments with which night-enterprises and dark
designs are wont to be carried on. By the anatomy of this
lanthorn, as it was called, it appeared what kind of people
the Augenei were, and an edict was forthwith published by
the Pyrandrians, forbidding all manner of commerce or
conversation with them, under this penalty, That whoso-
ever should transgress the edict, should have his lamp
forthwith quenched, and be for ever expelled the luminous
assembly.

ALLUSION XI.

Among the numbers of wealthy Romans who in the
Julian and Augustan ages retired to the stately villas they
had built in Campania for their pleasure, there was one,
who, betaking himself to a philosophical life, exchanged
all he was worth at Rome for a moderate parcel of ground
not far from Baiae. The improvements he made on this
spot, which was one of the most fertile in the world, were
rather designed for use than ornament, and had some re-
semblance to those he made in his mind, which were

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altogether in order to virtue. He believed that human
happiness was to be obtained by keeping both the mind
and body close to nature and reason, and that we make
ourselves miserable in proportion to the superfluous nicety
of houses, tables, and dress, with which we treat our bodies,
and the curious refinements in knowledge, to which the
more learned accustom their minds. He was an enemy to
luxury of all kinds, as well that which consists in super-
fluous learning, as unnecessary riches. It was for this
reason that he laid it down to himself as a law never to be
dispensed with, that he and his family should by their in-
dustry in the summer provide only what was necessary
during the ensuing year, with some little overplus in case
of accidents or disappointments in the next succeeding
crop. By this means being kept always busy, he avoided
all the mischiefs that are incident to an idle life, together
with the perplexities and errors that naturally arise from
study and speculation. This method, however singular it
may seem, gave him health and contentment, and those a
long life. But finding at last that he must yield to the
common lot of all men, he called his two sons Syngenes
and Tycherus to him, and spoke to them in the following
manner.

" My sons, hear the last commands of your dying father,
and remember them as a hereditary secret, from whence
you may draw health of body, peace of mind, and length of
days, as I have done. As I perceive all things in this
great body of the Roman empire degenerating apace, and
tending headlong to that state of luxury and corruption
that never fails to ruin the happiness of individuals, as well
as the strength of commonwealths, so I have lived myself,
and out of my tender regard to my dear children, would
have you live by other maxims than those of your contem-
porary Romans. I have left my estate so equally divided
between you, that one will have no reason to envy the
other, either for the greater quantity or fertility of his por-
tion. Each with proper industry will have enough to sup-
port a numerous family in plenty. Beware therefore of
ever endeavouring to enlarge your patrimonies, for that
may be attended with injustice and violence, and it would
be folly to expose yourselves to temptations, since I have

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113

left you a competency. I have designedly made you pos-
sessors only of what is sufficient, although I might have
amassed a much ampler fortune, that your sustenance may
depend upon industry, the mother of virtue and happiness.
Since you have only enough, take care therefore to keep it
entire. With my will I leave you a written summary of
my economy, in which you will find the best rules that can
possibly be laid down for the cultivation of this particular
piece of ground. If you observe them carefully, you shall
abound, and be happy ; if you neglect them, you shall be
poor and miserable. Remember what a long and happy
life they have given me ; and observe how wretched and
short-lived the rest of mankind are generally rendered, by
following maxims of a contrary nature.

Soon after the decease of their father, Syngenes and
Tycherus took possession of their several estates. While
Tycherus, full of his fa ther's example, and directed by his
rules of agriculture, gave the necessary application to the
provision of food for his family ; he observed that his bro-
ther Syngenes suffered his land to lie wholly unfilled.
Their conduct was as different, as if they had not been
educated in the same family, or, as if their father had
brought them up in, and bequeathed to them at his death,
the observation of quite contrary maxims. Tycherus was
always employed either in repairing his house, or cultivat-
ing his grounds ; and was never seen abroad in the fields,
without a hatchet, a rake, a sickle, or some other instru-
ment of husbandry; whereas, Syngenes seldom stirred
abroad ; and when he did, was observed to saunter about
with his arms stuck idly in his bosom, or with a crooked
stick in his hand, gathering the wild fruit that this hedge or
that coppice afforded. They happened to meet one day,
and Tycherus asked his brother, why he did not plough his
ground, nor repair his fences, as his father had done before
him? putting him in mind that the season was pretty far
advanced, and that seed-time would soon be over ; and, I
care not, said Syngenes, if harvest were at hand, I should
then gather in my crop.

Tycherus. I am afraid you will find it a very scanty
one, unless you plough and sow for it.
vol. v. I

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Syngenes. It is prejudice of education that makes you
think so.

Tycherus. And pray what is it makes you think that
you can possibly reap without sowing ? I am sure our fa-
ther, who was the best farmer in the neighbourhood, did not
think as you do.

Syngenes. But I am no more tied down to his way of
thinking, now that I am at liberty to act for myself, than
he was to that of his father, who spent his life under arms.

Tycherus. I do not say you are, any farther than his
maxims and example appear expedient and beneficial to
yourself. But 1 imagine you will find his way of culti-
vating and sowing his grounds, as necessary to eating and
drinking and wearing of clothes.

Syngenes. Perhaps not. I think some of my father's
principles very right, and others as wrong ; and of those
again that are right, some may do very well for one man's
purpose, that would ruin another. This first maxim indeed,
that he should follow nature and reason in order to be happy,
I greatly approve of ; as for the rest they seem to be either
foreign or false.

Tycherus. False ! pray give an instance.

Syngenes. Why, can any thing be more absurd than to
suppose, as he did, that labour is necessary to happiness,
and pains-taking to the enjoyment of pleasure ; by which
he makes a drudge and a slave of man, who is the lord of
the creation. Our vassals, the inferior animals, who keep
nearer to nature, are to live at large truly, and to be fed
and clothed without care or trouble, while their sovereign
must moil and muddle in the earth, and stooping down from
his erect and regal posture, pay the sweat of his magisterial
brow for every morsel he is to put into his mouth. How
consists this with the harmony and good order of things ?

Tycherus. Aye, I was afraid it would come to this. Bro-
ther ! Brother ! you do very ill to read those books of vain
philosophy that fill your head with these whims. Our wise
father used to observe to us, that there is as great madness
in the refinements of philosophy, as folly in the ways and
fashions of the world, and that they are alike far from na-
ture and reason. He was wont to tell us, that with respect

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115

to the ends and purposes of life, he that is commonly styled
a very learned man, is the greatest fool in the world. This
we shall see verified in you, before the year's end ; and not-
withstanding you are so great a lord, and such a profound
man, you and your family will be in want of necessaries,
while I, who can scarce keep my own accounts, have a fair
prospect of living warm and in plenty. Our father owed
his happiness and length of life, to his being a plain down-
right man ; if you followed his example, you would prefer
moderate labour, though it were not necessary to the sup-
port of your family, merely because it is wholesome to the
body, and amusing to the mind.

Syngenes. Brother, if you had learning, you would never
confound toil and pleasure together, nor talk so weakly as
you do, about the wholesomeness of straining and harassing
your body, and the amusements of working. If rest is both
wholesome and pleasant, how can its opposite, toil, be so
too ? But, it is in vain to argue with one, who knows not
the first rules of disputation.

Tycherus. I know no occasion for disputing, and there-
fore I do not trouble my head, either about the first or se-
cond rules of it; but this I know by observations made on
others, that all your idle folks, are the most splenetic and
uneasy wretches in the world, while those who take pains,
and are busy, appear to be cheerful and healthful. I find by
myself too, that I have great pleasure, in the work of my
own hands ; and that I am not easy when I have nothing
to do ; nay, I perceive that, unless I fatigue myself a little,
I can have no pleasure in rest, that condition in which
you place your happiness. I should think, as all men par-
take of the same nature, that you must perceive the same
thing in yourself: but, perhaps it may be otherwise. I am
unlearned, and cannot dispute. All my knowledge, dear bro-
ther, consists in a little experience and common sense.

Syngenes. Yes, both the kind and degree of your sense,
is very common, your amusements are those of the vulgar,
which I fancy neither you, nor the rest of them would care
to divert yourselves withal, if you thought you could help it.

Tycherus. It is no matter whether we would or not;
but believe me, the solid and rational entertainment, or en-
gagement, they give my thoughts, is what I could never find
i 2

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in the little idle games, with which polite people commonly
amuse themselves. The latter seem to be fit only for chil-
dren, and indeed your fine folks, at least, in this part of the
world, seem to be as little in earnest about this life ; while
the entertainments of me, and my neighbouring farmers, are
serious and manly. We support and enjoy life at once,
while those who call themselves our betters, seem only to
act a part, and please themselves with a very childish re-
presentation of reality, that is found by none, but such as
are industrious about things necessary. Is it not very ab-
surd, brother, to shun the true business of life out of sloth,
and then seek for forced invented business, for want of
something to do?

Syngenes. Yes, but it is not at all absurd, to spare
unnecessary pains, and such are the labours of mankind,
which are so much the more ridiculous, than their mere di-
versions, as they are more serious.

Tycherus. How ! are all the labours of mankind, absurd
and ridiculous ? Not excepting even those that are neces-
sary for our support?

Syngenes. Ay, but there are none such. They are all
inventions of our own, to plague ourselves, who live as it
were, in a miserable world of our own contriving, and sub-
ject to innumerable wants of our own making, for which we
must also make artificial supplies. Our natural wants are
few, and those nature itself, without any other help, can
sufficiently provide for.

Tycherus. For instance now. Should you neglect to
plough and sow those fields before us, would you expect to
have the necessaries of life spring spontaneously out of them ?

Syngenes. Yes.

Tycherus. What, corn, wine, and oil?

Syngenes. Yes, why not ? Do you imagine those are
less natural to the earth than grass and weeds, and a thou-
sand other things, not so useful, that grow unbid ; nay, that
are produced in greatest abundance, where the ground is
least disturbed, or, in your way of speaking, manured ?

Tycherus. I do not know; this doctrine is new to
me, and I am sure, it is very different, not only from the
practice of our father, but from that of mankind in general

Syngenes. Why so it is ; and what then ?

J U VEX ILIA.

117

Tycherus. Nothing ; only I thought, that in cases of this
kind, the experience of the oldest husbandmen and indeed
of all men, might afford some foundation for an argument.

Syngenes. This is an experience that the world buys
very dear.

Tycherus. I do not; for my father gave it to me for no-
thing, and I needed only to open my eyelids, and confirm it
to myself by continual observations.

Syngenes. You had a little more trouble with it than
barely lifting up your eyelid. It has cost you all those la-
bours, that raise you so soon in the morning, and keep you
so late up at night ; and, believe me, that is no small pur-
chase. Had you known that our bountiful mother, earth,
bestows all things, needful for our support, without asking
or pressing, I believe you would have spared the continual
and earnest solicitation of the plough and harrow.

Tycherus. Yes, that I should, and have found some-
thing else to employ me. But I would gladly know what
arguments you can have for an opinion so singular and sur-
prising.

Syngenes. The arguments are very good, but I will not
say they will convince you. That tree is a very large and
plain one, and yet I do not think a blind man could see it
at noonday.

Tycherus. Well, but I will rub away the prejudices from
my reason, as well as I can, and try to apprehend you.

Syngenes. Tell me, then, do you think the works of na-
ture discover a perfect wisdom in their contrivance ?

Tycherus. I do.

Syngenes. And that in them there is unstinted goodness
shewn to us by their author ?
Tycherus. I do.

Syngenes. Since, then, the w hole world is so full of the
wisdom and goodness of its Author, why should you accuse
him of providing so ill for the happiness of man, on whose
account the whole was made, that man is obliged to provide
for himself, and that in the most laborious and painful man-
ner. If those materials that are necessary for the nourish-
ment of the human body, and the support of life, require so
much pains to produce and prepare them, then our Maker,
instead of bestowing freely, has, along with his gifts, im-

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posed such hard conditions, that I really think man, who by
his reason is lord, by his wants and labours, is rendered
the very slave of the whole creation ; and yet this must be
the case, if the earth does not send forth our food, as it does
that of all other creatures, unless by mere dint of labour :
but, our Creator has not dealt so with us ; corn, and olives,
and vines, are no more aliens to the earth, than other plants
less useful. The ground is the common parent of them all,
and as they must have sprung from thence at first, so they
must be supposed as much the favourites of their mild mo-
ther, and on as good a footing with her, as the rest of her
offspring ; unless, indeed, you think her like those foolish
mothers, that indulge the most froward of their children,
while they treat the good-natured with severity. Do you
think she is partial to thorns and brambles '?

Ty clients. I know nothing of her sentiments, with
respect to her children, but as they are discoverable by
matter of fact. It is certain that thorns, and brambles, and
other noxious weeds grow apace in my grounds, in spite of
all I can do to hinder them ; and were it not for a great
deal of ploughing, sowing, digging, planting, pruning, hedg-
ing, &c. I find I and my family might starve, for any thing
the earth would afford us gratis.

Syngcnes. How do you find that ? Did you ever make
the experiment ?

Tycherus. ~So, nor do I intend it, in your way; but
those fields that have lain, since Hannibal foraged in these
parts, without affording one morsel of bread, or one drop of
wine, or oil, but, on the contrary, abundance of wild shrubs
and useless plants of all kinds, give me reason enough to
fear these would let me starve, if I did not cultivate them.

Syngenes. All parts of the world do not produce all kinds
of plants, though every country or climate is naturally
fruitful in such things, as are necessary for the support of
its own inhabitants. Plants grow spontaneous in their own
native soil, and not without cultivation in others. Corn,
and wines, and such like, are not natives of our climate, or
else they would grow as familiarly here, as those brambles
you complain of.

Tycherus. How, then, are we of this barren country to
be .supported, if we do not cultivate the ground ?

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119

Syngenes. By feeding on such things as our soil affords
us, without mangling it with ploughs and spades.

Tycherus. Observe those fields overrun with briers and
thorns: do you think you could live comfortably on what
they produce in their present natural condition ?

Syngenes. Why not? It is only prejudice makes us de-
spise their fruits, and disuse that renders them disagreeable
or unwholesome to us. Besides, they furnish shelter for
wild beasts, whose flesh is excellent food.

Tycherus. But not to be had, without the labour of
hunting them, which so great a lord as you, could never
stoop to. Again, the killing them is attended with great
danger, and that I believe you would care as little for as
the labour. As for corn, and olives, and vines, I take them
to be natives of no country, in your sense ; for since they
do not grow here without labour and manure, where can
they grow ? There is not a more fruitful spot of ground on
earth, than this we inhabit. Its produce is brought to ma-
turity, by the united influence of both solar and subter-
raneous heat, operating on a soil strongly impregnated with
oil, and sulphur, and nitre, which you naturalists allow to
be principles of fertility; and accordingly our fruits are
equal, at least, to those of any other country, the Roman
eagle has yet visited.

Syngenes. Why you talk as if the seeds of these more
useful plants had been dropped down like the Ancile out
of heaven, and not produced by the earth. Whence do you
suppose we had them ?

Tycherus. I think it is plain the earth does not produce
them of itself, even when kept clear of other plants, that
might obstruct their growth ; and therefore I conclude they
were formed by the hand of our Maker at the same time
with ourselves, and delivered to us, as both the support of
our lives, and the pledges of our industry. To this, agrees
the story of the goddess Ceres's teaching Triptolemus the
art of Agriculture, and sending him from nation to nation
to propagate that art, and dispense the seed she had given
him. Perhaps there may be something of fable and alle-
gory in this story; but if there is any thing to be gathered
from it at all (and there is none of those ancient tales with-
out a meaning), it is, that the world neither knew the seed,

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nor the method of propagating it, until they had both from
the Divine Being.

Syngenes. So that we have corn, &c. only by tradition,
without any natural faculty in the earth to produce it ? By
this means it may come at last to be lost; and then what
will become of mankind, who, according to you, cannot
subsist without it ?

Tycherus. Fear not : it is so necessary, that I'll engage
the world will never suffer it to run out.

Syngenes. That is more than you can tell : for, though
I grant you, that it is very good; yet there are other
things on which mankind might subsist. You used the
word weed some time ago, by which is commonly meant
a useless or a noxious plant ; but the application of such
a term shews great ignorance in those who use it, and does
no less dishonour to the Maker of the world. Is there any
thing useless or hurtful in the creation? did God make
those plants to vaunt his own power, or to incommode man-
kind ? has he made any thing in this world but for any other
reason, but our accommodation ? forbear such expressions
therefore, and consider, that as all his works are good, we
might, if prejudice and custom did not hinder us, feed as
well on one thing as another.

Tycherus. Could you make a meal out of that great
stone that lies before you ?

Syngenes. Out of that stone ! No. Who ever thought
of eating stones?

Tycherus. All things, therefore, are not fit for food ; no,
nor all plants. They were intended for various uses ; and
many of them not for the immediate use of man. Nay,
some of them are undoubtedly hurtful in one respect, though
they may be useful in another ; and the mischief they do is
no more inconsistent with the goodness of God, than the
rest of the evil that is in the world. Whether God made all
things for man I know not, no more than I do how to ac-
count for many things in the creation. I was not by when
the world was made, nor have I been let into the secret
causes of things since ; all I can say, is, that there are many
evils incident to this life, among which, we husbandmen
cannot but reckon briers and thorns ; so far are we from
thinking a thicket as good as a vineyard ; or a field over-

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121

grown with brambles, as beneficial as one enriched with a
crop of wheat. If we might guess at the designs of our
Maker, these thorns and brambles, and weeds of all kinds,
might have been intended partly as a punishment for the
wickedness of mankind, and partly to keep us busy, who
if we had not that to do, might employ ourselves in some-
thing worse. But as we can neither trace the originals, nor
account for the natures of all things, it is a surer way to
reason from undeniable facts. The hurtful, or if you will
have it so, the less useful plants, grow of themselves, while
those, which we stand in more continual need of, are not
to be obtained of the earth without a good deal of pains ;
but which, I think, it is worth one's while to take, on
account of the support and pleasure they reward our toil
with. These are truths which it is madness to deny ; and
those who will argue otherwise, I refer them to hunger for
an answer.

Syngenes. It is plain, that tillage is nonsense and im-
pertinence, from the infinite disagreement there is about
the manner of doing it : were such a thing necessary, it
would have been made so plain to all men, that all would
have known it, as naturally as they do, that Opening one's
eyes is necessary to sight. Shall that, on which life de-
pends, be left to the corruption of human institution and tra-
dition? There are an infinite variety of opinions about the
cultivation of ground. Perhaps none of them is right; or
if one of them be, how shall we find it out, and distinguish
it from the rest ? it is impossible to try them all ; and it is
vain to set about the work, unless one knew how to do it,
so as to be sure of not miscarrying.

Tycherus. You may put as many subtle questions, and
perplex yourself with as many difficulties as you please, I
am obliged to give no other answer to them than this, that
I cannot live without food ; that food is not to be had with-
out cultivating the earth ; and that the methods of tillage,
which my father practised himself, and recommended to
us, have always proved successful, and been crowned with
plentiful harvests. This is enough for me, and I think my-
self concerned no farther. As to the justification of our
Maker's measures, in creating us under such or such cir-
cumstances, perhaps refined and curious speculations will

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rather hinder than help us to do it properly. If things
themselves be candidly consulted, we shall find them
speaking the wisdom and goodness of their Creator in
plainer and stronger terms, than those in use among the
philosophers : If persons, I know no kind of men so well
disposed to honour and love the Father of the world, as those
who earn a plentiful subsistence for themselves and families
by the honest sweat of their brows. They have health, and
peace, and contentment, the greater part of which they owe
to the necessity they are under of labouring for their sub-
sistence, as appears from the more unhappy condition of
those who are supported by the industry of others in a life
of idleness. Had Providence given us all our food without
labour, I am apt to think we had all been as unhealthfub
and as unhappy as they.

Syngenes. The substance of what you have advanced on
this subject, if I have rightly understood you, amounts to
this; that thorns and brambles, and what you call weeds,
spring naturally and plentifully from the earth ; but, that
corn, and other vegetables necessary to our support, must
be had elsewhere, and planted in the ground, where it is
impossible for them to thrive or flourish, unless the soil be
prepared and kept clear for them with infinite labour.
Pray now reconcile this with the wisdom and goodness of
the first cause.

Tycherus. This I could do, were my understanding able
to keep pace with the wisdom of our Maker. But there
are a few things, which even you, with all your philoso-
phical sagacity, will never be able thoroughly to appre-
hend. I have already endeavoured to justify this dispo-
sition of things from the usefulness of labour and industry
to the mind, as well as body. But whether human nature
did always require this exercise, or whether the earth was
always under the same indisposition to afford us nourish-
ment without labour, is what none of us can tell. Perhaps
when the world was first made, the characters of its
Maker's wisdom were more legible in it, than now. I have
often apprehended a degeneracy in nature, to which I have
been encouraged by the ancient fable of the sons of Titan,
and the earth warring with the gods, and bringing a curse
upon the earth, as a punishment for their rebellion. These

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123

however, are conjectures, and such a I think it both van^
and presumption to indulge. If the divine wisdom has
reserved these things as a secret, why should we imperti-
nently pry into them? let us take the world as we find it,
and not trouble our heads with points that are too high for
our capacity, and no ways useful to us in our present con-
dition.

Syngenes. It is very weak to found your defence on
fables and old-wives tales.

Tycherus. I do not take the fable I spoke of literally,
nor do I lay a positive stress on it in any sense : but I take
matters of fact as I find them ; and, if my way of accounting
for them be weak or absurd, it is because I have always
been conversant in facts and things, and, for the most part,
little taken up in inquiring about their causes. If I have
plenty of provision for my family, a sow to sacrifice to
Ceres, and wherewithal to entertain my rural neighbours
now and then of a holiday, I think myself beholden to the
gods, and no way concerned to examine their conduct, or
censure their providence. But I forget that I have some-
thing else to do than to stand here all day specula ting and
prating with one, who, it seems, has more interest with the
earth than me, and can have his food from thence without
labour.

Tycherus following experience, and Syngenes relying
on his speculations, pursued their first resolutions; by
which the one was, in a little time, reduced to extre-
mity of want ; and had the mortification to see his grounds
overrun with weeds, brambles, and thorns, and far better
qualified to feed a herd of swine, or shelter wild beasts,
than support a family : while the lands of the other were
covered with olive-yards, vineyards, and crops of corn,
from whence he drew a comfortable subsistence for himself,
his children, and other dependants.

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ALLUSION XII.

Once on a time the earth complained to the ocean, con-
cerning certain great disorders, committed by divers rivers
and brooks, who, instead of confining themselves to their
own channel, and hastening to pay their tribute to the sea,
did nothing else but ramble about the fields, break down
ditches and mearings, sweep away corn, hay, cattle, and
even houses, form stinking pools and filthy morasses, and
with infinite assurance attack the very capitals of potent em-
pires driving the inhabitants from their dwellings, and spoil-
ing their goods. This complaint, which had but too much
truth in it, was heard with great attention by the ocean, and
believed the more readily, because he himself had of a long
time observed, that many bodies of water, both great and
small, having been permitted to leave him for a space, con-
tracted a fondness for the earth, and shewed plainly they
cared not, if they never returned to him again. His dis-
pleasure at these things being made known, an assembly
of the rivers was called, from which no stream, from the
greatest to the smallest was absent.

The Euphrates being the oldest of rivers, presided in
this assembly, and opened it with a speech, in which he set
forth the causes of their being convened, namely, the cry
of the earth against the rivers, and the displeasure of the
ocean at the revolters and absentees. At the conclusion he
gave it to them in charge, to consider maturely of these
matters, and provide such remedies, as to their wisdoms
should seem most proper and effectual.

The brooks, rivulets, and sewers, who, in order to make
a figure in this assembly, had, the day before, borrowed of
the clouds long flowing cloaks and full-bottomed periwigs,
perceiving that a severe inquiry was forthw ith to be made
into their irregularities, followed the speech of the president
with a hoarse discontented growl, which they soon raised
to so loud a roar, that the cataracts of Mount Ararat or the
Nile did but gently murmur in comparison of them. How-
ever, upon the entry of the Sun and Saturn, who came to

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125

see what was a doing, this hideous clamour ceased all at
once, and those who made it were compelled, one after an-
other, to lay aside their borrowed periwigs and cloaks ; and
a foul and pitiful figure most of them made, when stript of
those adventitious ornaments. Yet notwithstanding this
disgrace, which might have humbled more considerable
streams, the brooks, depending on their numbers, and the
subtlety and tergiversation, natural to mean and little ri-
vulets, entered upon their defence with great assurance.
One among the crowd stood forth in behalf of the rest, and
delivered himself thus.

• The charge brought against us, is no less surprising
than it is unreasonable. That the earth from whom we and
all other rivers spring, which we love and refresh, and that
the ocean, which we often replenish, without receiving one
drop of water from him, should pretend a right to what we
have always freely given, and join in such severe represen-
tations, as have been exhibited against us this day, is mat-
ter of great amazement. As to the articles, whereof we are
accused, I must plainly tell you, we look upon them to be
neither trespasses nor crimes , but on the contrary, great
and inestimable benefits ; for, what though some particu-
lar places may suffer, are these private and trivial suffer-
ings to be put in competition with the general and exten-
sive service we yield the public ? as to the right, which the
ocean pretends to our offerings, we utterly disclaim it, be-
ing at the same time fully convinced, he stands in no need
of our waters, as having an inexhaustible abundance of his
own. Be that, however as it will, we are determined to
maintain the privileges and liberties of rivers to the last,
against all mounds, banks, and ramparts, whatever, that
shall be opposed to them.'

This harangue was applauded by a universal murmur
from all the rivulets ; and several considerable rivers, con-
scious of their common guilt, spoke to the same effect. At
length the Danube, arising with an air of modesty and dig-
nity, said,

' Although I will readily acknowledge, that the rivulets
are very serviceable to the earth, and, in order to their be-
ing so, ought to flow freely in their several channels, yet I
must insist on it, that the wild sallies they make from thence

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and the manifold damages done by their licentiousness, call
aloud for restraint. It is their duty to water the soil, not
their privilege to drown its produce. Let them not hope
to excuse the ravages they voluntarily commit by the good
they undesignedly occasion. The latter, which is a debt
they owe to nature, and which, in some sort, they cannot
help paying, merits but slender thanks ; whereas the former
is an excess, by all means to be corrected. Are they not
sent down from the hills, to flow gently among the valleys,
and there refresh the soil and its inhabitants with pure and
limpid streams ? With what assurance can they deviate
from this excellent purpose, swelling with muddy waters,
pouring over all around them, turning spacious plains, once
fertile and populous, into noisome pools and putrid fens,
that deface the beauty of nature, and poison the air of whole
climates*? It is true, I believe they have but too great an af-
fection for the earth, or they would not labour to engross so
much of it. But is it thus they shew their love? Is vio-
lence a mark of tenderness ? Is outrage a testimony of re-
gard ? Surely they give a very unjust demonstration of their
love to the earth, at the expense of the duty they owe the
ocean. He is the source of water. It is from him we all
derive, and to him we should all return. Those who take a
pleasure in stagnation, and love to mix with filth and pu-
trefaction, little know, and it seems, less relish, the happi-
ness of mixing with the mighty ocean, and becoming sharers
of his purity and power. For my own part, I look upon
myself, as an alien, and a sojourner here on earth, and it is
with great impatience that I pursue my way towards the
fruitful fountain of me, and all I enjoy, and with inexpress-
ible delight, that I refund myself into his capacious bosom.
Although he wants not my oblations, yet doth it not follow
that he hath no right to them. In justification of his pro-
perty in, and claim to, all our streams, I appeal to the sun,
who by his continual solicitations, obtains of the ocean all
our supplies.' ,

Thus ended the Danube, and thus the Nile began.

1 1 am not much surprised to hear a European river
speak thus. I know full well from whence those prejudices
spring, which the rivers of that quarter of the world have
imbibed. The pretended partisans of the ocean have es-

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127

tablished their authority there, and instil what notions they
please. This I know, and this let every one who hears me
take my word for, that the bowels of the earth and moun-
tains are full of waters, which they pour out incessantly
through a thousand springs, and these, contributing their
respective funds, form all the rivers of the earth. I draw
whatever I enrich the Egyptian plains, and swell the ocean
with, from the mountains of the moon. The Po borrows its
waters from the Alps : the river of the Amazons, and Rio
de la Plata, from the Andes ; the little rivers of Greece from
Lycaeus, Hcemus, Pindus, Parnassus ; the Euphrates from
the mountains of Armenia ; the Indus, the Ganges, and the
other rivers of Asia from Taurus and Caucasus. This, I
think, is obvious ; and therefore, we need look no farther
for the origin-of our waters. I am beholding to the ocean
for no part of my flood, and so shall take the liberty to ex-
patiate on the fruitful flats of Egypt, as freely and as long
as I think proper. Let the Danube be transported with the
pleasure of losing himself in the sea. As I have no notion
of that pleasure, I shall keep from thence and be indepen-
dent, till that unwelcome season arrives, in which I must of
necessity quit the earth, and be blended with the common
receptacle of rivers. If the brooks are wise, they will fol-
low my example, and make the most of being, while they
have it. Let them visit the meadows, and the flowers. Let
them taste the sweets of the spring, while they may. If they
once fall into the ocean, they are lost to themselves for ever.
As to what hath been said concerning the sun, I think it
plainly repugnant to common observation and experience.
He hath dried up many rivers ; and since his appearance in
this assembly, all the brooks, exceptingafew, have dwindled
away to nothing ; whether he will ever replenish them again,
Saturn will shew. But I should think it very extraordinary
if he does; inasmuch, as he hath often declared himself
against our waters, and endeavoured all he could to rob us
of them by the violence of his beams.'

This speech was highly extolled by the whole faction of
libertine streams, who thought themselves very happy, in
having so great a river as the Nile to countenance their
violent and extravagant dispositions. It would be too te-
dious to recapitulate here the many speeches, on both sides,

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that followed that of the Nile. Some rivers spoke with great
mildness and moderation ; others, with abundance of art
and subtlety ; and others again, with prodigious rapidity
and noise, according to their various humours. The speech
of the Meander, who is a great sophister, and perplexer,
was too remarkable to be omitted.

' For my part, said that insinuating river, I do not think
the matter in dispute of equal consequence with the peace
and harmony of this assembly. I hope I shall be indulged
a little, it" I endeavour to assuage the unnatural heats that
have been kindled among us, by the too forward zeal of
my brother rivers, and reduce the points in controversy to
some mean, in which we may all agree. I have as much
respect for the ocean, on the one hand, and as firm an at-
tachment to liberty on the other, as any in this assembly ;
yet I cannot without great concern, behold an affair of this
nature, managed with such animosity, and such a world of
needless or pernicious punctilio, employed in a controversy
about which there is no occasion for being so violently
moved. Is heat the way to truth ? Is partiality a help
to justice ? The ocean had rather forego our tribute for
ever, than see us thus embroiled. I am utterly against all
irregularities committed by rivers. As to those complained
of, we are obliged by the eternal ties of benevolence, to hope
they have not been altogether so enormous, as hath been
represented. Some rivers have a very ill-natured and cruel
propensity to censure. Forbid it charity, forbid it benevo-
lence, that so unamiable a disposition should become ge-
neral, or, that we should too readily believe such things of
our neighbours. If I may judge of other rivers by myself,
there is in them all an eternal and irresistible desire of
doing good, and abhorrence of evil. To this inward restraint,
these innate banks and mounds, I should rather choose to
trust their conduct, and the safety of their neighbours, than
to the firmest works of earth and stone ; which (not to men-
tion the tyranny of erecting them, and the slavery of being
confined by them) serve only, in jny opinion, to collect a
stream too much, and by that means, force it to burst out
with the greater violence. I am therefore clearly for leaving
them to themselves, and to that native freedom, which their
waters are eternally dictating to them. Water is a freeele-

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129

ment ; and we cannot lay it under outward restraints, with-
out doing violence to the eternal and indefeasible constitu-
tion of nature, which, in my apprehension, is more sensibly
to be dreaded, more cautiously to be avoided and prevent-
ed, than the trivial inconveniences, that have so unneces-
sarily convened us to-day. As to the oblations of water,
with which we present the ocean, with all imaginable sub-
mission to the Danube, I think he puts the matter on a wrong
footing. Let no one mistake me. I am, by all means, for
the continuance of those oblations, and do constantly ren-
der them myself; but I humbly apprehend, they will be
more acceptable, if they are given freely, than if they appear
to flow from an acknowledged debt and obligation ; a debt,
which, to my judgment, seems to have no foundation in the
nature of things. To support the belief of it, however, a very
chimerical argument hath been employed : we have been
told that all our waters have been lent us by the ocean, at
the instance of the sun ; and for proof of this, the sun him-
self, a foreigner to this assembly, hath been unnaturally ap-
pealed to. Have we not sufficient means of information
among ourselves? Why are preternatural lights called in?
Every river present can confute this incredible hypothesis,
by only reflecting that he holds commerce with the sea, at
his mouth alone. But, if fact and experience are not suf-
ficient to convince us, let this demonstration remove all our
doubts. It is impossible to form an idea of a river without
water ; water therefore is essential to a river, and of con-
sequence every river must be supposed to have water in
itself, if we will be so candid as to allow that nothing can
subsist without its essence.'

Thus spoke the Meander, and had his vanity fed by a
roar of applause. The Nile, and all other overflowing
streams, were infinitely pleased with this speech. They saw
plainly enough, that it tended to establish their right to in-
undations ; at the same time, that a profound respect for
the ocean, and an utter abhorrence of all irregularities, were
artfully thrown out, as a net, to entangle and draw in the
ignorant and well-meaning, who could not be brought over
by a more explicit way of arguing. They were still farther
pleased to find, that this artifice had been successful, even
beyond their hopes, and had made a prodigious alteration
vol. v. K

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in the assembly. Rivers are fond of liberty, and willing
enough to be convinced, by any reasonings, that compli-
ment them with a right to it, and the discretion to use and
enjoy it, properly, in its full extent. They do not relish
such distinctions between that and licentiousness, as may
abridge it in the least. Hence it comes to pass, that many,
who thought the most perfect discharge of duty, and the ut-
most degree of licence, consistent, were caught by the sub-
tleties of the Meander, who, having passed a compliment
on them, instead of an argument, seemed to have recon-
ciled the nature of liberty and duty better, than either the
Danube or the Nile. By these means it happened, that they
were unwittingly wafted over on the sophistry of the Mean-
der, to the sentiments of the Nile.

After some time spent in subtle and metaphysical fool-
eries, to which the Meander's way of arguing had strangely
turned their heads, the Euphrates, with an awful kind of in
dignation in his countenance, arose, and spoke as follows:
' I own it was with some impatience, and much concern,
that I listened to what hath passed in this assembly. I have
heard the turbulent harangue of the brook, the muddy ora-
tion of the Nile, and the disingenuous speech of the Mean-
der. As to the first, it hath been more than sufficiently an-
swered, by the wise and good Danube, who abounds with
wisdom, like Phison and Tigris, in the time of the new fruits.
I see here a thousand nameless rivulets and sewers, who,
because they cannot discern their own bottoms, through
waters foul with the offscourings of bogs, and yet dirtier
places, take themselves to be very profound ; and with the
usual vanity of shallow waters, are for arrogating mighty
matters to themselves. But their occasional grandeur,
which is nothing else but froth at the top, mud in the mid-
dle, and filth at the bottom, was not yesterday, and shall
not be to-morrow. Let them enjoy their day. Let them,
with an extemporary licentiousness, pour their libertine and
erratic waters over the neighbouring grounds, and delay as
long as they can, the payment of their tribute to the ocean.
They must soon be compelled to come into us, and be lost
in larger streams, long before we mix with the source of
water. It is hoped, however, that they will think proper to
purge themselves before they approach the greater rivers;

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131

and that those rivers will not suffer themselves to be tinc-
tured with their pollutions. As to those brooks and sinks,
that dive under ground, not being able to bear the light, as
I am afraid they go to water the infernal regions, so I en-
tertain no hopes of ever seeing them again in the way of
their duty.

' As to the sentiments of the Nile, I think no other could
rationally be expected from him ; and I understood his
flood of words to be, indeed, rather as an apology for his
own licentious conduct, than as a series of reasonings, fitted
to affect the point in question. He, you all know, is but a
greater brook ; is strongly impregnated with mud ; and is
remarkable for his annual inundations, in which he at once
covers and pollutes a large region of the earth, infesting it
also with ten thousand species of noxious vermin and flies,
and with crocodiles, the most deceitful and formidable of
animals. Let the Egyptians, who seem to be little better
than the maggots of his mud, please themselves with wal-
lowing therein, and hail the polluted plenty, which he
sweeps away from other nations to bestow on them. This,
I hope, will neither be allowed to plead for his practices,
nor to recommend his principles, on this occasion. I can
scarcely forbear laughing at the odd sort of assurance he
shews, when he gravely takes upon him to instruct us all con-
cerning the origin of our waters ; although he, of all rivers,
is most ignorant of his own. He says he draws his waters
from the mountains of the moon. Does he mean the moun-
tains of that planet which enlightens us by night 1 Or are
they certain imaginary hills, supposed to be in Africa, and
fabulously so called ? It is among the mountains and val-
leys of Abyssinia, that he collects his waters ; from which
mountains, however, he could not borrow a single drop,
were they not supplied themselves by the continual rains
that fall between the tropics, during certain months of the
year. Let the Niger, who takes his rise in the same region,
set him right in that matter. The truth is, we all have our
waters from above. They are raised from the ocean by the
sun, and conveyed to us through that magnificent aqueduct
that lies over us. He is pleased to say, at the close of his
oration, that the sun, instead of being instrumental in ob-
taining any supplies of water for us, is perpetually ex-
it 2

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hausting what we have. For my own part, instead of think-
ing this a hardship, I think myself obliged to be thankful
to him for raising me from the earth, where I am not over
studious of being considerable ; for mixing me so intimately
with his rays ; for exalting me to heaven, where, gloriously
arrayed by his bounty, in gold and purple, I make the grand
tour of the skies, form the pavilions and chariots of the ce-
lestial powers, and give the thunder its voice and wings,
when it is levelled at vice or plagues.

' Though it is beneath the dignity of the place I hold in
this assembly ; nay, beneath that of common sense and rea-
son, seriously to answer sophisms and cavils ; yet, as the
speech of the Meander seems to have made some impres-
sion, I shall not pass it by, without making a few observa-
tions on it. That insinuating and serpentine river, who
sometimes bends to the Danube, and anon again winds
about to the Nile, sets out with plausible professions of his
regard for peace and charity, to which he would have us
postpone the representations of the ocean, and the earth,
as matters of no great consequence. It is the trite expe-
dient of all, who w ould deceive, to cover their evil designs
under specious appearances. But this speaker, as if duties
and virtues were at variance among themselves, taking ad-
vantage of the w armth shewn in this debate, though mostly
by partisans of his own, would needs have us believe, that
all zeal is culpable ; that because our deliberations are not
carried on with sufficient temper, they ought to be laid en-
tirely aside ; and that, not only the well-ordering of our
behaviour towards the earth, and one another, but also our
gratitude and duty to the ocean, are mere indifferent things.
These I take to be very dangerous sentiments. Is our duty
to the great source from whence we derive all our waters, a
thing of no consequence ? Is it an improper time for the
heart of an honest river to boil, when he hears such detes-
table principles clandestinely insinuated by some, and
openly avowed by others? How long is our allegiance
fallen in the opinion of the Nile, when he dare so publicly re-
nounce all duty to the ocean ? How are our understandings
vilified by the Meander, when he hopes to pass such tenets
upon us as rational, by arguments so fallacious and un-
sound ? I believe every judicious and candid river, who

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133

hears me, will readily agree, that were we all but half as
sensible of our duty as we should be, there could have been
no dispute here to-day. It is true, should we once divest
ourselves of all duty and allegiance, we should then be in no
danger of violating charity for the sake of the ocean, to
whom we are accountable ; or of the earth, where we are
to act. But would not this be paying too great a price, even
for charity ? And is it to be imagined, that when we shall
have stripped ourselves of all duty, all obligation and obe-
dience, we shall then find nothing to contend about? Is
peace very likely to be preserved in an absence of all other
ties, such as we may pretend to have within ourselves ? I
expect little less than a chaos, if every river is left, as the
Meander would have him, entirely to himself, without chan-
nels to contain him, or banks to confine his wild excesses,
of which we see such flagrant and such repeated instances
every day, as no eternal nor stupid ties of charity can shut
our eyes to. I have not, on any occasion, observed so ex-
traordinary an instance of modesty, as the Meander hath
shewn in arguing on this head. Instead of handing it
down to us as demonstration, he only says, it is his opi-
nion, that were the banks entirely removed, the waters
would flow more regularly, and more within bounds,
than they do at present. He might have delivered this
with much greater assurance ; for I suppose you are all
fully satisfied about the reality and strength of those in-
ward restraints, those innate banks and mounds he men-
tions. You know very well, that water hath in its own na-
ture, an eternal and absolute power to contain and direct
itself ; and that one of these banks within a stream, is
worth a thousand ramparts of adamant without. It is not
with altogether so much diffidence in himself, and respect
for this assembly, that he proposes his argument about the
essence of rivers : he calls it a demonstration, and bids all
our doubts vanish before it; and yet, I know not how it is,
mine still keep their ground. This borrowed essence of ours,
that is perpetually flowing in at one end of us, and out at the
other, puzzles me strangely. Being but moderately skilled
in metaphysics, I cannot answer his argument scientifi-
cally ; but this I am pretty sure of, that had the heavens
withheld their showers, and the springs been entirely
stopped up, one might as reasonably have asked for water

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from the deserts of Barka, as from either the Nile, or me,
or, I may say, from any of us. This argument, I think,
comes home to the point, and proves, that rivers are not al-
together so self-originated, as the Meander would have us
think. If, however, this argument of his be allowed to pass
for a good one, I am sure, so must the one I am about to
offer. There is no forming an idea of a river without banks,
and those on the outside too. Take them away from your
idea of a river, and you fuse and disperse its essence into
nothing. But not to tease you any longer with this jargon
of ideas and essences, I must own, in spite of that vanity,
too natural to me, as well as other rivers, that were it not
for the high banks that shut me in on the right hand and
the left, I should drown all Mesopotamia and Babylonia,
and lose myself in a huge unpassable morass. This va-
grant disposition, which I with shame and concern acknow-
ledge, hath discovered itself cn many occasions. As often
as my banks fall off to any considerable distance from
each other, I seize all the flats between, and sometimes
swell so high, as to overflow even the banks themselves,
and flood the fields to a considerable distance round
me. When Cyrus laid siege to Babylon, he took occasion,
from this weakness of mine, to seduce me from the defence
of my children the Babylonians ; and, by removing my
banks, led me into an artificial pond, contrived for that pur-
pose ; where I was detained, till my waters became putrid,
and the city, with its inhabitants, were made the prey of the
sword. Thus was I made, by means of this tendency in
me to evil, the slave of another's ambition. This tendency,
however, if I mistake not, is, by no means, peculiar to me.
All other rivers, excepting the good Meander alone, have
reason to complain of the same in themselves ; and might
possibly enough be made capable of the same practices,
were they not restrained by higher and stronger banks than
mine. I shall readily grant the Meander, that rivers are
free beings; but do at the same time insist on it, that
this freedom is limited. There are some things we cannot
do ; for instance, we cannot flow up the side of a mountain.
Again, there are other things we ought not to do. We ought
not to destroy the fruits of the earth, nor render the earth
itself useless, by turning huge tracts of it into bogs. A li-
berty to do such things as this, is only a licence to enslave

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135

ourselves. Is not that river enslaved, to all intents and
purposes, which, having quitted its own channel, and
poured itself into a low and hollow valley, is there confined
for ever, and blended with mud and filth ? But many streams
are misled by pride, and think it more glorious to become
lakes, or little independent seas, as they affect to be styled,
than make a part of the great ocean. The Caspian, who
apes and opposes the ocean, hath drawn in many, and very
considerable rivers, by this blind passion for independency.
How grossly do the Jaxartes, the Wolga, the Oxus, and
many others, mistake the nature of grandeur and inde-
pendency, when they rob the ocean of his right, and give
up, for ever, the inestimable privilege of incorporating with
him, to become the despicable tributaries and vassals of
the Caspian !

' I shall conclude on this important occasion, with re-
minding you once more, that if you have any sense of either
duty or gratitude, you will not separate, till you have suf-
ficiently provided against the enormities represented to
you at the opening of this assembly : I must also tell you,
that it is your greatest interest to do this ; because if you
do not, it is but reasonable to fear, the ocean, or the sun,
will soon interpose, and, by a universal deluge, or con-
flagration, totally destroy all the rivers.'

Thus ended the Euphrates. After a long jangle about
the origin of waters, and the nature and extent of liberty,
the assembly broke up, in a very tumultuous manner, with-
out coming to any resolution ; and the day being far ad-
vanced, the sun retired towards the ocean, to confer with
him about what had passed.

ALLUSION XIII.

The parents of Miss Veridet left this world when she was
but an infant. Her father, who was the best of men, was
engaged, during his whole life, in a lawsuit for an immense
estate, to which he had a most unquestionable right ; but
those, who had possessed themselves of it, relying on great
art and power, kept him out for a long time; yet, finding

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at length that he began to gain ground, suborned wit-
nesses against him, who accused him of high crimes, for
which, although his innocence fully appeared on the trial,
he was put to death in the most public and ignominious
manner. Miss Veridetwas recommended by her father, a
little before his death, to the justice of her cause, and the
care of Mrs. Le Clerk, her nurse, who was a very good wo-
man, and had an infinite affection for the child. Such early
and extraordinary indications of understanding, goodness,
and beauty never appeared in any child, as in this. At the
age when other children can scarcely speak, her knowledge
was superior to that of the wisest men ; she was the ar-
bitress of all disputes, and the reconciler of differences
throughout the whole neighbourhood. Her faithful nurse
took care always to set her in the most favourable point of
light, and to shew her to the greatest advantage. By these
means they gained many friends, who contributed what
they could spare towards their support, and revived the suit
for the great estate, which Miss was entitled to by the
death of her father. The usurpers, alarmed at this, tried
all ways and means, first to alienate their friends from
them, and then to take away the life of the child. But
nurse, by her extreme vigilance and prudence, so managed
matters, that they were defeated in all their schemes. Upon
this, for want of better means, they betook themselves to
open force. Here nurse acted her part inimitably well, for
which she suffered the most inexpressible hardships. As
she fled from place to place with the child, sometimes
hiding her, and at other times calling their friends to her
assistance, she was frequently seized, imprisoned, and
scourged in the most cruel manner for her fidelity. Many
also of those, who were resolute enough to shew themselves
in the defence of nurse and the child, were put to death
with unheard-of barbarity, their persecutors shewing them-
selves very ingenious in the contrivance of cruelties to tor-
ture and destroy them. This, however, did only serve to
increase both their zeal and numbers, insomuch, that in a
little time a great part of Miss Veridet's tenants declared
openly for her, and one or other of the great ones began
every day to augment her party. These worthies made
her cause their own, and gave nurse such liberal contribu-

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137

tions for the maintenance of the child and herself, that the
lawsuit was carried on with great vigour; and, as nurse
was a most excellent manager, and prodigiously sparing
in her own expenses, Miss was nobly supported, and en-
abled to gratify the boundless goodness of her nature, in the
relief of the distressed, who flocked to her from all parts
for meat, medicine, and clothes, which nurse, by her direc-
tions, supplied them with in great abundance. About this
time nurse began to be afflicted with hysteric fits, in which,
although not very violent at first, she was sometimes slightly
convulsed, and seemed to be threatened with an increase of
the disorder. However, Miss no sooner entered the room,
than her fits vanished, and she was perfectly well. After
this salutary experiment had been several times tried, she
determined never to trust herself again to the irregular mo-
tions of her own spirits, but always to keep Miss so near
her, that her distemper might be checked in its first attacks.

Nurse being now no longer looked upon as a poor wo-
man in distress, a certain great lord in the neighbourhood,
who kept a very splendid court, fell deeply in love with her,
and she being not altogether divested of the ambition so
natural to her sex, entertained his passion with a very fa-
vourable ear. He, for his part, made his court with all
imaginable civilities and services both to her and Miss ;
and nurse, on her part, began to dress a little more gen-
teelly, and affect the airs of a person of quality. At first
they contented themselves with repeated visits, but nurse
having tasted the sweets of grandeur, after some time re-
moved with Miss to his lordship's house, and there took up
her abode. From thenceforward she set no bounds to her
gaieties ; she was always foremost and highest in the fa-
shion. When high heads were the mode, hers overtopped all
the heads at court. When furbelows came up, she was no-
thing but furbelow from top to toe. At other times she was
all lace and fringe. As she was naturally of an humble
stature, she supplied that defect with high heels, which at
first cost her some indecent falls, nor did she scruple now
and then to lay on a little paint to disguise the too vene-
rable lines of her countenance, and brighten it with a fresh
bloom.

These arts drew in many admirers, who shared with

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his lordship in her good graces and encouragements, of
which she was by no means over-sparing. These gentle-
men, who from a depraved notion of grandeur became her
lovers, were hers only ; Miss had no share in their friend-
ship, although indeed they all treated her with great com-
plaisance and good manners.

As for the plainer sort of people, they thought her less
agreeable in the midst of so much dress and equipage than
formerly, when she shewed herself every day with an air of
good humour and familiarity in a decent homespun gown.
They said she made but a stiff and awkward appearance,
squeezed up in her new stays, and stuck about with pen-
dants, and bracelets, and rings, in which her fingers, grown
hard and inflexible with industry in her more sober days,
looked ungainly enough. In their opinions the good wo-
man made a very strange ungraceful figure in a palace,
in a gilt coach, and among people, who from their infancy
had been trained up to little else than a fine address and
mien.

The wiser people were apprehensive of very ill conse-
quences from this strange turn in her head, and began to
fear lest Miss too might suffer by it in the end. As for
Miss herself, she saw plainly what would come on it, and
did not fail from time to time to hint her sentiments to
nurse in very intelligible terms, which, they say, occasioned
a little coolness and misunderstanding between them.
Miss, who quickly found herself no fit person for a court,
by the mere compliments that were made her, under which
she could easily discover a settled distaste, spent most of
her time, either in her closet, or walking abroad all alone
among the fields, and now and then stepping in to chat for
half an hour with a country acquaintance. During these
intervals of absence, nurse had many and grievous fits of
her disorder, in which she was all over torn with convul-
sions, her hands beating one another, her feet clashing to-
gether, and kicking with excessive violence, and her face
so shockingly distorted, that many of her delicate admirers,
were mightily cooled in their affections, and some of them
even conceived an utter dislike to her. On such occasions
Miss was sometimes called in to the great relief of her
nurse : although, as the poor gentlewoman's disorder in-

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139

creased, Miss's presence had still less and less effect upon
her. She was so happy as to be relieved out of one very
outrageous fit by his lordship's coming into the room ; the
vast respect she had for him, recalling her tumultuous spi-
rits to order, in a very surprising manner. After this she
never sent for Miss when she was ill, but always had re-
course to his lordship, whose presence in some time, was
observed to stupify her disorder, and to change it into an-
other, more continual and lasting, but still of the hysteric
kind.

Miss finding she was no longer regarded by her nurse
as a person either useful or agreeable, retired among her
own tenants, where she met with a kind welcome from
some, although the greater part were so enslaved to nurse
and his lordship, that they treated poor Miss with great
neglect, and the more because she came unattended, and
had so little of grandeur or quality about her.

After this nurse and she seldom saw each other, and
when they did, it was by no means to the satisfaction of
either. Nurse told her she was too inflexible in her tem-
per, and too rough in her behaviour; that the success of
her affairs depended absolutely on an opposite way of car-
rying herself ; that the great folks, who had already shewn
themselves so favourably disposed towards her, were highly
disgusted at her severe and disobliging deportment ; and
that the recovery of her fortune depended absolutely on
serving the times, and being well with the great ones. To
these allegations Miss retorted that nurse's behaviour was
vain and unbecoming her years ; that she was acting out
of character; that dissimulation, and flattery, and pomp,
neither became her as a good woman, nor as her nurse ;
and concluded a little tartly, that though nurse Le Clerk's
separate interest, might depend absolutely on the favour of
the great, yet Miss Veridet's neither did nor ever should.
Nurse, who was grown excessively proud, could not bear
this reply, but flung away with great indignation, and
shook off her chagrin in her coach, which hurried her home
to the card-table, and a company of very fashionable
visitors.

Although nurse took no farther care of her charge, yet
she continued to receive Miss's rents, which she expended

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in articles of luxury, and presents to her admirers, and
men of power, to secure their interest. And all this was
for Miss's sake. Receipts were given in her name, and a
grand economy kept up for Miss, who lived at a distance,
in a poor neglected condition, and abhorred from her soul
the practices of nurse and all her associates. Miss, in
short, received not a penny of her own fortune, but was
supported by the voluntary contributions of a few poor
people, who, after being forced by his lordship to pay in
Miss's rents to her nurse, were so good as to relieve Miss's
necessities out of their own pockets, for which they thought
themselves nobly paid by her company and conversation.

Nurse, in the mean time, went on heaping up riches,
endowing her relations with great estates, wallowing in
luxury, and aping the magnificence and grandeur of a prin-
cess. She exchanged her levee of beggars for one of
beaux; and took more pleasure in the compliments and
addresses of the latter, than in the blessings of the former.
Her intrigues with his lordship, which were of more kinds
than one, became notorious and scandalous. However,
as is usual in correspondences of that nature, they led but
an uneasy life together. Each would needs have lived at
the other's expense ; and besides, there was no end of their
jealousies. His lordship would sometimes caress, and at
other times kick her ; and yet she had so far gained ground,
that he was often forced to atone for his insults with very
slavish submissions. Nay, she had so established herself
with his domestics, that they lent her a hand, on one or
two occasions, to turn him out of his own house ; and if
he attempted to re-enter by force, she armed herself, and
heading her own partisans, fought him with amazing viru-
lence and fury. If in any of these rencounters she hap-
pened to be worsted, she then made grievous complaints
to the neighbours, and asked them how they could pa-
tiently stand by, and see so good a woman, who was nurse
and guardian to Miss Veridet, so barbarously treated.
Help ! help ! she would cry, it is for Miss Veridet I suffer;
help me against this tyrant, who persecutes me for my
fidelity to her. Although some were carried away with this
impudent pretence, yet people generally saw through it,
and knew very well it was not about Miss herself, but about

JUVENILIA.

141

her fortune, that all these bickerings arose. It was a com-
mon observation, that when Mrs. Le Clerk had the better
of his lordship, she styled herself princess, empress, and
what not ; but whenever she came by the worse, then she
was only nurse to Miss Veridet.

At length, what through idleness and luxury, and con-
tinual stuffing (for she had a great appetite), nurse became
excessively fat, and her hysterical disorder degenerated
into a kind of lethargy. During the continuance of this
distemper, she was insensible of every thing. She not only
forgot Miss, but herself too ; insomuch that she, and every
thing about her, were continually bedaubed with huge invo-
luntary discharges of filth, which smelled so strong, that few
people could endure to go nigh her. There arose also a huge
bile on her head, which seemed to threaten a mortification.
Miss Veridet, who had great pity for her, made her a visit,
while she was in this condition ; and observing that her
bile was ripe, and that she had no chirurgeon to attend
her, took a lancet, and ventured to dilate the tumour, but
had like to have paid dearly for her good-nature. Such a
torrent of fetid corruption issued from the orifice, as had
infallibly suffocated her, had she not been armed with a
very powerful aromatic antidote ; and nurse, roused by
the pain, fell on her in a fit of distraction and fury, as if
she would have torn her to pieces. Her habit of body was
so bad, and the humours so very ill disposed, that her bile
turned to a foul and obstinate ulcer. Her lethargic disor-
der still continued, without any visible abatement ; certain
quacks, who had formerly prescribed to her, and who were
famous for anodyne nostrums, the only medicines used in
those days, were called in and consulted with. After a long
debate concerning particles, effluviums, animal spirits, sym-
pathies, antipathies, prognostics, diagnostics, occult quali-
ties, and a huge jargon of other mysterious terms, they agreed
to ply her with fomentations and opiates ; but with so ill suc-
cessjwere these prescriptions administered, that her disorder
was greatly increased, and she seemed to be little better than
dead. Miss, who still gratefully remembered her former
services, did not desert her in this extremity. She sent for
three or four very able physicians, who, observing that her
disorder was chiefly owing to a plethory and a cacochymy,

142

JUVENILIA.

gave her strong purgatives, by the use of which, and of
alexipharraic volatiles, the symptoms of putrefaction began
to abate, and her stupor gave way much faster than the
physicians expected ; which indicated a very strong texture
of the solids, and an excellent natural constitution. How-
ever, the utmost they could do, by persevering in this only
possible method of cure, was to rouse her into a most vio-
lent hysteric fit, in which she raved, foamed at the mouth,
and laid about her so outrageously, both with hands and
feet, that those who held her, being well boxed and scratched
for their pains, were obliged to use some violence with
her. Miss, who was very assiduous on this occasion, suf-
fered most, and had like to have lost one of her eyes in the
scuffle. The quacks, in the mean time, railed at what was
a doing, in the bitterest terms, and publicly insisted on it,
that the patient, by the immoderate application of volatiles,
was thrown into a frenzy ; although it was well enough
known, that she had, of a long time, been greatly afflicted
with hysterics ; and that her present fit proceeded entirely
from her habit of body, and by no means from the medicines.
The physicians were very well pleased with having thrown
off that load of corrupted humours, which of late had so
oppressed the nervous system, that not having strength
enough to work itself up to a fit, it had sunk into a stupid
.and profound lethargy. This, they said, was gaining a very
considerable point, and promised fair for a recovery. Miss
Veridet, not at all discouraged by the rough treatment she
had received, so plied her poor nurse with anti-hysterics,
and, as her understanding began to return, Avith mild, and
yet powerful reasonings, that she at length prevailed, in a
good measure, over the present tumult of her spirits. Her
understanding, however, appeared to be somewhat impaired,
and the torpor of her disorder seemed to lag behind in her
left side, and shew itself in the shape of a palsy, which, as
it was not attended with a total deprivation of sense and
motion, the physicians had some hopes of removing. For
that purpose they recommended to her the strict observa-
tion of a regimen, which consisted in nothing more than a
thin diet, great regularity in her manner of living, and the
constant use of a few alteratives.

She had no sooner receivetl these directions, than Miss

JUVEXI LTA.

143

Veridet interposed a little reasonable advice. ' You see,
dear nurse/ said she, ' what an idle and luxurious life hath
cost you ; your health is in a great measure destroyed, and
the preservation of your very life is next to a miracle. All
this had been prevented had you continued in that plain
industrious way of living, which at your first being employed
about me, brought you so much real honour and health ;
and all your present maladies and miseries may be removed
by a return to the same wise and happy manner of spending
your days. You heard, and I, hope will consider, what the
physicians said to you. But surely nothing can be more
wild, than to think of following rules, and living on a thin
diet, in such a family as this : besides, his lordship hates
you from his very soul, and me loo. Nay, he gave me the
lie this very morning, and swore the world would be well
rid of you if you were dead, merely because I said your life
was still worth the preserving. He and all his fashionable
visiters entertain themselves with dirty stories of accidents
that happened to you in your late insensible condition.
Your assuming the titles and airs of a princess affords
them matter of infinite merriment. They call you the
hoyden princess, and nurse's highness, and queen Goody,
with a thousand other honorary appellations of the like
nature. They talk also of seizing on all your money and
furniture, and his lordship hath already secured your jewels,
for your use, as he says, but others say, for his own. Would
you rather live here, insulted, plundered, ridiculed, than
with me in peace, cheerfulness, and real honour? Recol-
lect the pleasures of a natural, innocent, and active life.
Be impartial ; did you ever, since you entered into this
riotous way of life, taste such transports of joy as formerly,
when the relief of some very miserable object, or a high
act of devotion, called up the angel within you? How I
have seen the tears run down those cheeks on such oc-
casions? How have I seen a rapture of that kind rising
within you, and rendering your body perfectly insensible
to the red-hot pincers, that were tearing your flesh from your
bones, while you stood up like a strong tower in my de-
fence ! Yes, dear nurse, I have a lively memory of your
goodness ; I wish you could as well remember your own
happiness; you would then renounce this false sort of

144

JUVEXILIA.

grandeur, and go with me to be truly great and happy. Tell
rue not of the services done by, or expected from, the great.
When they were all against us, the justice of my cause, and
your unconquerable virtue, gave us a complete victory.
Since you began to employ other measures, since you
courted the persons, and flattered the vices of men in power,
with what contempt and detestation have you been looked
upon by the thinking part of the world ! As for my suffer-
ings, I should here make a lively representation of them,
did I not too plainly perceive such a settled alienation of
your heart from me, as precludes all hopes of moving you
on that topic. Represent therefore your own sufferings to
yourself, and let a lively sense of them awaken you to a
prudent concern for your own real interest.'

Nurse, although she was most bitterly railed at behind
her back, yet had not of a long time, been treated with so
much freedom to her face. To expostulate with so great
and wise a person as her, was a downright insult. Yet,
notwithstanding that she resented the greater part of Miss
Veridet's discourse, she had still some respect for her, and
felt the force of her reasonings as sensibly as a mind so
enfeebled could be well expected to do.

'What you have put me in mind of,' said she to Miss, 'is
mostly true. I was happier with you in a neat little con-
venient dwelling than in this palace. Honest men, I find,
are better friends and neighbours than great men. As for
my disorders, there must be some care taken of them, but I
neither think them at all so grievous or dangerous as the
physical gentlemen were pleased to intimate, nor am I by
any means convinced, that dieting myself on drugs will
much conduce to my greater health. As to the article of
my quitting this house, and retiring with you, excuse me,
dear Miss, I can never think of it. I am no longer capable
of those pleasures I formerly found in being caterer and
apothecary for the poor. If, for your credit, it is necessary
that such menial offices should be performed by some body,
we will hire a few servants, who shall attend on that very
business. My taste and notions of things are now a little
too refined for these pious antiquated sort of practices. I
cannot go abroad without a coach, and there is no visiting
beggars and lazars in a coach you know. At first it is true,

JUVENILIA.

145

my charity and piety procured us many friends. But the
times are changed. Those qualities are now little regarded,
and we must have recourse to other means. You and I
had long ago heen stripped of all we have, had I not taken
care to keep in with his lordship, and other persons of
consequence. You may talk as you will concerning the
justice of your cause, and the triumphs to be expected from
thence, but commend me to a little seasonable prudence
and policy. You, dear Miss, are for new-modelling
the world (which is impossible), in order to cut it out for
your own friendship. Now 1 am for taking an easier way,
and conforming ourselves to the world, that we may the
better recommend ourselves to its favour. These, I grant
you, are very opposite maxims ; but experience vouches
for the utility of mine.

Miss Veridet, perceiving by this and other trials, that it
was impossible all at once to wean her from luxury and
grandeur, took a lodging near his lordship's, that she might
be ready to lay hold on every new opportunity that should
favour the friendly designs she had on her nurse. In this
situation they sometimes visited, and at other times did
not so much as traffic in how-do-you's. This justice how-
ever must be done to his lordship, that he generally carried
towards MissVeridet with civility at least ; nay, and shewed
a greater desire for nurse's recovery, and the reforma-
tion of their family, than nurse herself. He frequently
joined with Miss Veridet in pressing the necessity of greater
frugality in entertainments, of more compassion towards
the poor, of establishing a strict discipline among the ser-
vants, and particularly insisted on it, that nurse herself
should conform to the rules prescribed her by the physicians.
As to the regulating of servants, she in part consented to
it, and accordingly some sets of them, such as those who
had care of the stables and the gardens, were brought un-
der a method ; but she could never be persuaded to submit
entirely to rules herself. A great table, and a magnificent
equipage, were dearer to her than health and life, which
she was willing to sacrifice to her palate and her vanity ;
although after all she provided but ill for either ; for as to
the first, she had little or no pleasure in what she eat or
drank, being generally gorged and cloyed with greater quan-
vol. v. L

146

JUVENILIA.

tities than nature required, or could dispense with ; and as
to the latter, she did but purchase contempt from some, and
envy from others, with all her vast expenses. Her most
favourite guests, having their bellies filled with her delica-
cies, would get into corners, laugh at her folly, and rail at
her pride and luxury in the most reproachful terms ; nay,
some of them would puke up her victuals, accompanied
with no small virulence, in her very face. She was little
beloved by any sort of people ; but none hated her so much,
or talked so hardly of her, as those whom she entertained
with the greatest preparations, and those who owed their
rise and fortunes entirely to her partiality. Various curses
in short, seemed to fall upon her, according to her various
ways of betraying the confidence reposed in her, as trustee
to Miss Veridet's fortune. That which she laid out in ar-
ticles of luxury, turned to distempers, and that which she
expended on her vanity, became the occasion of shame and
reproach to her. In the mean time poor Miss Veridet's
affairs were very ill managed. Counsellor Clod-pate, and
Skin-flint, the attorney, both nephews to nurse Le Clerk,
were intrusted with the care of Miss's lawsuit. (After they
had received immense sums by that business, they actu-
ally betrayed the cause they were feed for, and a decree
had certainly gone against their client, had she not, to the
utter amazement of all Westminster, appeared in court,
and pleaded her own cause ; for which, however, she was
immediately saddled with a separate action of damage by
every lawyer at the bar, and with a trespass by the court,
for presuming to act as a lawyer, without being regularly
bred to the business, or qualified according to form ; and
what was worse, for interrupting the business of all the
courts, inasmuch as nothing could be done, while she was
within the walls. With the like skill and fidelity was she
generally served in other matters. Nurse's own relations,
or the younger sons of great men, who were often fit for no
other purpose, and altogether ignorant of business, were for
the most part employed, and had large salaries for mismanag-
ing the affairs of this injured young lady. Of a good num-
ber of servants who were paid for attending on Miss's own
person, few or none ever went near her, so that she scarcely
knew any of them, nor were they better acquainted with her.

JUVENILIA.

147

There were some, indeed, who shewed an honest zeal
for the service of their young mistress ; but the world be-
ing generally averse to her, hated also those who espoused
her, and in some measure, did them the honour to persecute
them for their fidelity. Nurse in the mean time, who could
have protected these persons, and ought to have enabled
them to render a more effectual service, looked on them
with a jealous eye, as reproaching her own unaccountable
conduct by their zeal and care. For these, and other the
like reasons, she took care to keep them down, and to re-
strain the too petulant warmth of the men, by all manner
of discouragements. Those, said she, who have a real
friendship for Miss, will serve her to the utmost of their
power for her own sake, although I shew them no counte-
nance ; and so, as her cause and mine are still in some mea-
sure one, I shall share in their services for nothing, while
I purchase, with all the favours I can confer, the interest
and assistance of those who care not a straw for either of
us, but as we are useful to themselves.

Nurse took care to be as public as possible in her visits
to Miss, and to speak of her on all occasions, as her best
friend, and only confidant; though perhaps their hearts
were never farther asunder, than at that very instant. By
this means she hoped to support her credit, as if her con-
duct was approved of by Miss Veridet; and, for a time, it
had this effect. But when nurse's practices were once seen
through, this appearance of friendship and consultation be-
tween the two ladies served only to render Miss Veridet
suspected, and afterward hated by those who were per-
fectly indifferent to her before. Hence it came to pass,
that the party of those, who disputed her patrimony with
her, was greatly increased. Some questioned her legitimacy,
others that of her father ; and the generality of them insist-
ed, that all she had so impudently called her own, and nurse
had so infamously abused, was conferred on her by voluntary
contribution, and might be withdrawn again at pleasure.
They are now preparing to proceed on this way of reasoning
to a forcible resumption, as they call it, of all the estate ; while
nurse, in the mean time, as if the whole world were either
her fast friends, or absolute slaves, perseveres in every
practice that can help to inflame the universal odium against
L 2

148

JUVENILIA.

herself, and increase the growing prejudices so unjustly
entertained against Miss. Her conduct is made up of two
things, the most incompatible in nature, a defence of Miss
Veridet's rights, and a dependence on mere policy and
worldly power. With her right hand she holds by these ;
and with her left, which is paralytic, she feebly attempts to
manage that. Till she is restored to a sounder mind, and
a better state of health, the affairs of this injured heiress
are not likely to be put on an advantageous footing.

THE

CONSULTATION;

OR, A

DIALOGUE OF THE GODS.

IN THE MANNER OF LUCIAN.

Oi ft 5s«J wap' Znvi xaBhfJiim kyofomiTO.

Homer, Iliad, 4. v. 1.

Jupiter, Mercury, Momus, Mars, Venus, Cupid, Apollo,
Bacchus, Lucina, Clio.

JUPITER.

Throw up the sashes, ye Hours, set open the gates,
dust those clouds, it is a long time since they were used,
and range them in order for the company to sit on. —
Heark'ee, Mercury, are the broken steps in the milky-way
mended yet, as I directed? Juno hath led me a weary life
since she was overturned in her chariot on an old shattered
causeway near the Pleiades ; and this morning hath given
me— such a lecture, and all in Ela, her usual note on these
occasions, for neglecting the highways, as well as for
other failures.

Merc. Bacchus, who, you may remember, got himself
made overseer of the roads this year, like a true fuddling
squire, careful of his own neck, hath gravelled the bad
places so well with stars, that you may trundle an apple all
the way from hence to the far end of the world.

Jup. It is very well. He shall have a bowl of the best
for that, if we live to see nectar in plenty again. Make
proclamation that all the gods may assemble immediately,
only do not cite Momus ; he, you know, turns all our deli-
berations into ridicule.

Mom. I am sorry your eyes are beginning to fail you,
Jupiter ; I was just at your elbow when you excepted me.

150

A DIALOGUE

Merc. O yes, O yes.

Mom. Hold. You arc no longer to say, O yes, but
hear ye, it being determined, the crier shall speak sense for
the future.

Merc. I have been crier ever since the reign of Inachus,
and was never obliged to speak sense, unless in the days
of Homer. Hear ye, hear ye, hear ye, all ye gods and god-
desses, great and small ; double and single ; semi and demi ;
good, bad, and indifferent; wherever ye are, or howsoever
employed; whether in drinking or fighting, or rhyming, or
herding cattle, or courting, &c. &c. &c. make your appear-
ance in court forthwith, only onions and garlic stay away.

Mom. Well said, Mercury ! you had no need to sum-
mon the gods employed in cheating and filching, since you
was here already. See how they troop through the snows
of mount Olympus, like so many idle fellows tracing hares !

Merc. May I be so bold, Jupiter, as to ask the occasion
of this assembly. I take it for granted, it must be a busi-
ness of great importance, since, for some ages, the gods
have been very seldom convened.

Jup. A poet in Dublin, intending to make a compli-
mentary copy of verses on the son and heir, shortly to be
born to a great man, is willing to content himself with six-
teen lines ; but, being at a loss for invention, must have a
piece of machinery, and pitches on an assembly of the
gods for that purpose, with a resolution to make every one
of us bestow his distinguishing attribute on the young gran-
dee, that is to be. Besides, he is much straitened for
rhymes, and we must lay our heads together to help him out.

Mom. A worthy cause of convocation truly ! Bacchus,
Venus, and Mercury, without going farther, if they had im-
parted their attributes, might have sufficiently fitted the
boy to fill his title.

Jup. Is Apollo come? and the muses, where are they?

Mom. Put on your spectacles, and you will see them
right before you, seated on that cloud, fringed with gold, a
just emblem of poetical wealth. — Don't you see their sym-
bols? On my word the assembly looks very thin. Those
confounded praters about oeons and demons, who ascribe
mortality to the gods, have demolished one half of us, and
made all the rest, but Apollo and Bacchus, look plaguy old.

OF THE GODS.

151

Jup. We are called together, O ye gods and goddesses,
this day, by a Dublin poet, who is about to celebrate the
birthday of his patron's son. But whereas he wants six-
teen lines in verse for the purpose, he desires, as the mid-
wife is already sent for, we may, with all convenient speed,
meet and confer on the young gentleman our prime quali-
ties of all sorts, and furnish the rhymes beside. Wherefore,
do you, Apollo, and the muses, form a committee apart for
this purpose, while I, and the other gods, consult about
ways and means for the recovery of our dignity, which, of a
long time, hath so run to decay, that both we and it are in
danger of total annihilation. — Apollo, retire, and get the
lines ready for the poet, and, do you hear? throw him one
in to furnish out a triplet at the end. We must keep
well with the poets, who are almost the only professed vo-
taries we have.

Mars. I bestow my prowess on the young gentleman, to
make him a hero.

Venus. And I my beauty, that he may shine at balls and
ridottos.

Cupid. And I my arrows, to give him success in his
amours.

Mom. Peace, you blind wasp, and I my knack of sneer-
ing at religion and the gods.

Apollo. Come, my daughters, we shall soon rig out this
younker to some purpose.

Mom. Do you hear how the beardless booby calls them
daughters, who are every one of them old enough to be his
mother? Alack! alack ! what are we come to ? we may well
consult about the retrieval of our dignity, when every puppy
of a rbymster can trapes us hither for a sorry epigram. Is
Jupiter the cloud-compeller and thunder-thumper, is Mars
the roisterer and warrior, is Apollo the charioteer of the
day, and all this glorious assembly, to be employed in cook-
ing up eight distichs of verses for a senseless rascal of a
poetaster? Is the largest engine of Archimedes required
to heave a pebble ? or is Lucina to be called to deliver, not
a mountain of its mouse, but a bug of a mite 1 If you will
listen to me, I will shew you how to prevent the indignity of
these assemblies for the future. The britch of a boy is the
true Parnassus with two tops, and birch, not bays, the true

152

A DIALOGUE

plant of the muses : now, all you have to do, is to order the
pedagogues, those literary gardeners, to be more careful
hereafter in cultivating that mountain with the slips of
this tree ; so may the dabblers in verse know how to make
their own compositions clink without us. — Asfor this block-
head, it is now too late to mend him, and therefore I advise
you to send Vulcan with the largest sledge in his forge, to
crack the fellow's skull; if this is done, perhaps some
pretty conceit, like Minerva there, may start out ; or let
Pegasus do it with his heel, and try to open another Hip-
pocrene in this dunderhead. — I bail the success, provided
Vulcan will new shoe the poetical palfry, though the skull
he is to work on be as thick and hard as Helicon itself.

Jup. There is a good deal, Momus, in what you say, but
such is your manner of saying it, that unless you learn to
deliver your sentiments in a style more respectful, know, I
shall be obliged to banish you from mount Olympus.

Mom. Nay, for that matter, I was going to banish my-
self, if you call it banishment to be at a distance from com-
pany so low in their credit, and from a place where there is
so little good cheer a stirring. — Who would be buffoon to a
set of beggarly gods, that have nothing to eat or drink, but
like broken gentry, equally proud and poor, are forced to
subsist on the hungry remembrance of what they were ?
Don't you hear them crying out where is the ambrosia?
when will the nectar come in? are there no sacrifices?

Jup. His unmannerly flout puts me in mind of that which
I intended, now the poet hath brought us together, to make
the subject of inquiry on this occasion, namely, how we
may recover our credit with the world. We are now, O
ye gods, seldom heard of, but in the grammar-schools, and
that not to our honour ; for there every snivelling boy takes
the liberty to curse us, even with Homer or Virgil in his
hand, for all his floggings.— The present set of poets, who
can hardly get strong butter to their mouldy bread, are no
longer able to feast us with ambrosia ; nor can they afford
to furnish us with more than two or three pints of nectar
(mere taplash too) at a time. — What is worse, we have no
priests to regale us with incense, and the savoury steams
of sacrifices. — In this exigence, we have, for many ages,
been forced to spunge on the barbarian gods, Foe, Ixora,

OF THE GODS.

J 53

&c. and these, you know, live so nastily, that their best
tare is enough to turn the stomach of a Grecian god, bred
up to better things. — O the jolly times! when we rioted
everyday with the generous Greeks and Romans, on whole
hecatombs. — These hearty friends, never took a morsel to
themselves, without giving us a share, nor a glass, without
throwing us a sup by way of libation. And then, there
were the blameless Ethiopians! How happy a Jupiter
was I, when I used to make holyday with those merry
Africans ! But now I am forced to pass them by, and sneak
all the way to the gods of the Hottentots, who are so over-
run with vermin and tallow, that I was almost poisoned
among them the other day.

Mom. Don't affect so much delicacy, Jupiter. — It does
not become us, who, as you say, are but hangers-on to
other gods, to set up for nicety of nose and palate. — Be-
sides, it is better for you, and many others present, to live
low, and keep the flesh under, than so to pamper your car-
cases with hecatombs, as to be obliged, every now and
then, to run to the Danaes, the Semeles, the Ledas, the
Latonas of the times, in the uncouth shapes of guineas,
sw ans, bulls, and I know not what.

Jup. Impudent varlet ! Are you not afraid I shall trans-
fix you with a chain of red-hot thunderbolts to the very
bottom of the river Styx?

Mom. Oh ! your humble servant, Mr. Transfixer, are
you there with your chains? No, no, old boy, Styx is run
dry; your old thunders are extinct, and Vulcan, who sup-
plied you, hath shut up shop for want of trade. — Alas! It
is but a folly to knit those beetlebrows of yours in that
manner. — They no longer strike terror, nor does that nod
now shake the poles.— And, now you talk of chains, what
is become of your golden chain, wherewith you once
threatened to make a bilboquet of us all, and whirl us
about your head ? Did you coin it for Danae ? O impro-
vident Jupiter ! had you kept it, you might have pawned
it to-day for a dinner. — But since you have proposed a de-
liberation on ways and means, let us all be on a level, that
we may, as in a popular assembly, each of us have his word
about, and speak his sentiments freely, for state and distinc-
tion in our circumstances, I take it, is but a mere farce.

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Jup. Well, be it so for this time ; and now hear me
without interruption.

All the Gods. Hear him, hear Jupiter.

Jvp. You may remember, that as the sect among Chris-
tians, called Romanists, or Papists, turned our temples into
churches, so they were within a little of making us amends,
by turning their own religion into ours. — They did not only
adopt an infinite number of our ceremonies, and of those
arts, wherewith our priests had so long supported our credit
and their own ; but, what was more, having converted a
large catalogue of saints, male and female, into petty divini-
ties, they filled the churches with their images, to which
they burnt incense, and prayed with such devotion, that
they seemed, in a great measure, to have forgot their chief
God. To these new powers their prayers gave a kind of
omnipresence and omniscience. Had it not been for the
cursed reformation, which checked a little the progress of
this growing polytheism, all these saints had, by this time,
been styled gods and goddesses ; and their devotees, as usual,
might have cooled to such sneaking objects of worship, and
taken us, as gods of more eclat, into favour ; for fashions in
religion, as well as in clothes and other things, sink, and re-
vive, by turns, according to the varying humours of mankind.
From this prospect, thus rendered doubtful, my attention
hath, within these fifty years, been agreeably diverted to
another, that seems to promise better, insomuch, that now
1 have a piece of news to communicate, from whence I ap-
prehend we may hope, if we manage our matters rightly,
and strike in properly, to reap great advantages. Chris-
tianity, you know, was that which ruined us all. You may
remember also, how from time to time, our philosophers,
prompted by Pluto, sowed among the Christians what that
abominable people called heresies ; and how, by these same
heresies we did their cause a great deal more mischief, than
by all the persecutions which we stirred up against it. Among
the heresies, none was so likely to serve our purpose, as that
of the Arians, not so much because it set the Christians one
against the other, more violently than any former cause of
difference, and spread farther, but because, as it consisted
of a certain jumble or mixture of Platonism and Christianity,
it bid fairer for the restoration of polytheism, than any

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155

other.— You must farther know, that the sect, called Arian,
after having been long suppressed by the ignorance and
bigotry of the prevailing orthodox party, hath, since clas-
sical and critical learning were revived, sprung up again
afresh, with some new additions still move favourable to us,
than any thing held, or at least avowed, by the ancient
Arians. The moderns, who, for a blind, call themselves
Unitarians, together with the Socinians, a noble subdivision
of this party, and the Quakers, a very comical set of fellows,
all actually insist on a plurality of gods. These (for bre-
vity sake, we will call them all Arians) insist there may
be, not only one, two, three, but three hundred gods.

This number is sufficient to take us all in, down, from
your humble servant, to the onions and garlic of the Egyp-
tians, taken, I mean generically, not individually, provided
we have the address to slide in under the new names of
such gods, as this wise and excellent sect, shall be pleased
to honour with their adoration.

Now, what signify names, but the things they stand for?
If we can contrive to be the things, let us never boggle at
the names, since, both among the poets and grammarians,
we have been always accustomed to go by so many differ-
ent denominations. But what I would consult you on, is,
how to bring ourselves in under names of the new divini-
ties, so as not to give an alarm to the bigots, and yet
to enjoy our own again. The way is fairly prepared for us.
The Arians have returned plump into our scheme of theo-
logy, which consists precisely in holding one supreme, and
other subordinate divinities. Here now is the case, on
which I desire your opinions; nay, I ask your assistance
on this occasion, as you tender the revival of my honour
and your own.

Mom. Notably spoken, Jupiter, by my troth ! Now you
talk like yourself, and just as you did formerly, when Ho-
mer drew up your speeches for you. Yes, yes, there is
some sense in this, I felicitate the -assembly both on the
news, and the point of prudence suggested along with it.
If the first principle of polytheism is once admitted, we
shall all be gods again, and I, please the fates, shall come
in once more, for my grin over a capacious bowl of nectar.
Mars, Bacchus, Hercules, Mercury, courage my boys, we

156

A DIALOGUE

may yet have glorious revels under our new names, con-
trived for us by those sweet fellows, the-the-the Arians; is
it not so you call them ?

Bacchus. I swear by Styx, every man of them shall
driuk like a whale.

Mars. And fight, like Alexander.

Venus. And make love, like Adonis.

Mom. Pox on your Adonis. — It was such pranks as
that between you and him, that sunk us all. But enough
of this, — let us not swagger too soon, just as if w e were
snuffing the scent of the new sacrifices, but rather think of
assisting our Arian friends, and contriving, as Jupiter says,
to pass for their gods.

Jup. Momus, I perceive, is none of your foolish gods.
He hath struck out the two points, on which we ought to
deliberate with all the wisdom we are masters of.— How
shall we procure a victory for the Arians ? How shall we
afterward contrive to be their gods ? Let us stick to these
questions, and may the fates spin us a lucky thread.

Mom. See what it is to be humbled by adversity; I
never heard you at your prayers before. But prythee, god
Jupiter, tell us, who was this same Arius, to whom we are
so much obliged?

Jup. He was an Egyptian priest.

Mom. Whether did he sacrifice to Isis, or Osiris, or to
a clove of garlic ?

Jup. To none of them. — He was too sensible of his own
worth, to worship any thing but his own genius, at least
to worship as his countrymen in his time did, or as any
man ever had done before. He was one of those exalted
spirits, who always go in a track of their own. As he was
by far the most sagacious, the most penetrating, and the
most learned man in the world, so, luckily for us, he knew
it perfectly well, and therefore was neither to be guided,
nor governed, by any man, nor by all mankind put toge-
ther. He could argue the nose off your face, and on again,
in less time than you would take to blow it. And such
exploits as these he was enabled to perform by a species
of reasoning peculiar to himself, and by the wonderful art
of interpretation, that is, by the art of giving any word he
pleased, a meaning directly contrary to its universally

OF THE GODS.

157

known acceptation, and demonstrating the new-imposed
meaning to be the right one. You say, for instance, the
nose is on your face — No, quoth Arius; there are but so
many sorts of noses, long noses, short noses, flat noses, &c.
enumerating all ; now there is nothing on your face, that
may, strictly speaking, be reduced to any of these kinds,
and consequently, you have no nose on your face. Besides
as the word nose comes from Nasus, and Nasus from Nao,
to flow, unless you will allow yourself to have the snivels
or glanders, how can you say you have a nose ?

Mom. Wonderful, as I hope to be a god again ! O Ju-
piter, return me my nose, or, instead of being the jester, I
shall be but the jest of the other gods.

Jup. Why, thus, giving you a good thump on the gno-
mon, he sets it a bleeding, or ichoring, that is, flowing, and
so all is well again.

Mom. Rot the sophistical rascal, and your fist into the

bargain! I would not care a farthing to Are all

his followers like himself?

Jup. To a man. They can prove any thing by any
thing. They are perfectly sceptical as to the sentiments
of ther men, and rigidly dogmatical in their own, which
proceeds from their having found out, that all men are
fools, but themselves.

Mom. They cannot stand long. The rest of the world
will fall on, and extirpate them to a man.

Jup. Oh ! fear them not, they have a trick for that ; ra-
ther than lose a single doit by their principles, they will
say and swear any thing you bid them, and still be of their
own minds. — Thus they parry all inconveniences, without
either in the least receding from their opinions, or ceasing
to propagate them. Besides, the safety of these men is
sufficiently guarded against all hazards by the immense ex-
tent of their capacities ; for whereas other men have,
through stupidity or poverty of thought, but one meaning
to each word, and sometimes none, our friends, the Arians,
seldom speak a word without a cluster of meanings to it;
insomuch, that whenever what they say, being foolishly ap-
prehended in the common sense of the words, is likely to
be censured, or refuted, or turned against them in an argu-
ment, they immediately dodge off into a different meaning,

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A DIALOGUE

and from that, if there is occasion, into a third. Have you
ever tried to hold an eel by the tail?

Mom. I have, but cannot boast much of my success.

Jup. Well, you may do it with infinitely more ease,
than keep one of these men to a point a moment longer
than he pleases. By this artifice, and by not at once de-
claring their principles, they give themselves an opportunity
of slily feeling the pulse of your faith, now venturing out a
little, and then slipping in again, as you have seen a mouse
do at the mouth of her hole, till they have found out whether
you are a brother, or whether your previous way of think-
ing affords any hope of making you one in time.

Mom. Delicate fellows, I'faith ! they are the right dabsters
at a sly, or a dry joke ; for they do all by way of ratiocina-
tion, with so grave a face, that it is impossible not to be
taken in or bit at every turn. I will go, and spend a year
among them, after which I will not only banter you all out
of countenance, but out of being too, if I please. Venus
may assure herself, that pretty nose of hers shall run a new
sort of risk, by the time I shall have taken my degree of
master in this inimitable art.

Jup. Well, but let us proceed to deliberate on the two
important points proposed. — Is there any one here can
speak to either?

Merc. That can your faithful aid-du-camp. I am very
well versed in the controversies between our friends the
Arians, and our enemies the orthodox, as they conceitedly
style themselves. Uncle Pluto and I have been of their
council any time these fifty years. Perhaps therefore what
I am about to say may not seem altogether unworthy the
attention of this most august assembly. Know then, O ye
gods, that, many a time, when ye were all locked up fast
asleep in your alcoves of gold, I have been at the ear of an
Arian, conformably to my name of Hermes, in which I
glory, prompting his invention with new and wonderful in-
terpretations of words ; and at his hand gently guiding it
to write an s, at the end of god. — That I have at length suc-
ceeded almost to a miracle, you may see in some late per-
formances, published by my directions. This, I hope, will
convince you, that I deserve to be heard on the present
subject.

OF THE GODS.

159

All the Gods. Ay ; hear him, hear him, hear the watchful
and sagacious Mercury.

Merc. As to the first point, how the Arians may be as-
sisted, as I take it, they stand in little need of aid. All Ihe
art, necessary to a decisive victory on their side, consists
in a certain knack of making any word in the Hebrew or
Greek languages signify any one thing, although ever so
remote from, or contrary to, the intention of him who uses
it, and the obvious purport of the passage, wherein he
applies it : now, I have so tutored them all in this art, that
the dullest scholar among them is fit to instruct Pluto him-
self in the mystery. This you will soon see by a Hebrew
concordance, soon to be published, wherein my amanuensis
has so laboured the business of that obsolete language,
that, in a little time, all the Christians will perceive them-
selves tied to the worship of more gods than one, even by
their own Old Testament (so they call a strange antique
book, which contains the writings of Moses, and the other
Jewish prophets). Thus this formidable volume, which
hath hitherto been made so great a use of against us, is
likely to stand hereafter on our side, and to become classi-
cally orthodox. You will wonder, it may be, where I
learned this dead and barbarous language — Why, I know
not a tittle of it to this day. But this will only serve to in-
crease your wonder, after telling you I had so great a hand
in the concordance, till I farther tell you that my ignorance
was doubly an advantage tome in carrying on the aforesaid
work.

My amanuensis, you must know, could make a shift to
read the Hebrew, which, as fast as he did, I suggested
seven meanings to every word, and he constantly took all,
but dwelt on that, which was most favourable to his Arian
polytheism. Now, had I understood the real sense of the
wdrds, I should have been but the more confined for my
learning, and should have been tempted to suggest only
such meanings, as were some way analogous to those of
the writer. Besides, as myriads were to be made interpre-
ters, who neither had, nor could have, any knowledge of
what the Christians call, the original languages, was I not
a fitter prompter for these would-be critics, than one more

ICO

A DIALOGUE

learned could be ? If you will go into the world, you will
see I was ; for there you may hear thousands of able dis-
putants, stoutly maintaining the cause of polytheism, who
scarcely know how to read a word of any language. Yet
these able divines do not stick to say, it is so and so in the
Hebrew or the Greek. You may say perhaps of me and
them, like master, like scholar. Marry, and so it was; and
so much the better, I trow, for our cause. One thing I know,
that I found it much easier to put different interpretations
on the Hebrew words, which I did not, than on the Greek,
which I did understand. However, I have done clever
things in the Greek too. I did not suffer our own linguo
to speak against ourselves, although as the language is
vastly more known and fixed, than the Hebrew, so I found
this work abundantly more difficult. But I was not such a
bungler at the hocus pocus of words, as to permit those
words I had myself invented, to mean any thing but what
I pleased myself. Who has so good a right as I to take
the meaning of a Greek author ? or how dare any Greek au-
thor pretend to a meaning of his own, when I choose to
have him mean somewhat else ? Thus I encouraged my-
self, and brought all the Arians to think and act just as I
did. You will be extremely pleased, by way of instance,
to hear two specimens of their proficiency, the first relat-
ing to the Greek tongue alone, and the second relating both
to that and the Hebrew.

As to the first, you may remember, that in all the bick-
erings between the Arians and orthodox of old, it was the
constant custom of each party to draw up formulas of their
faith, or creeds, as they called them, and invidiously to ten-
der these for subscription to their opposites. The hatred
they felt for our most zealous devotees was nothing to that
they breathed against each other, on refusal. The Arians
indeed found the way to put so many different senses on every
word in the orthodox creeds, that as often as their worldly in-
terest made a seeming compliance requisite, they could, with
a safe conscience, subscribe the orthodox creeds, though
conceived in terms extremely apt to stick in the throat of the
swallower. However, down they went glibly enough, till at
last the orthodox contrived a creed so wonderfully crabbed,

OF THE GODS.

161

so ingeniously calculated to hamper the conscience of an
Arian subscriber, and backed with such dreadful impreca-
tions on all who did not believe its contents, that the Arians
were fairly thrown out for many hundreds of years. But the
last age had the honour to produce a perfect hero, one
Clarke, for whom nothing was too hard.

He took this dreadful creed, which was penned in Greek,
to task, and so managed the matter by a juggle of words,
which I myself am amazed at, that it came out of his hands,
what shall I tell you ? why, neither more or less, than a
good, sound, Arian creed.

The sight of his performance would be sufficient to con-
vince you, there never lived so great a man.

Jupiter brags of his favourite Arius, and I own, not
without reason ; for all the men of his time were fools to
him. But then he was a mere simpleton to my Clarke. O
Clarke ! Clarke ! thou glory of all critics ! if we get
the world again to ourselves, it will be but just to give
thee a temple and altar of thy own, for the immense

services thou hast done to the cause of Polytheism.

The other specimen, which will afford thee infinite plea-
sure, is this :

The Jews and Christians, you know, had set up for the
worship of one God only. Their Bible seemed to tie them
to this by terms so exquisitely precise, and with denuncia-
tions so very terrible, that every man of them was ready,
as you may remember, to be roasted alive, rather than wor-
ship any God but that one.

But behold ! the Arians have fairly proved, they under-
stood the true Hebrew and Greek meaning of neither the
word God, nor the word worship. Nay, proved that the
Christians must renounce their favourite Bible, or worship
a great many other gods. The Christians may now see, if
they are not blind, what sort of ninnies their ancient apolo-
gists, who wrote against Polytheism, must have been, and
what became of all their martyrs, whom we carbonaded for
adhering to the worship of one God. What say the Olym-
pians to this ? are we not in a fair way, think you ?

As to the other question, how we may contrive to be
worshipped under the names of the new Arian gods, it is
easily resolved ; and I hope, you will soon with satisfac-

VOL. V. M

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tion see, it may be as easily effected. But I hold it im-
prudent to attempt the thing, till the Arians shall have in-
troduced a greater number of divinities, for as yet they have
found out but two or three, though they have promised us,
as Jupiter hath observed, three hundred.

Venus. I did not expect to hear delays recommended
by that god, from whom all the brisk and sprightly part
of the world is denominated mercurial. Oh ! how impatient
I am to have my temples at Cnidos and Paphos rebuilt,
and my sweet amorous rights restored !

Mom. Right female ! I expected no less from your gust
for parade and ambition, to say nothing of another more fa-
vourite passion. But I think you, Bacchus, and Apollo,
have less pretence for impatience, than the rest of us. —
You, and your son there, are still in high vogue. — You have
banquets made for you, ridottoes and assemblies celebrated
in your honour, and hymns actually sung to you, with pris-
tine warmth of heart, all over Europe. Bacchus hath hymns
sung to him too, and orgies performed in the streets of every
city and village, as often as night returns, and sometimes
even in broad daylight. Apollo, also, and the nine Muses,
are formally invoked in every garret. — Mercury likewise,
hath still a good stroke of business among the dealers, and
therefore hath no need to vote for precipitation, especially
siuce he hath taken up the new trade of filching meanings
from words, and putting others of less value in their place,
like those merry thieves, who whip the handkerchief out of
your pocket, and put a stone instead of it. But, my friends,
if we shall be so lucky, as by the help of the Arians, to come
in play again, it is my advice that we behave ourselves a
little better than formerly, lest the Quakers, and other pre-
cisians make a party to kick us out a second time. — I would
more especially recommend it to you to lay our friend
Venus, and her blind by blow, under the severest rules, or
otherwise we shall be presently wh-red out of all credit
with the world. Be assured of it, if they get leave, they
will turn us into rams, bulls, and he-goats, by the dozen ;
and then we may judge by the fate of our former divinities,
what is likely to become of the new.

Venus. I desire, Mars, you may give that scurrilous
jackanapes of a god, a good slap over the chaps.

OF THE GODS.

163

Mom. Let me see if he dare so much as to lift his hand.
Look ye, this spear which I brandish, was the very individual
weapon (he knows it right well), wherewith Diomede
wounded the coward before Troy, and forced him, after
bellowing as loud as nine or ten thousand men, to consult
about his safety with his heels.

Venus. For shame, Mars, why do you tremble and look
so pale ? I wish I had early enough known you for so
great a poltroon.

Mom. So does Vulcan, whom I see yonder scratching
his grimy forehead and looking slily on his wife's applica-
tion to her bully. — But, madam strumpet, you too ought to
stand a little in awe of this spear; and I do assure you, if
you are not very quiet, I will lend you a sound thwack
with it across the shoulders.

Jup. You did ill, Venus, to set that railer's tongue a
going. Our time is short, and therefore ought to be pre-
cious, for we must break up as soon as the verses are
finished. — Let us therefore be as speedy as possible in
hearing what encouragement the messenger of the gods can
give us, to hope for a recovery of our worship, when the
Arians shall have brought their schemes to bear, and in re-
solving on the proper measures pursuant to the lights he
shall communicate. Proceed, Mercury.

Merc. As soon as the Arians, who value themselves,
and deservedly, on a prodigious latitude of thinking, shall
have once sufficiently extended their idea of divinity, so
as to give themselves a multitude of gods, we have then
nothing to do but to have them properly instructed in my-
thology, which, with the help of conjectures, etymologies,
allegories, hieroglyphics, and words of double meaning, will
soon direct them to pick us out of the gods they shall adopt.
And this I expect the rather for three or four weighty rea-
sons. First, because they maintain that creatures who
once had no being, may be naturally and easily converted
into gods. Secondly, because they symbolize with the
Deists almost in every thing, but more especially in their
attachment to the natural light, which cannot be defended
as adequate in any measure to its own end if our system
of religion is not defended in the same measure. Thirdly,
because many eminent writers have appeared in the world
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164

A DIALOGUE

since the revival of learning-, who, seeming to follow the
plans of Plutarch, Julian, &c. have gone a good way to
prove that our religion is only so far removed from the
true one, as it is a little more disguised and corrupted :
and, fourthly, because our Arian friends have already laid
aside the morality of their Bible, condemning it as merce-
nary, and utterly inconsistent with liberty and virtue : and
have in the place of it adopted that of our old friends the
philosophers, and our new friends the Deists. Now this is
an advance of more consequence to us than may at first
be apprehended by those gods that are not so well read
in divinity as your humble servant. The Christians are
men, and being but men, the majority of them are as stu-
dious of their ease, and as impatient of mortification, self-
denial, and the belief of eternal torments, to be suffered
for a slip now and then as other men. It is therefore my
real opinion, they will readily take up with any religion, or
any sort of gods, that will give them the latitude, in point of
morality, they stand so much in need of. Now they may
be well assured, once we are received for their gods, we
shall never think of asking them to be better moralists than
ourselves. Momus, for this reason, spoke like a fool when
he recommended reformation of manners to us. No, my
fellow-gods, it will be our interest and security to teach
them the lessons, and set them the examples they want;
and I have told you truly what the generality of them want.
I submit it now to this assembly, and more especially to
you, O Jupiter, whether these beginnings, which I assure
you are all of them real facts, do not afford us a very hope-
ful prospect. For my own part, so much do I know of this
affair, that I would not give three-pence, little as I value
money, to have my new divinity ensured. The Arians, you
must know, already worship certain subordinate beings,
whom they call angels or messengers. Wherefore it is
evident my function must bring me in of course, who
have been, time out of mind, truly and properly an angel.

Mom. Dear Mercury! Thou shalt be styled the re-
storer of the gods, and the re-peopler of the skies. Al-
though, of all the gods, it is not to be supposed that I,
whose peculiar talent it is to put on all shapes, and mimic
every thing I see, should find any great difficulty, in edging

OF THE GODS.

165

in under some new name ; yet as it is good to have two
strings to one's bow, I beg, honest Mercury, you may speak
a good word for me, as a pleasant comical sort of a god,
to your cater-cousins, the Arians.

Mars. And for me.

Bac. And for me.

Venus. And for me, Mercury.

Merc. Pretty Venus, I need not.

Jup. I do assure you, Mercury hath acquitted himself
most notably on this occasion, and deserves the thanks of
us all. Ah, how I love thee, my dear boy, not only for thy
mother Maia's sake, but for thy own merits. As for my
readmission, I see it is as good as secured. Pope, the
poet, who was a right hearty worshipper of mine, hath suf-
ficiently provided for my success, on the present scheme,
in his Universal Prayer, which he begins thus :

Father of all ! in ev'ry age,

In ev'ry clime ador'd,
By saint, by savage, and by sage,

Jehovah, Jove, or Lord.

Surely it was my own son Phoebus that inspired him
when he wrote these lines. — I see now plainly, the boy is
the true god of oracles as well as verses ; for such I take
this prayer to be. As I think I may safely reckon on
my own admission, I swear by Styx to bring you all in
after me.

Mom. We must not now say a word, I suppose, of your
being born and buried in Crete, nor of your old dad, who,
for lack of better victuals, had a scheme to pick your
chicken bones for his dinner, immediately after you was
brought to light.

Jup. By Styx, if you do, I will make an example of you
to all future dabblers in ribaldry.

Mom. And by the Nile, the Danube, the Rhine, other-
guess rivers than your Hell-brook, if you do not speak me
fair and make me the new god of wit, I will tell such tales
as shall spoil all Pope hath sung or said of you.

Jup. Well, well, thou shalt be the god of jokers. — But
here comes Apollo with the verses. — Mercury cheer up his
heart at your leisure, with the recital of that which you have
opened to the assembly.

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Apollo. We staid out a little longer on this performance
than usual, not only because we aimed at perfection, but
because the sisters differed a little about some expressions
which we have agreed to submit to this honourable house
at large. — As soon as your resolutions on these are known,
Mercury may be dispatched with a fair copy to the poet's
garret on Lazer's-hill. — You may observe, we have labour-
ed to accommodate this work to the present mode of poetry,
that is, have made it consist of smooth lines, with a certain
turgency in the diction, to lift them above the level of mere
prose in metre ; and have taken care at the same time, not
to swell them with too much thought, lest the father and
the mother of the young hero should be at a loss to under-
stand them.

Mom. A very necessary precaution.

Apollo. I will read them, if you please, and as I go on,
note the words in debate.

Bright rose the Sun on that auspicious morn,
When great Cordelio's brighter son was born.

Here Calliope thinks Sun in the first line, and son in
the second, sound a little ungracefully.— Thalia would have
it, ' Bright rose the light' &c. but others say this makes a
worse jingle. — I apprehend ' Bright rose the day,' &c.
would do better than either.
Jup. It will. — Let it stand so.

Apollo. Then all the gods conven'd in full divan,

To club their properties to this young man.

Here again Erato objected to the word club, as low and
clumsy, and thinks give, would not be so likely to disgust
the polite reader ; but Clio insists on club, as more expres-
sive, and therefore would have it stand.

Mom. Damn'd stuff altogether! incorrigible stuff!
Apollo, if this thing gets abroad, the apothecaries will poi-
son you for it.

Apollo. The apothecaries ! why so ?

Mom. Aye, the apothecaries, though they worship you
under the symbol of a clyster-pipe ; for these your verses
will prove so powerful and so cheap a puke, that the whole
corporation will not be able to sell an ounce of ipecacu-
anha in a year.

OF THE GODS.

167

To club their properties to this young man !

How the stomach works at it ! If the gods had eat any
thing these twelve hundred years, I would not for the world
venture to repeat it for fear of the filthy effects. — Far be it
from me, who am, as it were, but an underling sort of a
god to swear by the river Styx. — But I will take my cor-
poral oath on Homer's Iliad, you stole these verses from
Cherilus. — I frequently read his poems to laugh at them,
and can repeat the original Greek, which may be found in
his poem on the birth of Alexander. — Let me see. Oh !
#ye. Hem, hem.

Ei£ KaXov ijpt yivoiro (pcuivog <f>oi/3o£ AffoXAwi/,
'Ottttotc Xa/xirpOTipog Awg ta^aro vlog tupa
HjxaTog avyaafiov

Luc. You may save yourselves the trouble of pro-
ceeding any farther in that important piece of criticism, as
I but an hour ago safely delivered the Irish lady of a fair
daughter, to the great disappointment of that noble family
she springs from.

Mom. So you must even castrate your verses, or use
them at an operation, the reverse of a puke.

Apollo. It is very well, indeed ! to be at all this trouble,
and to have one's performance suppressed just when it is
finished ; and such a performance too ! so capable of doing
eternal honour to the composers !

Mom. What you are conceited of it then. Well ! to be
vain of stolen nonsense is comical vanity, on my word. —
But why did not the prophet Apollo save the poet Phoebus
all this trouble ? ought you not to have foreseen the child
was to be a girl ?

Apollo. Before I would any longer submit to be the
prompter of every paltry rhyming jackanapes, I would
turn a common carter, or even clerk to a subaltern attorney
at two-pence a sheet. — I was all last summer taken up at
Amsterdam and Paris assisting the hungry tribe in writing
madrigals at the one place, and epigrams as long as from
this to Parnassus, at the other.— That I might attend on
these important calls, I was forced to leave the sun a se-
cond time to Phaeton. But he, to avoid his former error,
drove the chariot of that luminary so far from the earth,

168

A DIALOGUE

that it could hardly be either felt or seen from thence during
the space of five months ; and drove on too without any
manner of regard to the new style. — These blunders and
inconveniences must be prevented for the future, and that
they may, I am determined to be charioteer only. Let
the Muses, therefore, if they please, take the poetical
province entirely on themselves. — I here renounce it for
good.

Mom. And what will become then of your poetical
godship ?

Apollo. Why even let it go the way it came. Rather
than be a god on the former terms, I would choose to
roll stones with Sisyphus, or be made a whirligig with
Ixion, though it were on the same spit that roasts Pluto's
dinner for him.

Clio. And we (I speak for my sisters as well as myself)
are so run off our feet, which you see have neither shoes
nor stockings on them, and so jaded with the midwifery of
every phlegmatic brain, that we are, one and all, resolved
to hire with the country farmers, if Minerva will teach us
to spin. There is no enduring the life we lead. Why, I
was forced to stay six months with Codrus, before I could
deliver him of his burden, and so heavy a one it proved
that no mortal could bear it. It was a sort of an epic —
damned by every reader at the first sight. While I was with
him, I had four thousand messages from others, who all mis-
carried.— Then I laid five hundred epigrammatists and son-
netteers in one week. All this would not vex one, were it
not that every brat of them, through the distempers of their
parents, or the difficulty of the births, is born distorted, gog-
gle-eyed, monstrous; and dies the moment it is dropped.
— Then our employment is only fit for camelions. — It is
not like that of Lucina, who gets a hearty swig at the cau-
dle-cup, a comfortable dram every now and then, a swing-
ing bellyful of good cakes at the blith-meat, and comes in
besides, for her share of the fees at the christening. But
we poor drudges are forced to ply in the garrets, which,
you know are at so great a distance from the kitchens, that
deuce a morsel any body will be at the trouble of carrying
up to us. Here it is that we are called to poetical consulta-
tions with the two frightful goddesses, Hunger and Cold,

OF THE GODS.

169

who take upon them to dictate just as they please. The
province of invention is assumed by the first ; and she, it
must be owned, is a sufficient mistress of dispatch. But
whatever she strikes out, the other instantly congeals to an
icicle, which Phoebus with all his rays is not able to thaw.
All I get leave to do, is to make them clink two and two
together, like bobbins, which I call the birth of a dis-
tich, and for this I make use of Bysshe, as Lucina does
of Culpeper.

Mom. Well, you Muses will certainly make delicate
spinsters, your wheels are likely to dance about to some
tune.

Jup. Forbear, Momus, do not jest with the afflictions
of others. I must own, Apollo, and you my dear girls,
your case is very hard. But bear it patiently a little longer,
and all shall be well. — Mercury will let you into a project
which is likely to set us all up again in newer and better
employments.

THE

CANDID READER:

on.

A MODEST, YET UNANSWERABLE APOLOGY,

ALL BOOKS THAT EVER WERE, OR POSSIBLY
CAN BE WROTE.

TO

HIS MOST CRITICAL, SCIENTIFICAL,
TRULY CATHOLIC AL, AND TERRAQUEOUS MAJESTY,

THE WORLD.

Learned and Mighty Sir,

Seeing the following treatise hath been penned on set
purpose to vindicate thy taste against the impudent at-
tempts of a few, who would impose their own upon thee,
it cannot so properly be dedicated to any one, as to thyself.
Forasmuch also, as many performances, not only such as
are of little or no length or weight, but also the voluminous
and heavy, relying purely on thy favour, have ventured
forth into the light, and lived to see several generations of
books, right valuable in themselves, rise and perish in ob-
livion, it is humbly hoped this little youngling of mine,
which boasteth not its own merit, but presumelh on thy
benevolence alone, will meet with the like kind reception
from thee. If it hath thy approbation, being as modest as
it is young, it shall therewith be content, and look no
farther.

Those persons, who would needs take upon them to be
thy teachers, and prescribe to thee in matters of taste and
judgment, will lay their rods heavily on this my little in-
fant, as well because it pleadeth in behalf of thy privileges
against their encroachments, as because it delivereth itself
in a style and manner not altogether authorized by them.
But I hope, as it is thy advocate, so thou wilt be its sponsor
and protector, more especially against the malice and craft
of that black tribe, which, above all others, laboureth to
abridge thy privileges, and aimeth at a tyranny over the
mind and conscience. Those persons, although on many

174

DEDICATION.

occasions they pay thee no small court, are nevertheless,
by profession, thy sworn enemies, and agreeably thereunto,
some among them do most cordially, both despise and hate
thee. Be thou aware of such ; for albeit, they make but a
small body, yet so great is the frowardness and virulence
of their natures, that they force the rest, contrary to their
great respect for thee, to join in the cry against thee. I
expect all, which the teeth and nails of that fraternity can
do, for my attachment to thy favourite author, the Lord
Shaftsbury. However, his lordship hath a competent
number of hopeful young shoots, springing up, and putting
forth apace even among that thicket of thorns, who in a
short space of time will form a powerful party, so as
greatly to increase the number of his, and consequently, of
thy props and supporters.

I suppose it is owing to the conspiracies of the afore-
mentioned persons, that we so frequently hear thee railed
at in such expressions as these. What a world is this !
What will the world come to ! The world is growing every
day worse and worse ! The world is come to that pass, &c.
Not satisfied with these opprobrious reflections, they even*
proceed so far as formally to renounce thee, together with
the devil, with whom, after all, they deal largely, and ge-
nerally consult in matters of the last consequence ; and
therefore thou hast reason to comfort thyself with the
hopes, that the hatred they pretend to thee, is as far from
their hearts, as that which they profess against him. I am
the more corroborated in this my opinion, when I hear the
same persons inadvertently blabbing such expressions of
love and esteem for thee as follow : If I might have the
whole world for doing this, &c. I would not for the world
be guilty of, &c. If I were master of the world, I would
make thee mistress. Nay, I also hear many of them swear-
ing by thee ; from which, how ever, I should by no means
conclude they worship thee, as their god, or even have a
high respect for thee, did I not likewise behold them every
day sacrificing to thee, not only their consciences, and cha-
racters, and souls, which are offerings of no very high esti-
mation, but even their very pleasures and their lives.

Thy Majesty, methinks, may very well turn a contemp-
tuous ear, to all the feigned invectives of the poor, the dis-

DEDIC ATIOX.

175

appointed, the discontented, the whimsical part of man-
kind, seeing the wise, the wealthy, and the great, are thine
own, to a man, and that with infinite devotion. It is for
thy Majesty they break through all the ties of nature and
humanity, plotting, sailing, fighting, swearing, cutting the
throats of their friends and fathers, and sometimes their
own. It is for thee they pretend religion in one age and
circumstance, and it is likewise to come at thee they tram-
ple on it without scruple in another. Thou art their god,
and their devotion is sincere and hearty.

The servile dissembling herd of dedicators, have by
misapplication, so lamentably debauched the expressions
of respect, that language can scarcely supply me with
terms, both strong enough to set forth my esteem, and at
the same time sufficiently delicate to enter thy Majesty's
ears, averse in the highest degree to every the smallest ap-
pearance of flattery. I shall therefore (I know it will
please thy Majesty) preserve an unwilling silence on a,sub-
ject, which it requires the self-denial of an anchorite to
abstain from. I will not say one word of thy candour and
taste, as a reader, thy wisdom and justice as a governor,
thy valour and conduct as a soldier, thy humanity and po-
liteness as a companion, thy fidelity as a friend, thy gene-
rosity as the patron of merit, nor the other innumerable
and illustrious virtues, that grace thy amiable character,
and render thee so deservedly the admiration of all. These
topics, defended by thy modesty, and exalted far above my
weak ability, are reserved to be inscribed by a pen of steel,
on everlasting monuments of brass and marble. It would
be a profanation to lavish thy praises on frail paper, so
applicable, on many occasions, to the vilest uses, more
especially when lowered in value by the base and uncur-
rent mintage of such a mere coiner among writers, as,
May it please thy Majesty,
Thy Majesty's most humble, most obedient,

And most devoted slave and admirer,

MUNDANUS.

THE

CANDID READER.

Great is the satisfaction I enjoy in beholding the daily
and plentiful additions made to the commonwealth of let-
ters by my contemporary writers. However, it is a plea-
sure of a very peculiar nature, and cannot be even con-
ceived by any other person, if he doth not take the matter
in the same light I do. I consider tbe whole body of writ-
ings, that have hitherto appeared in the world, of whatso-
ever kind, whether philosophical or poetical, historical or
political, moral, theological, or critical ; whether they be the
performances of great wits or dunces, of the learned or illi-
terate, as one great community or republic of books, in which
every individual performance hath its own place and use.
As in a well-regulated commonwealth, consisting of men,
there must be persons for all purposes, some to be treasurers,
and others to be scavengers, some to be judges, and others
to be hangmen ; so in one of books, there ought to be some
sublime and learned, others low and illiterate, some full
of sense and life, others dull and stupid, some of a sena-
torial order, and some of a plebeian; because, all books
being wrote, if I mistake not, in order to perusal, and all
mankind being either obliged by duty, or moved by incli-
nation, to peruse some kind of books or other, and there
being such an infinite variety of tastes and capacities
among men, prodigious numbers would be excluded from
the great and delectable exercise of reading, were it not for
the plentiful provision made, and laid in, by the writers of
past and present times. We have now almost a compe-
tency of writings, calculated for all sorts of tastes, and all
degrees of understanding. The plodding mathematician
hath his Euclid or his Newton ; the reader of fire and fancy
hath his Lucan or his Milton ; the sage politician, his Ta-
citus or Machiavel ; the young ladies, their books of battles
vol. v. n

178

THE CANDID READER.

and slaughter ; the young gentlemen, their plays and no-
vels ; the honest fanner his Don Bellianis and Seven wise
Masters; the gay have their comedies; the melancholy
their tragedies ; the morose, their satires ; the flatterers,
their panegyrics; the hasty precipitate reader hath his
newspapers and duodecimos ; the patient and laborious,
his huge performances in folio. Give me a reader of ever
so odd a turn, and I will give thee as odd a writer, who
shall fit him as exactly as if nature had cut them out for
each other. Nay, on the other hand, I will be bold to say,
thou canst not shew me a writer, for whom I have not a
reader ready, who shall tally with him, notch for notch, and
nick for nick, from one end to the other.

Now, it is no way improbable that some who look upon
their own minds as more refined than those of other men,
may object to me the unreasonableness of being pleased
to see such a number of ill tastes, indulged and fed by
writings of a mean character, as they perhaps may call
them, and so repugnant to right reason and nature.

But let those over nice persons consider what it is they
are pleased to brand with such injurious appellations.
Perhaps it is a romance, for instance, the renowned history
of Valentine and Orson ; which, upon a close scrutiny and
calculation I find to be read by four persons, for one, who
reads an Homer or a Newton. By what authority can
this huge body of people, free, at least in these countries,
and feared by the king of France, be.depiived of their right
to this delectable author ? Or, with what assurance can a
few supercilious critics take upon them to condemn their
taste in this behalf?

Reason follows nature ; and where is nature to be found,
if not among those who are untainted with art, and unre-
fined by prejudices? If thou, O objector, whoever thou
art, hast laboured to force nature, and acquire a certain
luxury of taste, must thou presently take upon thee the
office of a censor, and presume to reduce the world to thine
own whimsical and formal way of thinking ? Thou hast
deviated from nature. It was study and art that taught
thee to think in trammels, and reduced thee, from the
boundless liberty of nature, to a parcel of dry rules con-
cerning unity, uniformity, and probability. Surely, thou

THE CANDID READER.

179

must remember, that it was in schools and colleges thou
learnedst these impertinences. The reader of Valentine
and Orson is uneducated, that is, unprejudiced, and guided
by nature alone to that amusing performance ; and there-
fore thou doest ill to say bis taste is unnatural. The books
wherewith thou pleasest thyself, are of a nature so odd
and out-of-the-way, that it is the work of a whole life to
bring oneself to understand and relish them. They have
certainly cracked thy brains, or thou couldest not be so
absurd as to think them natural, merely because thou hast
habituated thyself to them, or think of imposing a taste for
them on others, who find a shorter and easier way to be
pleased. Thou art like those wise people, who by forsak-
ing nature, and reason too, have reduced themselves to
such a pass, that they cannot take their breakfast till it is
brought them from the Indies ; whereas the reader of Va-
lentine and Orson resembleth him, who findeth a pleasant
and plentiful breakfast at home. Every particular class
of readers is for giving rules to all the rest, and converting
the whole world to their own opinions and tastes, because
truly they cannot see the profit or pleasure of perusing
those writings which others seem to be so entirely taken
up with. The mathematician is utterly at a loss to under-
stand the strange, and in his opinion, wild flights of Homer.
The fire and imagination that break with such heat and
lustre from that father of poetry, seem all frenzy and ex-
travagance to his cold and sober understanding ; nor is
there any phenomenon in nature which he finds it so difficult
to account for, as the surprising admiration with which his
daring sallies and hair-brained fictions are attended to.
It is amazing to him, that matters, which admit of no de-
monstration, should at all amuse or engage a reasonable
creature, and gain such numbers of readers, imitators, and
admirers in all ages and nations.

On the other hand, the poet, and in general, all readers
of fire and fancy, are as much astonished at the strange
infatuation of mathematical learning. They look upon it
as a dry, but bewitching study, that engages, without giving
pleasure, and draws on a whimsical sort of admirers, with-
hopes of discoveries which would render them famous,
could they be made, and which nature hath hid from others,
n 2

180 THE CANDID READER.

but cannot conceal from the singular sagacity of their
minds. The mathematician, if you will believe the poet,
is the most stiff and conceited, the most enthusiastic and
ignorant of all mankind ; and his knowledge, if it may be
called so, the most impertinent and useless.

Thus each unreasonably condemns the other. The
poet would propose the pleasures of imagination to persons
who have none ; and the mathematician again, is for esti-
mating the poet's fire by his own ice. The same may be
said of other readers, howsoever classed and distinguished.
They admire their own, and condemn the studies of others;
and a conceited spirit of proselytism reigns universally
among them all. »

Now, for my part, I am for giving toleration to all sorts
of readers to indulge themselves uncensured and uncon-
trolled, in the perusal of all such writings as their various
humours or tastes shall respectively dispose them to. There
is no work made public, from the ponderous folio which
cost a life in the composition, down to the daily journal,
the child of half an hour, which doth not afford me a very
sensible satisfaction, inasmuch as I look upon them all
as new births to increase the commonwealth of letters, and
new accessions to the treasury of reading. As on the one
hand, I would not have the works of Homer, Plato, Pas-
chal, Newton, or Berkley destroyed ; so neither would I
vote, that the lucubrations of Tom Brown, Durfey, Quarles,
Forster, Morgan, Hucheson, or Drummond should perish.
Let them live as long as they can, and enjoy their several
sets of readers for ever, or for a winter, according as they
calculate for duration ; and let no man, nor set of men,
pretend to condemn all such books, pamphlets, or ballads,
as have not an imprimatur from them. As we freely live,
so let us freely read. An universal caterer, either for head
or stomach, would be the most absurd and unnatural of all
tyrants.

I was led into these reflections by some extraordinary
performances, which I have long admired, but lately heard
condemned in a very arbitrary manner, as a silly and
senseless sort of writings. The authors I am going to
mention and justify, have many readers, and as many ad-
mirers, whose privilege of being instructed or diverted, as

THE CANDID HEADER.

181

they please, I take to be very injuriously struck at by
the afore-mentioned heavy censure ; and what greatly ag-
gravates their grievance and my own is, that, were we
deprived of those writings, we should be almost totally
shut out from information and entertainment in the way of
reading.

The first I shall take notice of, is a scheme proposed
in Hill's Arithmetic for making Latin verses by an arith-
metical table. The whole treatise is a valuable work in
every respect, but never enough to be admired for this
stupendous invention, by which as many verses as woufd
make an Iliad or an Eneid, might be told out in a few
days, without the least labour of the brain, either in com-
posing or reading them. Surprising author ! Had he lived
in the earlier ages of the world, when the gods were a
making, he had certainly been deified. We should never
have heard of Apollo, the Muses, Orpheus, Homer, or any
of those other inventers of the old poetry, who taught the
world a very tedious and painful method of making verses,
by which the health and reason of the poet were frequently
and sorely impaired, had the earlier times of literature been
enriched with this admirable art.

And yet after all, there are not a few who take upon
them to depreciate the invention, who cry down the thing
itself as mean and mechanical, and the verses it produces,
as destitute, in some measure, of sense and meaning. Those
nice gentlemen, in particular, who affect the Belles Lettres,
contrary to their usual attachment to sound, and contempt
of sense, treat it with the utmost scorn, merely because the
verses are generated mathematically. Surely, never any
thing, say they, was so pedantic ! What ! Verses made
by arithmetical rules ! No doubt the thoughts must be
very fine, and the diction vastly elegant. Poems produced
this way must be tip-top, to be sure.

It is easy to see there is no reasoning in all this : but
mere wit and raillery, though ever so keen, must not be al-
lowed to decide this controversy. No human performance
can be perfect in all respects. Homer, in the opinion of
some critics, is irregular and inconsistent ; Virgil too uni-
form and cold ; Lucan hot and injudicious ; Tasso weak
and grovelHng. In a word, there is no poet so happy in

182

THE CANDID READER.

every particular, as to please all. The only defect of the
arithmetical species of poetry is, that it wants meaning.
If, however, it is to be condemned on this account, what an
infinity of poems must suffer with it ! What a catalogue of
names, celebrated among polite readers, and laureated at
courts, must perish in oblivion ! Is mere want of sense so
great an objection to a poem ? For my part, I should think
it were much better to find no meaning in a poem, than a
bad one. Considering how it fares with poetry at present,
a performance of that kind, which can possibly do no hurt,
may deservedly enough be called a good one. Besides, if
there be numbers of readers, who do not at all look for
meaning in a poem, surely the above mentioned objection
can be none with them. And that there are such, I can
very safely take upon me to affirm. How often have we
heard a fine lady sing that beautiful song, called a* Love
Song in the modern taste, to a company of raptured beaus,
of whom we may truly say, that they are a little too selfish
in the application of their applause, to lavish it away rashly
on performances of no merit. Easy readers, among whom
I may reckon some of the greatest personages now alive,
should have easy writers, that they may not be foreed to
rack a delicate system of brains over a poem, as if they w ere
straining at a mathematical problem.

Poetical performances are calculated primarily to
please. Accordingly to this idea of poetry, it may be aptly
divided into that, which pleases by infusing grateful fan-
cies into a vacant mind, of which sort are the poems of
Pope, Addison, and Swift, and into that which relieves the
mind from the torture of its own uneasy thoughts, of which
kind we may esteem the arithmetical poetry as chief. For
this purpose I will take the liberty to recommend it as a
sovereign opiate. Let the beau, whose heart palpitates
with the terrors of a duel, which he must either fight to-
morrow, or forfeit all his little stock of honour, read but a
dozen pages in a poem of this kind, after he is gone to bed,
and I will answer for it, at the hazard of my skill in criticism,
he shall sleep, till his adversary hath quitted the field of
battle. Let a belle, whose mind is chagrined with the loss
of a lap-dog, a lover, or some guineas at quadrille, go ira-

* Vide Swift's Works, vol. IT. *

THE CANDID READER.

183

mediately to bed, and get her waiting woman to read her
fifty lines in a poem of this kind, and she shall find it as
consolatory as the first addresses of a new lover, and as so-
porific as her prayers. All her thoughts, if she had any,
shall insensibly die away, she shall sweetly dissolve into a
composure, which no dreams of her former losses shall
ruffle.

The second author, whom I shall mention, as admired
by me and many others, and censured by some, is lord
Shaftsbury. The performances of this author, like the
arithmetical verses, are of a very anodyne nature, but in a
different way ; for whereas, those verses are of sovereign
use, in stupifying care ; his lordship's writings are of most
powerful efficacy in blunting the stings of conscience, one
of the most terrible evils incident to this life. This noble
person observing that most people are pestered with
idle and superstitious fears about certain punishments,
said to be inflicted on wicked livers, in a chimerical life
after this, and that the conscience of a man, sometimes
looking back at his crimes, and anon looking forward at
those punishments, is apt to excite very terrible and dis-
tracting apprehensions, hath laboured, and that with great
success, to dissipate those fears, and relieve the conscience
from this heavy yoke, which priests and nurses, taking the
advantage' of our tender years, have thought fit to impose
upon us. His method of doing this however is singular,
and adapted to the humour and turn of a very particular
class of men, that could not have been relieved by the plain
and common expedients of others, who undertake the cure
of consciences. To give the reader a clear idea of his lord-
ship's manner, it will be necessary to characterize the set
of patients, whom he chose for his province.

They are men of infinite sense and understanding, yet
of little or no learning. It is from nature, and from within
themselves, that they draw forth a fund of knowledge, in
comparison of which the wisdom of the Greeks, Romans
and Jews, is but stupidity and ignorance. Hence it cometh
to pass, that they seldom read ; and when they do, it is
with great contempt for the writer, if he doth not recom-
mend himself to them by two things, novelty and obscurity.
As to the first, they say, and very justly, to what end a new

184

THE CANDID READER.

book, if the contents are old ? The antiquity of an error can-
not turn it into truth, and to tell us old truths is impertinence,
because we know them already. It is certain, those truths
which may be told us concerning ancient occurrences and
transactions, are not to be known without reading ; but then
we are no way concerned in such truths, and besides, as
length of time is perpetually weakening the authority of
such relations, there is no depending on them. They have
also another reason for liking novelty in an author; it sup-
plies them with something to say, which as it is known to
few or none, may be easily passed for their own, which trite
notions and received opinions can never be.

As to obscurity, they admire it in a writer, formany rea-
sons : First, because it is a great pleasure to them, that
others, who have not so much penetration as they, are, by
the fruitless perusal of an unintelligible performance, prov-
ed to be men of inferior understanding ; Secondly, because
they can almost as safely retail for their own the sentiments
of an author, understood only by themselves, as if his per-
formance had never been published. In the next place,
they look upon themselves as sharing with the author in
his honour, when they find out bis recluse and hidden mean-
ing. The sentiments seem to be generated between them;
nay, the reader seems to invent the sentiments of the author,
and ought, on many occasions, to have the whole credit to
himself, inasmuch as he frequently draws out a shining sen-
timent from a passage, by which the author either meaned
quite another matter, or nothing at all. Again, the gentle-
men I am speaking of, have understandings framed, like
the eye of the cat or the owl, to see in the dark, so that
they can scarcely discern a very glaring sentiment. Hence
it is, that of tv/o books wrote against each other on any
controverted point, they are always convinced by the more
obscure. Had we an university made up of this sort of
gentlemen, their public dispurations, instead of being ma-
naged in the usual plain way, would be carried on like those
of the ancient Eastern princes, by cramp questions, and
every argument proposed would begin with riddle-myree.
Alexander the Great had certainly the honour to be one of
this species of men. When his preceptor Aristotle pub-
lished his ethics, the hero chid the philosopher for having

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185

revealed to the world that system of knowledge, which he
had been instructed in, and hoped that nobody else would.
But the stagyrite comforted his pupil with an assurance,
that, although the book was made public, yet the contents
of it were still a secret to every body but Alexander.

People may mince matters as they please ; but after all,
it is certain, that I and all other authors, like Aristotle, write
in order to publish, and publish in order to be praised. It
is also as certain, that all readers (I beg pardon of mine),
from him with the fesque in his fingers, to him with the spec-
tacles on his nose, do read to gratify their vanity, that is,
to gather knowledge, which they intend to make a show of.
The persons, whom I have been giving a character of, are
readers of a more refined and exalted vanity, than others.
They leave the fruit of a bramble or a thorn for meaner
people, who can only look up with admiration at those de-
licious clusters, reserved on the tops of lofty trees, for the
hands of such giants in understanding, as those who make
the subject of this my panegyric. What is easily obtained,
is generally little valued, and we are apt to rate knowledge,
as we do other commodities, according to its rarity and the
price we pay for it.

By these means it frequently so falleth out, that our gen-
tlemen above mentioned, who carry this humour farther than
others, do most admire that which they least understand,
taking it for somewhat very sublime, which their towering
understandings cannot reach to. They have been told, that
philosophy is placed on a mountain difficult of access ; and
if this mountain should hide its summit in clouds, it strikes
them with the greater awe and admiration. They imagine
it higher than it is. They gaze at it with strange astonish-
ment, and grow superstitious as they gaze. All things seem
larger in the dark, and so do those writings, to which their
artful authors give a kind of clouded majesty, by presenting
them in fog and vapours to their readers. A reader hath no
other way of shewing the force and keenness of his saga-
city, as a reader, but by the difficulty of his author ; and
therefore our piercing wits can neither give themselves nor
others a full proof of their penetrating capacities, without
authors sufficiently abstruse and hard. All men are not to
be pleased by one manner of writing. There is an endless

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variety of tastes ; some like sublimity, others perspecuity ;
some are fond of simplicity, others of perplexity and sub-
tlety in a writer. The gentlemen I am speaking of are most
delighted with obscurity. Now as all have a right to read,
and consequently to read what they please, I take obscu-
rity to be as useful a talent, as sublimity, inasmuch as it
hath its admirers, and those not a few, who care not a straw
for that which is plain and easy.

But what chiefly recommends the obscurity of such a
writer, as lord Shaftsbury, to this sort of men, is, that it
serves, as gilding to that pill, which he prescribes to the dis-
tress of their consciences. They, poor men ! have been a
little unfortunate in their education, which hath deeply ri-
veted in their minds a fear of judgment and punishments to
come ; and this fear damps all their enjoyments, and mise-
rably cramps their schemes, as well of profit as amusement.
Now when they consult with a casuist, or, I should rather
say, exorcist, about the expulsion of this demon, if his rea-
sonings should happen to be a little too weak for the pur-
pose, it is plain enough that they may easily be too intelli-
gible. As therefore they come with minds impatient for
relief, an argument half apprehended is more likely to insi-
nuate itself, than, that which, by being too easily under-
stood, exposes its own unsoundness, and gives the alarm to
reason. A very explicit writer is the most unfit person in
the world to remove the scruples of a queasy conscience, be-
cause reason is generally biassed by education, so as to sup-
port those hideous scruples ; and therefore there can be little
good expected from an argument, that is not so palliated,
as to steal by that austere and watchful door-keeper. Many
and grievous are the maladies incident to the mind of man !
Among which there is none so shocking, and so hard to be
cured, as those of a conscience, prejudiced by notions about
another world, especially when reason fixes and roots them
in the very understanding. Happy is the author, and great
his art! who can enter the intellect in an effectual disguise,
and there forming a party among our passions, can eject
those tyrants, and bestow on the soul a perfect and un-
bounded liberty.

Such an author is lord Shaftsbury. He can pass incog-
nito through the most guarded heart ; and conceal himself

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till he hath established his authority there. He can strike
one way, till he hath entered a principle into the rnind, and
then the contrary way, till he hath clenched it ; and all this
without being perceived. He can disposses the most rivetted
notion, and impress a contrary one, while the understand-
ing is in the mean time insensible of the change. He can
hold the imagination in play with a rapture or a flight, till
he hath passed a fine expression on the judgment, for a rea-
son, and a witticism, for a convincing argument.

Those terms, such as the beauty of virtue, and the de-
formity of vice, which were seldom used before, even in a
metaphorical sense, he hath employed in a precise and phi-
losophical strictness, as terms of art, and drawn surprising
discoveries and useful speculations from thence. Ey these,
and many other expedients of the like nature, he so refines
the plain and intelligible science of morality, that it is
impossible for his reader to find out its foundation, to dis-
tinguish, whether it is seated in the rational, or sensitive
part of our nature, or to form a clear, or any, idea of virtue ;
but so much may be gathered from him at'last, that religion
is rather prejudicial than helpful to it, and that religion as
it is commonly understood, and superstition, are one and
the same thing.

While he is thus employed in the leaguer of common and
received opinions, he shoots from his thick darkness, like
Nisus out of the wood, without running the least hazard of
being attacked himself. If any one attempts to be on the
offensive with him, and to give chace to an opinion of his,
the fugitive sentiment immediately takes cover in a thicket
of fine words, and poetical rants, where, with the greatest
ease, it can elude the most diligent pursuit. But, if on any
occasion a straggling assertion of his should be surprised,
and in a fair way to be run down, the artful author flies to
its rescue, and like Venus in the Iliad, saves his offspring in a
cloud of intricate subtleties, and an inaccessible obscurity.
Like an experienced general, he so manages matters, that
his adversaries can have little or no view of what is doing,
while their measures lie exposed to him in all that noon of
light, which their silly confidence induces them to diffuse
around. Hence it is, that all the performances of this ini-
mitable genius are absolutely unanswerable. I could point

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out a passage or two, in which it appears that the author
finding himself inclosed on all sides, by difficulties and
dilemmas, so attenuates his substance, as to escape at an
almost imperceptible outlet, like the genie in the Arabian
Nights' Entertainment, who being confined close prisoner in
a barrel, and having no way out but at the bung-hole, rare-
fied himself to a smoke, and so insensibly evaporated
through that narrow passage.

Some treatises are hard to be understood through the dif-
ficulty of the subject, others through the method and style
of the author. The first may be called profound, and the
latter, of which kind are all the philosophical essays of lord
Shaftsbury, are, properly speaking, obscure. Now I would
not have the reader think, that when I say, obscure, I mean
in the least to depreciate the performances of his lordship.
It is easy to handle a plain subject clearly, its own native
light being a sufficient illustration to it. It is likewise the
easiest thing in nature, and for which no writer deserves
thanks, to treat an obsure argument abstrusely, because
that darkness, which, in the nature of things, inseparably
attends it, will naturally, and almost unavoidably, flow
through the pen of him that writes upon it. But, that au-
thor shews parts and skill indeed, who clears up a dark and
intricate subject, and renders it intelligible to the meanest
capacity. Nor shews he less mastery, who throws such an
artificial darkness round a plain, and obvious topic, as sets
the reader a groping, as it were, in broad daylight, by which
means the too glaring truth, or the too dazzling error are
presented to the tender-eyed, through a fog, which adds to
their apparent magnitude, what it takes away from their
brightness. From Adam to lord Shaftsbury, there lived not
so great a master of this art, as Oliver Cromwell. That
great man, who gave liberty to these nations by killing,
beggaring, and banishing one half of the inhabitants, and
totally subduing the rest, would often carry a point in par-
liament, for which his glorious and immortal memory is
now drank with the most religious veneration, by a long
elaborate speech, of which not a single sentence was un-
derstood by any mortal in that wise and august assembly.
The writings of the schoolmen, Cornelius Agrippa's occult
Philosophy, Persius's Satires, with other performances of

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the obscure class, found work for the sagacious readers of
their own times, but can no longer please, because they are
no longer new. All covered with the dust and cobwebs of
antiquity, they are now utterly unfit for the perusal of any
thing, but moths and book-worms, those gluttons of ancient
learning; -and having served out their time to the common-
wealth of letters, are retired to silence and darkness as great
as those within them. Lord Shaftsbury, and his imitator
Hucheson, have the present generation of obscurists en-
tirely to themselves.

Manifold and fruitless were the labours of Zeno, So-
crates, Aristotle, Averroes, Smigletius, Kekermannus,
Locke, and others, to find out a rule for right reasoning,
by which, as with a needle and compass, the yet vague and
dissipated thoughts of man might be collected and steered
through the pathless ocean of science. They gave us a set
of dry unwieldly instruments for this purpose, such as,
modes, figures, syllogisms, definitions, divisions, interroga-
tions, concessions, &c. by which the mind, like a young colt,
was to be broken, and then trained to a very awkward and
unnatural sort of an amble. But error still found means to
evade the laws made against her by these logical legisla-
tors, could sometimes plead them in her own defence, di-
rectly in the teeth of truth, for whose use they were in-
tended.

At length the great Shaftsbury arose, and taught the
world a new, easy, effectual, and universal method. By a
nice calculation I find, that the most stupid person in the
world may learn this useful and admirable art nearly in the
space of thirty- four seconds, and a man of parts in twenty-two
and a half. Ridicule, that is the grand arcanum of science.
Apply it, saith our author, to any argument ; if the argument
bears up against it, and is no whit out of countenance, then
it is certainly a good one, if it doth not, then it is as certainly
erroneous and false. By the application of a little banter to
a suspected syllogism, if it happens to be really unsound,
you shall quickly see the middle term, and the terms of the
question fall asunder, and the conclusion strart off from the
premises, as if newly divorced from an unnatural polygamy.
Since the invention of this new logical touchstone, an infi-
nite number of beaus, belles, squires, fox-hunters, farmers,

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mechanics, scavengers, and gold-finders have commenced
disputants, and begin to sneer away the grizly fantoms of
futurity with great dexterity and address. Every one, who
can laugh, may be a complete master of this aTt, and an
excellent reasoner. Now, as all men are risible, so by this
invention they are made rational animals, and those two
much-contended specialities of man, namely, risibility
and rationality, are happily united into one. Heretofore -
it was imagined, that philosophy was seated upon a steep
and craggy mountain, which none, but the mere goats of
learning and science could climb ; but, now we find, to our
great satisfaction, that she resides in the jocular faculty,
and shews herself every moment in the muscles of the face,
like an obliging beauty, who is perpetually at the window.

How happy, were we but sensible of it, is the age we
live in ! We can now laugh, and be wise. By a merry
turn of thought, or a humorous screw of the face, we can
banter error and superstition out of the world, we can take
such strides in knowledge, as ages could not attain to, nor
centuries boast of. Those arbitrary engrossers of know-
ledge, who have hitherto led the world by the nose, and ap-
propriated learning to themselves, shall no more rule over
the reasons, nor preside in the understandings of men. The
lowest, and most illiterate peasant shall be able to hunt
down error as well as they, and it will be as common to see
two merry fellows grin for a point in natural or moral phi-
losophy, as two old women for a bag of snuff.

To conclude my observations on this glorious inven-
tion, I am persuaded, the opposition given to it by some
among us, is owing to the phlegmatic and melancholy ge-
nius of the English. Had it been proposed in France, it
had universally met with approbation. That nation, fa-
mous for gaiety and wisdom, had opened its arms to so fa-
cetious a method of improvement, and embraced it with
entire esteem.

As this great person hath placed reason in the risible
faculty, so hath he likewise seated religion in the sensitive
part of human nature, and rendered it a pleasant and dis-
interested thing, independent of hopes and fears. The no-
tions of religion, that prevailed in the world before his lord-
ship's time, were both extremely selfish, and hideous. Re-

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wards were proposed to people for being good, and punish-
ments threatened to vice, by which enticements and terrors,
the very idea and essence of virtue were destroyed. His
lordship hath taken rewards and punishments out of the
hands of superstition, and now virtue rewards, and vice
punishes itself. Every man hath a portable court in his
own conscience, which, in all actions, distributes justice
fully and effectually on the spot. Go where thou wilt, O
man, although to ever so great a distance from witnesses
and judges, thou canst no longer do, nor even think, an ill
thing, because thou art now thine own lawgiver and judge.
I can trust my wife in thy bed, and my purse in thy pocket.
The beauty of thy virtue is greater than hers, and the de-
formity of vice will effectually secure to me my uncounted
guineas. This holds the strings of my purse, and that en-
gages thy caresses, while spouse sleeps as quietly as with
me; thanks to the good lord of Shaftsbury. Since the
great reformation introduced by his lordship, religion begins
to have an air of good humour. Hell, the devil, and damna-
tion, are now excluded from good company, are scarcely
heard of in an oath, or in the pulpit, and even sermons begin
to grow polite. Our great folks, not liking the vulgar reli-
gions with which these countries abound, as being both ex-
pensive and inconvenient, were on the point of renouncing
all religion, when his lordship, who knew what they wanted,
revealed to them the religion of taste. This religion sits
easy, and breaks no squares. It neither shocks nor offends.
It neither hampers, nor restrains. It can never occasion
either disputes, or wars. It distinguishes the polite part
of the world from the vulgar, who cannot parcipitate in it.
But, it may be, thou wilt ask me what it is? I tell thee
again, it is, taste and good breeding.

The last extraordinary performance, which I shall at
this time bring under the reader's consideration, is the ce-
lebrated play of Hurlothrumbo, wrote by Mr. Johnson
(not Ben), the support and glory of the English stage.
Thou seest, reader, how, like a skilful manager of a feast,
I have reserved the best and most delicious course for the
last. First, an Hill, good ; then a Shaftsbury, excellent ;
lastly, a Johnson, incomparable.

It is remarked, of Shakspeare, that had he perfectly un-

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derstood the art and rules of dramatic writing we should
have been deprived of numberless beauties, which we
now enjoy in that great poet. But had Johnson's ge-
nius been hampered with the trammels of the drama, he had
been wholly lost to us. Rules, the best of critics will
allow, were made only for little and narrow spirits. They
are mere leading strings for infant imaginations, which
would tumble and grovel on the earth without them. But
the soaring soul, whose range is infinitude, can never be out
of its way, because its way is boundless. That fire and
rage, so necessarily required in every great poet, with what
vehemence do they blaze out in this animated composition !
With a noble negligence of rule he hurries his subject, and
with it sweeps his reader through heaven, earth, and hell !
In one moment he dives into the deepest recesses of the
dark abyss, and before time can bring that moment to a
period, he mounts again with so sublime and rapid a wing,
that this whole globe vanishes from his sight, and he sees
the stars faintly twinkle beneath his feet. He hath thrown
off reason, that tyrant of the fancy, which damps its fire,
and cramps its vigour, and boldly breaking through all the
fetters of criticism, hath asserted the native liberty of poetry.

But as, according to the tenor of this my learned and
elaborate treatise, that work which pleases most people,
ought to be the most highly esteemed ; so, to give this inimi-
table performance its just character, all London, that great
city of taste and judgment, London, for above fifty nights
successively, poured forth its inhabitants, great and small,
rich and poor, fine and shabby, to the representation of this
noble entertainment. They all saw, they were all trans-
ported with delight, and all returned again to repeat so ex-
quisite an enjoyment. Pindar, that bright star of the an-
cients, was admired for a majestic negligence, a daring di-
gressive spirit, which at once gave fire and variety to his
poems. And Johnson, the comet of this age, merits equal
glory for that conflagration of sentiment and style that
kindles in his first scene, and rages to the very epilogue.

Soon after this performance had seen the light, I hap-
pened to visit an old gentleman, a friend of mine, who hath
been a politician, ever since the reign of king William.
He reads the news, lectures his neighbours on the subject

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of peace and war, and gives as shrewd guesses at the suc-
cess of a congress, as any one I know. I found him en-
gaged in a pretty warm dispute with a maiden lady about
the age of thirty, who had been a beauty in her time ; a
young officer, who was nephew to my friend, and a noted
critic. Hurlothrumbo was the subject of the controversy,
which the young warrior read to the company with an air
and accent, that did justice to the performance.

After the usual civilities to me, upon entering the room,
they resumed their dispute. The old gentleman, who is a
zealous friend to the present happy establishment, both in
church and state, seemed very warm. He was jealous of
every line, and either saw or suspected treason in every
page. There is nothing, said he, can be more evident, than
that it is a treasonable and factious pamphlet, wrote to sow
sedition among the people, and bespatter the ministry at
least, if not to bring in the pretender. If this is not the
design of the writer, why those scurrilous reflections on
kings and great men, in the very first act? Why does the
plot lie so deep? And why is the whole conducted in so
seemingly incoherent and obscure a manner, that it
is scarcely possible to understand it? What occasion for
so much darkness, if all was as it should be ? If it was
not the spawn of a damned Popish plot, there had been
no need of introducing so many familiars and devils.
Why that lion overcome and killed by Hurlothrumbo ? Is
not a lion part of the arms of England ? I do not like that
lion.

In short his passion transported him so far, that he
would not allow the performance had either spirit or sub-
limity in it, nor, in some places, even sense. He concluded
with a piece of advice to his nephew, to decry it in all com-
panies, lest he should be suspected of disaffection, and lose
his post by it.

Here the officer, who is a man of taste and fire, under-
took the defence of his favourite play, with as much warmth,
as was decent in the support of an opinion, opposite to that
of his uncle. That youthful warmth, said he, which is ne-
cessary in the reader of such a performance, is a little too
much abated in you, sir, to keep pace with such writings
as this. Your great attachment to our establishment hath
vol. v. o

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made you watchful and apprehensive, where there are no
grounds for suspicion. The introducing of demons is a
thing very innocent and common in our best plays. As for
the lion, he is but a lion, and I will answer for him, hath
no designs upon the reader, but to please.

Having thus answered his uncle's objections, he pro-
ceeded to set forth the beauties of the play in such a strain,
as shewed he entered deep into its spirit, and was sensibly
touched with its masterly strokes. He commended the
force and propriety of the diction, the justness of the senti-
ments, the sublimity of the images, the beauty and variety
of the descriptions, and dwelt a long time on the inimitable
art of the author, who had so artfully concealed his art, that
it required infinite penetration to discover there was any
art in it at all.

The critic waited a long time, with impatience, for an
opportunity, to interpose his sentiments of the matter, and
was, after all, obliged to interrupt the officer. He told us,
he did not give his judgment on that occasion, with a de-
sign to impose it on us, because he had acquired some re-
putation for skill in criticism, but to give a right turn to the
controversy, which, in his opinion, did not enter into the
true merits.

I will readily grant, said he, that a true poetical fury en-
livens the whole ; yet I can never forgive an author letting
loose the reins of his fancy, and indulging it in the trans-
gression of all rule and order. A writer of any kind, should
consider, that his readers have reason, as well as imagina-
tion, and while he gratifies the one, should take care not to
shock the other. "What is unreasonable can never be natu-
ral, and what is unnatural, can never truly please. Here
gentlemen, you see no harmony, no cohesion of parts, no
unity of time or place, preserved. A wilderness of simi-
lies, descriptions, digressions, transitions, tumbled in one
after another upon the reader, hurry him along in such con-
fusion, that he hath no leisure to attend to the management
of the fable, the choice of the metaphors, nor the delicacy
of the colourings. All is a chaos of beautiful materials,
huddled together in vast confusion, from whence we some-
times hear an immoderate peal of laughter, sometimes
frightful lamentations. Now we grope in a hell of darkness

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195

and terror, and anon, have such a burst of light and blaze
about us, as no human eyeball can endure. The senti-
ments, in short, are often extravagant, the expressions out-
rageous, and the fable so embarrassed with collateral, or
opposite drifts, that it is impossible to keep in with his de-
sign, or preserve the thread he is twisting.

This severe censure grated most disagreeably on the
ears of the officer and the lady, the latter of whom being
perfectly charmed with the innumerable beauties of Hurlo-
thrumbo, undertook its defence in a manner suitable to the
good taste and sensibility of her sex.

How cold, said she, how void of feeling must be that
heart, that reads without emotion, the powerful workings
of the passions in this surprising play ! How lofty are its
flights! How musical its style ! How amusing its plot!
How heroic its battles ! Above all, how engaging its inter-
views of love ! There is nothing to be met with, in the whole
circle of reading, that so absolutely melts one down, as the
passionate parting of the king and his mistress. There is
tenderness in perfection. The languishing regards, the
mutual dying in each other's arms, the transporting ex-
pressions of infinite affection, are what no performance
ever equalled it in, and what the icy rules about your
heart (turning to the critic), will never suffer you to con-
ceive. I sir, can never forgive your losing the man in the
critic, and divesting yourself of that, which is most amia-
ble in human nature. You measure poetry by a parcel of
cold insipid rules, enough to extinguish the fire of a de-
scription, and freeze a metaphor to an icicle. You prey
upon the garbage of an author, and can find no taste in the
delicious dainties he dresses up for fine imaginations.
You dive into an author, only as worms do into wood,
where you find him unsound. You measure all things by
the narrowness of your own understanding, and whatever
exceeds that wretched scantling, you pronounce enormous,
monstrous, mad. Books were not wrote for you, but for
the world, and it is downright assurance in you to read at
all. I wish, sir, you would confine yourself to a news-
paper, and the almanack. I own I should have had but very
little pleasure in this conversation, had it not been for the
polite and ingenious defence of Hurlothrumbo, which the
o 2

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gentleman (meaning the officer you may be sure) hath been
so good as to favour us with.

The young gentleman made her a very handsome bow
for this overture, which, however, he affected to interpret
only as a mere civility.

This vigorous vindication, delivered with an earnest-
ness and warmth, equal to its keenness, dumfounded all
opposition, and to my infinite satisfaction, which I took
care to intimate, carried the cause in favour of Hurlo-
thrumbo.

And here, O reader, I met with an occasion of being-
thankful for that inestimable stock of wisdom, which I de-
rive from education, upon hearing the ignorant wretch of a
butler, who happened to get a part both of the play and
the dispute, as he gave attendance, muttering to himself
some uncouth criticisms, as well on what had passed in
the company, as on the performance itself. I heard him
swear by his soul, he believed the author was mad, and the
whole company little better, for talking so gravely about
his hare-brained rants, as he called them; adding, that
Tom Clatterplate, who had been lately at London, with his
master, Justice Wiseacre, assured him every body there
began to suspect the author to be a madman. Asto-
nishing stupidity ! Be thou thankful also, O reader,
that thou art not such a one as this butler, nor as Clatter-
plate, the traveller ; for had not thy stars been kind to
thee, thou mightest have been yet worse than them, even
a scavenger. So take not the honour to thyself, but be
thankful.

The rest of the play being read out, to the great enter-
tainment and edification of us all, we spent the evening
very agreeably, every one turning to, and repeating such
particular passages, as happened best to hit his taste and
humour.

I cannot shut up this elaborate and useful treatise, with-
out a parallel between Lord Shaftsbury and Mr. Johnson.
There is such a resemblance to justify this new trespass on
the patience of my reader, that the genius of the one seems
to be transfused into the other. But what seems to bring
them the nearest to each other, is the Rhapsody and the
Hurlothrumbo, to which two performances the reader is

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197

desired to consider me, as alluding in the following com-
parison.

These two authors have, with the same boldness, ven-
tured from the common worn path of all other writers,
which can now afford nothing that is new, and notwith-
standing they seem to scour the boundless regions of poeti-
cal and philosophical matter at random, yet tread precisely
in the same path, excepting in a very few instances, which
I shall point to hereafter.

I persuade myself, I have a clear and distinct idea of
both their methods ; and yet I find it exceedingly difficult
to communicate that idea to the reader, for want of terms,
which in this case ought to be very complex, and which, as
the occasion is new, have not yet been provided by the
learned. But, in some measure to get clear of this difficulty,
let us suppose, what will probably happen among poste-
rity, that there is a great number of writings formed exact-
ly according to the manner and plan of each ; one half of
which are called Rhapsodies, after that of lord Shaftsbury,
the first of that name, and the other called Hurlothrum-
bos, after Mr. Johnson's, as Cicero's Philippics are so
called after those of Demosthenes. By which means, Rhap-
sody and Hurlothrumbo, become the terms of two general
ideas, which ideas every intelligent reader will best form
to himself, by carefully perusing the two performances ;
and those who cannot read may get others to do it for them.

Were it not for the different periods of their publication,
so great is their resemblance to each other, that one would
be apt to think they had flowed through the same pen.

There is a tragic spirit blended with the philosophy of
the Rhapsody, and a philosophical, in the Hurlothrumbo ;
insomuch that the Rhapsody may not improperly be called
an Hurlothrumbo of a Rhapsody, and the Hurlothrumbo,
a Rhapsody of a tragedy. There is the same astonishing
variety in both. Both breathe the same free spirit of think-
ing. Both surprise us after the same manner, and by the
same faculty of digressing suddenly, and hurrying the
reader in a moment from the sight of the first subject, in
pursuit of a new one, which escapes and leaves him on the
scent of a third, and so on, till a thousand, one after another
are started and quitted in the same page. They both pur-
sue their themes with infinite eagerness ; but pursue them

19S

THE CANDID READER.

only for a moment. It is the peculiar excellence of them
both to deviate, before they have beaten their path bare ;
to quit the pump, before they have exhausted their subject.

Nor do these two eminent writers, less resemble each
other in that gloomy magnificence, in which the true dig-
nity of their writings consists. The same midnight dark-
ness lours over both their performances. Each presents
his reader with a night-piece, drawn in so deep a shade,
that it seems rather the picture of night itself, than of be-
nighted objects. Yet from this darkness, a gleam of light,
now and then, breaks forth, which although it serves not
for sight or direction, yet looks excessively bright, because
it shines in the dark. They resemble a cloud which en-
velopes a huge body of fire, and sometimes suffers a flash
of lightning, to rush out with amazing suddenness and
lustre.

But, as no two authors ever were exactly alike in all
respects, so neither are these, although it be the most dif-
ficult thing in nature to see wherein they differ. If I mis-
take not, it is peculiar to lord Shaftsbury, to charm and
bewitch his readers, and to Mr. Johnson to astonish and
terrify them. The former hath more art, the latter more
fire. The former insinuates, the latter commands. His
lordship circumvents our reason by stratagem. Mr. John-
son takes our hearts by storm. His lordship leads us in
the dark through a fantastic heaven. Mr. Johnson drives
us trembling through imaginary terrors. The spirit of the
former is an ignis-fatuus, that leads his reader through
hedges and ditches, over hills and dales, and at last leaves
him a sticking up to his ears in a bog. And the genius of
the latter, especially when it exerts itself in description, is
like the blowing up of a magazine of gunpowder, that
breaks out on a sudden with a frightful burst, scatters
death and amazement round it, shakes the earth, and in-
vades the skies with a chaos of uproar and confusion.

If thy patience, candid and long-suffering reader, hath
carried thee thus far, it is nowr high time I should reward
thy indefatigable diligence, and present thee with the most
agreeable word by far, in this tedious treatise, which I have
hitherto reserved to make amends for all the rest, which
long-wished for word, if thou wilt cast thy eyes downward,
thou shalt presently behold.

A

LETTER

TO THE

AUTHORS OF DIVINE ANALOGY,

AND OV

THE MINUTE PHILOSOPHERS :

FROM AN OLD OFFICER.

Ne tanta aniruis assuescite bella,

Neu patriaj validas in viscera vertite vires. — Vino.

Gentlemen,

No doubt, you will think it somewhat odd, to receive a
letter from an old officer, on a subject in which books only
seem to be concerned, and which relates to one of the sub-
tlest theological controversies that has either exercised or
disturbed the church. And what will probably surprise
you still more, is to find the same letter directed jointly to
two persons, whom their places of abode, but more espe-
cially their differences in opinion, have set at so great a
distance. But the very occasion of your surprise must re-
move it ; for had you not entered the lists together in the
spirit of combat, I should never have had occasion to in-
terpose in the character of a peace-maker, nor call to you
both at once, rather in the voice of one that attempts to
reconcile friends at variance, than compose the resentments
of enemies.

I own it may seem a little too presuming, for one of
my character and employment, to intermeddle in the con-
troversies of divines ; for which reason I should have
taken some feigned name, and wrote to you in the disguise,
perhaps, of a clergyman, had I not contracted such a
habit in the service, of talking about military affairs, and

200

A LETTER TO THE

alluding to them, when I am in discourse on subjects the
most remote from warfare, that I must have soon betrayed
myself to correspondents so discerning. Besides, I do not
care to dissemble. You know, gentlemen, it is not the way
of the army. 1 have been too long a soldier to appear any
thing else.

However, though I have spent a great share of my time
in garrisons or camps, as I got a little Latin when I was a
boy, I have entertained myself with my books ever since
the peace of Utrecht.

Though Baker's Chronicle, Knoll's History of the Turks,
and several other volumes of the same kind of writing,
have been my constant companions in my retirement ; yet
with leave of the divines, I now and then look a little into
church history, and read all the new things that come out,
particularly whatsoever relates to the present controversy
with libertines, in which, as I am a staunch Christian, my
thoughts are very deeply engaged.

Do not imagine, gentlemen, that lay-Christians are not
concerned, as well as you of the clergy, in the defence of
their faith, particularly such as I am, who have drawn my
sword as often in the cause of religion, as you have done
your pens. If you have risked your characters with pos-
terity in its favour, I have also risked my life for it ; and
that you know is as dear to me. For every drop of ink
you have spent in the service of the church militant, I have
shed, at least, four of my blood. If I break in upon your
province of writing about religion, do you the same with
mine, and fight for it, when occasion shall serve ; every
man of sense will think it more decent and more consis-
tent with your zeal, than to turn your weapons upon each
other, when the common enemy is laying hard at us all.

Bear, good gentlemen, bear with the wTarmth of an bid
man, who imbibed the principles of religion in better times
than these, and the remainder of whose blood rises with
indignation at those libertines, who would laugh that faith
out of the world, in the defence of which he shed the rest,
and no less at those divines, who draw upon each other
within the town, when they should unanimously encourage
us to the defence of our walls, where the adversary has
already made a dangerous breach in one part, while they

AUTHORS OF DIVINE ANALOGY.

201

fix their ladders to it in others, and prepare for a general
assault. Bear also with my military style, and while I am
calling to you as a friend, apprehensive of our common
danger, do not idly criticise on the manner of expressing
my concern for you, and the great cause in which you are
embarked.

The garrison is well walled, its foundations deep, its
battlements high, its bastions disposed according to mili-
tary rules, and mounted with cannon of a wide and formid-
able bore. We have sufficient magazines of ammunition^
and stores of victual, and our soldiers are well armed, full
of courage, and hearty in the service. But this can never
secure us against the attacks of our assailants, unless our
commanders be wise, vigilant, and unanimous; unless they
join heads to conduct the defence with discretion, and
hearts to execute their resolutions with steadiness. Nei-
ther Xamur, nor Gibraltar, nor the best garrison in the
world, could ever defend itself. The besiegers, it is true,
are in many respects contemptible, their cannon seldom
fire home, their weapons are blunt and brittle, the ground
on which they intrench is sandy and shallow, and their mi-
litary stores scanty. But then they perfectly well under-
stand the art of war, they are great masters of stratagem,
and extremely intent upon the occasions of engaging with
advantage. However, be only unanimous, and we cannot
fail to baffle their attempts. Be absolute each of you in
his own quarter, but do not intrude upon and confound one
another. Let not this one, because he himself fights with
a pike, find fault with that other for fighting with a sword ;
but let each hew, or bruise, or push the enemy with that
kind of weapon which he is best skilled to wield. Every
weapon has its use, and there may be occasion for them all.
"Whilst you give opposite orders, we under-officers, or com-
mon soldiers, know not which to follow; and the delay this
disorder occasions, gives the enemy time to mount the
breach, and make the defence ten times more difficult and
hazardous. Be as distinct in your orders as you please,
but be not contrary.

It has been observed, that as men grow less courageous
and patient of labour, they have learned to fortify with
more art, and to put their trust in walls and towers, instead

202

A LETTER TO THE

of personal courage and conduct ; hence proceeds security,
the greatest enemy to military exploits, hence frequently
the greater number, though enclosed within a garrison
deemed impregnable, have been surprised and cut to
pieces by the fewer.

The great ecclesiastical garrison seems to be threatened
with the effects of the same degeneracy. Its walls are
raised much higher, and perhaps rendered stronger; its
counterscarps, its bastions, and its redoubts, are executed
upon more skilful plans by the modern engineers, than they
were by the old methods of fortification. But all this to
very little purpose, if it renders the defendants idle, secure,
and luxurious; if it gives the commanders leisure for
ambitious broils among themselves, and makes them seek
enemies within, whilst they live in a contempt of those
without the walls.

Pardon, gentlemen, my running thus into allegories
drawn from my employment : I slide, I know not how, in-
sensibly into such allusions. However, they seem to be
very parallel to the case under consideration, and as such,
perhaps, you may not think them altogether to be despised.
But to be plain, books indeed wrote in defence of Chris-
tianity, are necessary to answer those that oppose it, and
satisfy the reading world of its divine authority and truth.
But then those books, unless they appear to proceed from
a disinterested Christian principle, and to be put in prac-
tice by such as approve of them, especially their authors,
can be of no more service to the cause in which they are
engaged, than artillery charged and directed, but never
fired. Particularly if the authors that write in favour of
Christianity, quarrel with each other about their own pri-
vate opinions, the world will rather regard them as authors
than Christians. Their readers will be tempted to look
upon their performances, howsoever ingenious in them-
selves, as dictated to them rather by a spirit of ambition
and contention, than by a spirit of piety, and a zeal for
that religion which should inspire mutual love, and a con-
tempt for praise, and whosoever makes the occasion of
dissension, understands not rightly its meek and peaceful
genius.

As for you gentlemen, if we believe yourselves, you

AUTHORS OF DIVINE ANALOGY,

203

have grafted your dispute upon the very root of religion,
aud therefore if its consequences be hurtful, they must be
infinitely more dangerous than differences in matters less
fundamental. A radical putrefaction strikes at the life of
the whole, whereas a distempered branch may be lopped
off, and with it the entire disorder. Should one of these
aids-du-camp, that receive orders from the general in time
of battle, misconceive or wilfully alter the message he is
charged with, it would infallibly pervert the whole scheme
of the battle, and endanger the loss of the day. The hazard
would not be so considerable, if a petty captain would fight
his troop after a method different from the main design of
the engagement.

However, though the point on which you differ may be
a fundamental one, I am afraid your wrangling about it will
have worse consequences than could proceed from either
the one opinion or the other, were it universally received
and established. Do not think, gentlemen, that religion is
to stand or fall, according as this or that of your opinions
shall obtain. You know it subsisted for many ages, and
withstood the persecution of otherguise adversaries, than a
few sneering libertines, without troubling itself much about
analogy. It was no subtle distinctions, nor nice metaphy-
sical schemes that supported this magnificent fabric in the
midst of so many storms ; no, it was faith, piety, and cha-
rity, pillars of a solider kind of stuff than ever was dug from
the mines of the schools.

But you have only run fondly into the same warmth
with all the other theological disputants that have gone
before you, every one of whom has made the particular
controversy, howsoever trivial it may have been, in which
he was engaged, the one only question on which all religion
bottomed, and represented the tenets of his adversary as
utterly destructive of faith and revelation. It is to be won-
dered, that persons of such uncommon understandings, and
that have set themselves to open new avenues to truth,
should repeat so trite an error, and sink the main value of
their performances, by laying an immoderate stress on the
part controverted. How ridiculous would it be for a com-
mon soldier, or a petty officer, in the time of battle, to tell
those that stood next him, that if he should be killed, it

204

A LETTER TO THE

would be in vain to dispute the victory any longer, since
the whole success of the day centered entirely in him?

Either you intend, by the opposition you give each
other, to serve the cause of religion, or to advance and
secure your credit as authors. Now, as I cannot help
supposing the former, from that excellent spirit, and
that extraordinary measure of understanding that shines
throughout the writings of you both, you must give me
leave, gentlemen, to put you in mind, that you are taking
a most preposterous method to answer the good end pro-
posed. Calm your resentments a little, and look back
upon the controversies of former ages, and see what blood
they have spilt, what scars or wounds ill healed, they have
left on our religion. Look round you, and see, by the ge-
neral sneer, what excellent diversiou you afford your liber-
tine adversaries, who are saved the trouble of attacking
you, by your mutual animosity, and rejoice to find each of
you sinking under a stronger arm than their own.

You are each of you labouring to prove, that whatso-
ever his antagonist has said on the point in dispute, is idle,
equivocating, and erroneous.

The common adversaries of you both, fear not, will be
ready enough to believe you. You need not be at the
trouble to demonstrate it to them. I'll engage they'll take
it on your bare word. Nay, they'll do more than that ; they
will extend whatsoever you charge each other with, in the
article of debate, to the rest of your performance. They
will allow you all that imputation of nonsense and fallacy,
which you are so ready to throw upon each other in a par-
ticular case, to be justly chargeable on the whole. This is
more, I believe, than either of you ever thought, or intended
to prove, yet be assured, your arguments prove nothing
short of it among libertines, who, all the world knows,
have a trick of drawing general conclusions from particu-
lar premises.

You both will say, that you are concerned to sec the
truth abetted by fallacious arguments ; and that a wrong
defence does more harm to a good cause, than an open
and direct opposition.

This may be true, and you are very much in the right to
be therefore concerned. But perhaps the defence is not so

AUTHORS OF DIVINE ANALOGY.

205

wrong as you imagine. Would you know whether it is or
not? Let me humbly suggest a method to you, which alone
I would prefer to your own judgments. When the Jewish
Sanhedrim deliberated whether they should persecute the
disciples of our Saviour with the secular arm, and were al-
most unanimously determined to a resolution not unlike
yours, that is, of suppressing such opinions, as they did
not approve of, by human means ; Gamaliel stopped their
violent proceedings, with advice to leave them to them-
selves, and an assurance, that a little time would shew
whether they were of God or man. If either of you be a
Theudas or a Judas, your writings will fall beneath the
power of that God, whose religion they deserve; and this
will infallibly be their fate, though no man should ever
trouble himself to refute them.

If you be fellow-workers with the apostles, as I confi-
dently believe you are, you will stand upon the same foun-
dation with them, stand in spite of hell and the world, in
spite of the enemies of truth and virtue. But this mode-
ration and reliance on Providence is still more directly re-
commended to you by the practice of our Saviour. When
one of his disciples told him, that he finding one, who was
not a follower of him, casting out devils in his name, had
forbidden him, he reproved his mistaken zeal, telling him,
'that whatsoever was not against them, was on their part.'
Do not hinder each other from casting out the devils of he-
resy and infidelity. The work is good, and since you both
do it in the name of God, never reproach one another with
not following the footsteps of your Master.

But you may have found, before this, that the generality
of your readers, especially those that read you to find your
faults, do not judge altogether so charitably of your mo-
tives for falling foul upon one another. They suppose
your warmth proceeds not from love of truth, but of ap-
plause ; and that instead of labouring to fortify religion,
you are only endeavouring to secure the foundations of
those books, on which you build your credit with pos-
terity. That they judge amiss, those who know you can
witness ; yet since they can give your dispute the appear-
ance of proceeding from such unworthy motives, would it
not be more prudent to drop, than maintain it any longer,

206

A LETTER TO THE

forasmuch as, while it subsists, it can serve no other end,
than that of frustrating the good effects of whatsoever else
you may write, or tarnishing the lustre of books otherwise
full of beauty, and furnishing our adversaries with matter
for unworthy reflections on the bravest champions of our
cause ?

Though I believe there are few spirits exalted farther
above the love of praise, by a refined sense of things, and
a thirst of higher glory, than that which a well wrote book
can reflect upon its author ; yet I neither think it wrong,
that you should place the reputation of having well defend-
ed the best cause in the world, in a distant part of your
view, nor do I think it possible it should be otherwise. But
then, gentlemen, you cannot reasonably hope for any re-
putation by a performance of that kind, unless what you de-
rive from your engaging in it out of a love to your religion,
as your primary and principal motive, and fronfyour appear-
ing to proceed consistently with that motive in the prose-
cution of your design. How far contention and reproach
may be inconsistent with both, judge for yourselves. It is
absolutely requisite in a good general, and indeed in every
officer and soldier, that he engage in a war with a hearty
zeal for his country, and the cause he espouses, and that
he seek his glory not so much in doing brave actions, as
in doing them to promote the interest he is embarked in.
When ambition, or a thirst of glory, has been the ruling
principle of action, we find it has pursued the good of its
country only so far as that, and its love of glory coincided,
and when they have run across each other, has turned its
arms against its country, and sought reputation in destroy-
ing, as it did before in defending it. We have had our Co-
riolanus', our Syllas, and our Cassars in the church, as well
as elsewhere, who have done nobly for the cause of religion,
while it was able to discharge the pay of honour, and on
the other hand, have made most unsightly havoc of what
they so strenuously defended before, when religious diffe-
rences have arisen, and party ambition has directed their
mouths another way.

It is not my opinion, gentlemen, that you are of this kind
of men. I rather think you take up arms to defend and
maintain, with an honest zeal, what each of you appre-

AUTHORS OF DIVINE ANALOGY. 207

hends to be the true constitution of our religion. But for
the sake of that religion, consider, that you are in the
mean time wasting your own country, maintaining troops
at a vast expense of talents only lent you in trust, to shed
their own, not their enemies blood ; and that by these
means the constitution is so far from being bettered, that
the subjects are diminished, the authority of the laws
sorely shaken, and the whole in danger of being discon-
certed and ruined ; not by the issue of your controversy,
which could have but slight effects, were it decided either
way, but by the ill blood you may raise, the breach you
open for our vigilant adversaries, and the unhappy diver-
sion this bone of contention is likely to give to those wea-
pons, which your great Master has put into your hands, not
to gore each others sides, but to do execution among his
and your enemies. I cannot sufficiently lament the loss
religion sustains by those, who spend the talents God has
given them to traffic on for the general profit of their fellow-
Christians, in civil wars among themselves. What infinite
sums have we lost in every age since that of the apostles,
by this fatal misapplication of what must be, one day, most
severely accounted for ! What a heavy draught is made
on us at present, by the alienation of your talents, who
have so much of our stock in your hands. It is a grievous
loss when an officer of great experience, or a soldier of
more than ordinary strength and courage, stand still in time
of battle, and will not assist their own side ; but it is still
worse, if the one should strike down the weapons of his
fellows, and hinder them from assaulting the enemy, and
the other busy himself in misleading the men, and pervert-
ing the order of the battle.

What punishment, gentlemen, do you think that soldier
would deserve, who, because those that happen to be sta-
tioned near him in an engagement would not imitate him in
his manner of annoying the enemy, when perhaps it is a
little singular too, and not altogether authorized by the dis-
cipline, should therefore expose them to the enemy, by
shewing where they were unguarded, and how they might
be easiest assaulted and slain ? Would you pardon him if
he should offer in vindication of himself, that he could not

208

A LETTER TO THE

endure to see victory obtained, even by his own side, ex-
cept they fought according to what he thought the strict
rules of discipline? It is certain this excuse would not sa-
tisfy a court-martial ; and why the battles of the Lord should
be fought with less unanimity among the ecclesiastical sol-
diers, than those of avarice and ambition amongst us, I
cannot s e.

I remember in our late wars in Flanders, if any of us
happened to have a pique at his brother-soldier, an engage-
ment never failed to reconcile us. Our private animosities
were swallowed up in the general danger. The common
cause and the national quarrel always superseded those
little differences, which in time of peace might have been
more lasting ; and people that hated each other before, have
not only returned good friends from a fight, embracing and
wishing each other much joy of the victory, but have been
known to assist and rescue each other in the fury of the
battle, generously consulting the common cause, and not
weakly yielding to the dictates of a private resentment.

A little before the famous battle of Ramillies, I had a
quarrel with a brother-officer of the same regiment with
myself. Our spleen on both sides ran high enough to bring
us to extremities any where, but in a camp. However, we
having occasion to fight the French soon after, our private
grudge gave way to the common cause, and we engaged,
though w ithout a formal reconciliation, yet well enough dis-
posed to friendship in our hearts. I am sure mine was ut-
terly divested of its spleen, and that his was so too, his be-
haviour in the battle sufficiently shewed ; for the generous
man (the remembrance of it brings the tears from my eyes
at this day) when Iliad closed with a captain of the oppo-
site side, and was pulling him from his horse, seeing a
French soldier making a full pass at my back, which lay
fairly exposed to him, though he was very hotly pressed at
that instant himself, gave the fellow such a gash on the
shoulder, as made him drop his sword, and then threw him-
self between me and the enemy, fighting before me until I
had finished my man. As soon as the battle was over, and
I was fully informed of w hat he had done for me (for I could
see but little of whatrpassed) I flew to him in such a trans-

AUTHORS OF DIVINE ANALOGY.

209

port of love, and shame, and gratitude, as no other occur-
rence could possibly have excited. We were ever after
but one man.

Thus, gentlemen, we of the army compose our resent-
ments, and vent our particular spleen upon the general foe;
we, whose very profession is wrath and death. How much
more ought you to postpone private piques, whose business
it is to recommend the gospel of peace, both by your exam-
ples, and in your preachings, who fight an infinitely more
important battle than we, such a battle, and for such a stake,
as should bind your hearts together in the firmest concord,
and lift your spleen to a higher and juster object of re-
sentment, than little personal affronts can suggest to it?

Had the duke of Marlborough, and prince Eugene obsti-
nately pursued two different plans in their marches, sieges,
and battles, and had each been industrious to acquaint the
enemy with all the wrong steps the other made, and how he
might be easiest surprised and defeated, our triumphs, not-
withstanding .the bravery of our soldiers, had been but few,
and our trophies rare. As rarely shall we triumph over
Deism and infidelity, if our leaders in knowledge, and the
ablest champions of our faith, thwart each other, and mu-
tually conspire their own ruin and confusion. I do not say
this, because I think you manage the war of opinion with
less address and conduct, than the generals above-men-
tioned did that against the French, or that you can find
much in each other to fix the common enemy upon ; b,ut
though your measures be discreet enough in themselves,
yet mutual opposition will defeat both.

You can never, gentlemen, answer the end you propose
by this controversy, whether it be the conviction of infidels,
or the credit of writing well. You can never prove your-
selves in the right, by proving one another in the wrong ;
nor hope that your characters will flourish among posterity,
when you nip them thus in the bud, and apply such a can-
ker-worm to their tender roots. It is the interest of you
both to sound a speedy retreat, and, if that consideration
cannot weigh with you, consider, that it is the interest of
religion, that you contend no longer. If you be truly those
disinterested defenders of the divine cause, which the more
pacific part of your writings and your noble characters
vol. v. p

210

A LETTER, &C.

speak you, you will instantly put an end to those fatal
hostilities, that rend the howels of religion, and bring the
deepest groans from the spirit of faith and love. For shame,
good gentlemen, throw down your arms ; fight no more like
foes, but embrace like Christians ; rather conquer your-
selves than one another. Such a victory will make you in-
vincible to your adversaries of the minute tribe, and give
your names a brighter lustre to all succeeding generations,
than a thousand volumes, wrote with all the mastery of
those you have already published. If you would rather
choose to share in the conquest of the common foe, than a
mutual defeat, join hand in hand, and bear upon the ad-
versaries of truth and virtue, with united forces, and mutual
resolution. The battle waxes hotter, and the enemy press
on harder ; in such an heat of action, there is no leisure for
little private brigues.

This epistle may seem too prolix, but excuse it, since
it is from an old man. The din of arms and battles, that
make so much noise in it, may offend ; but consider, that
controversies in religion have been usually attended with
such sounds. The strain of metaphor and allegory may
disgust ; but you will pardon that, I hope, when I assure
you, that the reading of your books could scarce choose but
have that effect upon one that admires them as much as I do.
So much freedom in one of my character, with persons so
highly and so deservedly distinguished in the church, might
seem presumption to men of less understandings than your-
selves, who do not weigh what you hear by the figure aud
station of him that speaks, but the weight of what he says,
who know that the first messengers of Christian peace
were the simplest and meanest of the people. Reason and
truth, come they from whom they will, always find a wel-
come with such spirits, and do not more convince, w hen
they proceed from the mouth of the most eminent in learn-
ing, than when they are proposed by such a one as,
Gentlemen,
Your most humble servant and admirer,
1733. VETERANUS.

VINDICATION

OP

THE RIGHT REVEREND THE

LORD BISHOP OF WINCHESTER,

THE MALICIOUS ASPERSIONS

OF

THOSE WHO UNCHARITABLY ASCRIBE TO HIS LORDSHIP THE BOOK
ENTITLED,

"A PLAIN ACCOUNT OF THE NATURE AND END OF THE
SACRAMENT OF THE LORD'S SUPPER."

Who is this that darkeneth counsel by words without knowledge? — Job xxxviii. 2.

Indignuru ! Scelerato profuit ara.— Ovid Metam. ■

Quo teneam vultus mutanteru protea nodo ? — Hon.

p2

VINDICATION,

&c. &c.

Happening lately to make a visit to an acquaintance who
is one of those few gentlemen that still retain some faint
sense of religion, and would willingly be thought Chris-
tians ; I found him perusing a book, the title of which is,
A plain account of the Nature and End of the Lord's Sup-
per. He seemed to be extremely pleased with the per-
formance, and recommended it to me as the best treatise
on that subject that he had ever seen. I took it home with
me and read it over with attention ; but perceived that it
could no otherwise be called a plain account, than as the
generality of Quakers may be called plain men. It is true
there is a superficial simplicity, a plainness of dress and
language ; but in the matter and tendency of the book there
is a world of cunning, ambiguity, and dissimulation. I
likewise soon perceived my friend's reason for approving
so highly of it. He is one of your easy men, who is satis-
fied to profess and practice just so much of religion as will
not be troublesome to him, nor thwart either his interest or
recreation. Now nothing could be more exactly adapted
to his purpose than this plain account, as the author figu-
ratively entitles it ; because, according to the promise it
makes its reader in the preface, it represents the duty of
receiving this sacrament in such a manner, that there is no-
body so indolent, so lukewarm, nor indeed so profligate in
his life and conversation, but may safely communicate at
any time. Nay, and for the greater ease and convenience
of all persons indisposed to strictness of principle or prac-
tice, or weary of attending at church, or perhaps disgusted
at the parson ; the laity, for any thing I can see in this
book to the contrary, may consecrate and receive this sa-
crament any where, any time, or in any manner they please.

I may safely say there never was a book more likely to
please, nor less likely to reform, the present times. There
were two ordinances that till thirty or forty years ago, did

A VINDICATION, SiC.

213

jointly contribute to keep religion alive among us, namely,
the sabbath and the sacrament of the Lord's supper.
People of any tolerable fashion have quite got over the
sabbath. I mean as to the intention of its institution, and
have converted it into a mere day of pleasure. The Eu-
charist has kept its ground longer, and preserved some
share of the respect that is due to an institution so sacred
and so necessary, even in spite of all the levity and disre-
gard with which the ordinances of religion have been
treated of late. But this book, if Providence doth not pre-
vent, and its own impiety and absurdity subvert its evil
effects, may soon relax the little religious strictness,
and quench the last spark of Christian warmth that is left
among us.

I know not whatpart of the world its author lives in ; but
by the tendency and design of his book, one would imagine
he had always lived in the midst of a people who were inclin-
able to carry religion to extremes, and lay too scrupulous
a stress on the observation of its ordinances. I am sure
my countrymen need no preservatives against excesses of
this kind. In receiving the sacrament particularly, unless
my observation fail me very much, there seems to be such
a lack of ardour and piety as may make it needless to dis-
suade us from the small degrees of reverence and care that
are still employed about this important institution. It
would be never a whit more absurd to dissuade an in-
veterate miser from prodigality, or earnestly to exhort a
spendthrift to be profuse. The author of this book must
certainly have had the propagation of irreligion and vice
prodigiously at heart ; and yet, though no principles can
tend more strongly to his purpose than his own, I think he
has lost his labour in a good measure, since it is evident
that what he preaches has been for some time generally
practised. Where is the need of sinking this sacrament
still lower in the esteem of the world, when so little regard
is shewn to it already ? To what purpose is it to shew us
the folly of devotion on this occasion, even supposing our
devotion were ever so supererogatory, since we are no way
disposed to be devout? His book contains a parcel of
very ill-timed errors, inasmuch as it has reduced the most
pernicious practice to theory, and furnished it with pre-

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A VINDICATION OF THE

tended principles, at a time when there is no scruple made
of the practice without any pretences whatsoever. I can-
not for my life imagine what his end in publishing such a
performance could be, unless it was to get himself a name
of some sort or other, by writing in direct opposition to the
spirit and intention of all Christian writers from Moses down
to the present times.

Next to the wickedness and folly of its author, is the
malice of those who would make us think it the work of so
great and excellent a man as the bishop of Winchester.
What a scandalous and uncharitable age is this that can
ascribe such a work of darkness to an apostolical messen-
ger of light ! To a bishop ! To a servant and successor
of our Saviour! How is it possible that one who sub-
scribes our articles, who engages to inculcate our catechism,
to administer the church according to our canons, and this
sacrament according to our rubric, should write one sen-
tence of such a book ? It is impossible he should vindi-
cate his conduct in so doing to his conscience, by plead-
ing the superior authority of Scripture in favour of his prin-
ciples, since he holds his bishopric by subscribing to the
consonancy between the holy Scriptures and the very re-
verse of this author's doctrine, as set forth in our rubric,
articles, and homilies. Far be it from me therefore to join
in such a groundless and uncharitable imputation, an im-
putation that would fix one of the worst books that ever
was wrote on one of the best bishops that ever adorned
ours or any other church, a bishop so learned and judi-
cious, a bishop so sincere and ingenious, a bishop so
sound and orthodox, a bishop, in short, so pious, so re-
plete" with the greatest abilities and the highest virtues, so
inspired, so fired, so almost consumed with Christian zeal.

It was to do justice to the character of this distinguished
prelate, that I undertook to write and publish this little
paper, in which my design is to point out a few of those
notorious errors, and pernicious principles that are so in-
consistent with the short sketch I have given of the bi-
shop's character, in which I have imitated the sincerity, and
spoke with the same love of truth that appears in all the ac-
tions and writings of this incomparable father of our church.

To proceed then, as his lordship is indisputably the

BISHOP OF WINCHESTER.

215

most learned, judicious, and pious prelate that ever was
(as for the present times I have nothing to say to them) or
ever will be, it is by no means to be supposed he could have
run into the absurd and irreligious doctrines on which the
book is founded, which doctrines I shall lay before the
reader in a few propositions, and direct him to the pages in
the plain account where they may be found.

But before I proceed to this, it will be necessary to pre-
mise, that the author recommends his book to the world,
not only as a plain, but also as a full account of the Lord's
supper. He tells us, that he has explained every passage
that is to be found in the holy Scripture relating to this in-
stitution ; and that if any one shall take upon him to have
other notions of, or form higher expectations from it than
those passages of Scripture, under the discipline of his ex-
plication, set forth, he must be guilty of sin and presump-
tion. If therefore he shall be entirely silent about any re-
ceived notion in relation to this sacrament, we are to con-
clude that he is so for no other reason, but because he takes
it to be a notion not warranted by Scripture. Now as he
has made no mention of consecrating the elements, let the
first proposition be,

I. That consecration, as practised by ours, or any other
church, is without scriptural precept or example, and an
addition to the institution of those 'who alone had any au-
thority to declare the nature of it.'

It is true, our author has not any where, that I remem-
ber, mentioned the word consecration except in page 121,
but without often using the term, which might have given
offence, he has struck at the thing, as may be seen in page
the 11th, &c. where he endeavours to give such a sense to
that word on which he supposes the notion of consecration
to be founded, as may remove all foundation for such a
practice.

Whether he has rightly explained the word a/Aoyjjcrae or
not, perhaps the reader will be better able to judge when
he considers that he would have the sense of that word,
which is used by two of the evangelists, determined by
ivxaptan'jffae, which is used only by one ; that his reason
for this determination is because St. Paul makes use of the
latter upon the same occasion ; and that it is applied by all

216

A VINDICATION OF THE

the four to the cup, which must be supposed to be blessed,
if at all, in no other sense than the bread. But if St. Paul
may be allowed to be as good an interpreter of his own
meaning as of St. Matthew's or of St. Mark's, then he may
be understood to mean a blessing when he says tvxapia-^crag,
in the same sense that our interpreters have put upon
fi/Aoy/jcrae in St. Matthew; because, in the 10th of his first
Epistle to the Corinthians aud at the 16th verse, he applies
the word (viz. tvXoyov/iEv) to the cup in such a manner that
it is impossible for even this author, with any shew of sense
or reason, to apply it to any thing else. His words are, to
ttotyioiov rijc ti/Xoyiag o tvXoyovntv. I will only observe two
or three things on these words. The first is that iror^piov
is the antecedent to the o, and that consequently whatso-
ever is applied to the latter is thereby applied to the former.
The second is that ivXoyovfisv being here applied to irofripiov
cannot signify, we give thanks, and therefore must signify,
we bless or consecrate. The third is, that it cannot signify,
as our author wrests it, over which we pronounce good
words of praise, because then the words would have been
virzQ or Sia ov, or at least tvXoyiag rp/ tvXoyovfiev. The last
thing I shall observe upon the words is, that svXoyovfiev is
the first person plural of the present tense, from which I
conclude that St. Paul and others his contemporaries did
after our Saviour's death actually bless the cup, and if the
cup, by our author's own way of reasoning, the bread
also. The word being applied in this place to the cup,
may shew us that the same word was probably intended
to be applied to the bread in St. Matthew and St. Mark.
The rules of grammar will lead us a step farther in this
probabibility. The participle of an active verb, without
an accusative case after itself, agreeing with the nomi-
native case to another verb is applied as a transitive to
the accusative case of that other verb ; as for example in
this very word, Gen. xxii.17, according to the Septuagint;
tvXoyuv evXoyvaw at. Here at is the accusative case to
ivXoyuu as well as fuXoy/jffw. The author insinuates that
our translators were conscious to themselves that they had
put in the particle it after evXoyricrag in St. Matthew's gospel
without warrant, and therefore omitted it in St. Mark's.
But in this he deals very disingenuously by them, because

BISHOP OF WINCHESTER.

217

though they have not put in the particle it in St. Mark's
gospel, yet they have rendered it in the same sense as if
they had, as may be seen by any candid reader; the words
are ' and Jesus took bread, and blessed, and brake it,' here
the copulative and applies all the verbs to the accusative
case governed by the first.

The candid reader will probably agree with me that this
author has not sufficiently invalidated the necessity of con-
secration, by his manner of interpreting this word of Scrip-
ture, even supposing there was nothing else in the New
Testament to countenance it ; but it is not on this word
chiefly that the notion or practice of consecration is founded.
At least the church has not thought so, as appears by the
directions given in the rubric to the minister, to apply his
hands to the bread at the words 'brake,' and ' this is my
body ;' and to the cup, at the words, ' this is my blood.'
And that these are the proper words for that purpose, will
appear to any one who considers that they are the very
words of consecration used by our Saviour. The bread
was not his body, though he had given thanks or blessed
it, till he affirmed it to be so ; nor the cup his blood, till he
called it by that name. It was by those words that he set
apart and appropriated the elements to the ends and uses
of the sacrament. Our author should therefore have found
out some ingenious method of proving that the institution
of this sacrament, and the appropriation of bread and wine
to the remembrance of our Saviour's death, are not con-
tained in the aforesaid words. I make no question but he
would have shewn abundance of learning on this very point,
if he had been aware of it. But he has attacked consecra-
tion, just as Matins Scevola,in a better cause, did the king
of Etraria. He has aimed bis blow at the wrong place, and
offered violence, if not committed murder on a word of less
importance in the present controversy, than he imagined.

Before our Saviour instituted this sacrament, bread and
wine were no more the representatives of his body and blood,
than any other materials, but were made so entirely by his
appointment; since which the elements for this purposemust
be no other than bread and wine. However, all bread and
wine were not consecrated by this institution, for then it
had been a desecration to have used them at a common

218

A VINDICATION OF THE

meal, or on any other occasion. If all therefore was not
consecrated, it follows that none was actually consecrated,
but what was then on the table before our Saviour ; so that
it is necessary some consecration of the same nature should
still be used in order to restrain that to a holy use, which
is left at large for all uses, by our Saviour's consecration.
But our author will say, (he receiving bread and wine in
remembrance of our Saviour, is a sufficient and effectual
consecration. If that were the case, how could the Corin-
thians profane the sacrament, since they did not apply it
to the memory of our Saviour, but eat it as a common meal I
Without such application, according to our author, there
can be no sacrament, and consequently no profanation, be-
cause the bread and wine are still common and unconse-
crated. Neither can the Test Act, by his way of reason-
ing, possibly occasion any profanation; because the taking
bread and wine in remembrance of Christ, being according
to him the only consecration, he that takes them in order to
qualify himself for a beneficial post, takes them uncon-
secrated, and consequently cannot be guilty of a profana-
tion. It is for this reason, that I cannot suppose the bishop
of Winchester could have been the author of this book, be-
cause his lordship, if I remember right, in his incomparable
performances against the Test Act, shews that law to be a
profanation of the holy sacrament to worldly uses, which it
never could be, unless the elements w ere supposed to be se-
parated and dedicated to a sacred use before. But this au-
thor will have it, that they are never so dedicated, but when
they are taken in remembrance of Christ, so that he who
takes them with any other view or intention, does not re-
ceive the sacrament of the Lord's supper at all, because
he eats and drinks not in commemoration of Christ, but for
his own promotion, and therefore does no more than he who
feeds on bread and wine for his nourishment.

The next doctrine I shall take notice of in this writer,
is that which relates to the end of the Lord's supper. If
the reader will please to lay proposition the 8th of our au-
thor, and all the pages from 153 to the end of the book, to-
gether, he will perceive that the proposition is fairly drawn
from, not only the general tendency, but the express words
of his treatise.

BISHOP OF WINCHESTER.

219

Secondly, The sacrament of the Lord's supper is a rite
purely commemorative, ' so that the duty of receiving it is
(strictly speaking) comprehended within the limits of eating
and drinking with a due remembrance of Christ's death.'

Our author tells us, p. 54, that the nature and es-
sence of this sacrament, consists in its being done in re-
membrance of Christ's death ; from which we must infer,
that w here there is no remembrance of his death, there can
be no sacrament. He argues from this doctrine against
transubstantiation, and a corporal sacrifice in the mass, in-
sisting, that to suppose a real presence when there is only
a memorial instituted, would be absurd : from which we
must infer, that in the presence of our Saviour this sacra-
ment could retain neither its nature nor essence, i. e. could
not be.

From which two inferences put together it appears
plainly, by our author's way of reasoning, that our Saviour
could not have instituted, nor his disciples received this
sacrament, till after his death. For, says our author,
p. 24, "The doing any act in remembrance of a person
implies his bodily absence ; and if he is corporally present,
we are never said, nor can we be said to perform that action
in remembrance of him ; and again, p. 30, they (that is,
our Saviour's disciples) could not do the actions here named
(i. e. eat and drink the memorials of his body and blood)
in remembrance of him, whilst he himself was corporally
present with them, nor in remembrance of any thing done,
which was not then done and past." All this is very true,
and therefore the essence of this sacrament cannot consist
in mere commemoration, according to our author else-
where. To remember a future event is much the same with
foreseeing what is past

However, since St. Matthew, St. Mark, St. Luke, and
St. Paul, will needs have it that this sacrament was insti-
tuted and received before our Saviour's death, much to the
discredit of this author, we must look out for somewhat else
in the institution, on account of which it was consistent with
the infinite wisdom of our Saviour, to ordain it before his
death.

Let us in order to this consider the passages in Scrip-
ture that relate to the last supper. And here it is observ-

220

A VINDICATION OF THE

able, that there is no mention made of commemoration in
the account given by St. Matthew and St. Mark. It is not
unlikely that their reason for so doing was, because they
intended to state the nature of the sacrament, as it was before
our Saviour's death. But as St. Luke and St. Paul have
given us a more full account of it, by adding the precept
for doing it in remembrance of Christ's death, we will sup-
pose for the present, that St. Paul's account, in which the
memorial is twice mentioned, is the only historical narra-
tive of this affair extant.

Every one who reads St. Paul's words, must perceive,
that we are always to commemorate our Saviour's death
in this sacrament. The words therefore that contain the
precept for commemoration, being agreed upon, may beset
aside ; after which we shall find these other words, ( this is
my body which is broken for you,' and 'this cup is the new
testament in my blood. These words cannot mean the same
with those relating to commemoration, for if they did, the
apostle must have been guilty of a tautology ; and if they
mean any thing else, then this institution must have something
more in it than a bare memorial. But be their meaning what
it will, it must be essential to the institution, not only be-
cause, as I observed before, these are the very words of con-
secration, but because in these words, or in none, we must
look for the reason of celebrating this sacrament before our
Saviour's death.

It must therefore be a matter of high import to all Chris-
tians, to know what is meant by these words. Our author
has treated them with such contempt that he takes little
or no notice of them. The most he vouchsafes is a para-
phrase of them, in which he obliges them to speak accord-
ing to the drift of his doctrines, without giving us any rea-
son for so doing. The words - body' and 'blood' must either
be understood literally and corporally, or else in a figura-
tive and spiritual sense. They cannot be understood lite-
rally nor corporally, because common sense is against it.
A figurative or spiritual interpretation must therefore be
found, before they can be rationally or rightly understood ;
because we may presume to say that they ought to be allowed
some meaning. Now if nothing else is intimated to us by
these words, but that the bread and wine are memorials of

BISHOP OF WIXCHESTER.

221

Christ's death, then they signify only just the same thing
with, ' This do in remembrance of me;' by which our Sa-
vour, and his historians, must be supposed guilty of mul-
tiplying words, without enlarging the sense, and that in the
very form of a most sacred institution, when, if ever, both
brevity and strictness are necessary.

Since then neither a bodily presence, nor a bare memo-
rial is intended by these words; since the sacrament was fully
instituted by these words alone, as appears from its being
instituted before our Saviour's death, and consequently
before the possibility of a commemoration; and since St.
Matthew and St. Mark have given us an account of the in-
stitution, without taking the least notice of the commemo-
ration, we must conclude, that to eat our Saviour's body
and drink his blood, is to partake of all those benefits that
were procured to us by his death, among which faith and
grace are chiefly to be reckoned ; for,

To what purpose do we eat and drink, unless in order
to our nourishment ? But as in this eating and drinking
there is no bodily nourishment intended, some spiritual food
must be intended. Now our souls can be strengthened, re-
freshed, or fed, no otherwise than by faith and grace, I
mean in a religious or Christian sense ; it follows, therefore,
that if we eat, drink, or are fed at all by this institution, it
must be by the most comfortable and reviving motions of
God's Holy Spirit, that answer to the devout disposition of
our hearts, as material food does to our bodily hunger.
Our Saviour in the sixth of St. John, speaks of his flesh
and blood in this very sense. ' I am the bread of life,'
says he, ' I am the living bread which came down from
heaven: if any man eat of this bread he shall live for
ever, and the bread that I will give is my flesh, which I will
give for the life of the world. Verily, verily, I say unto
you, except you eat of the flesh of the Son of man, and
drink his blood, you have no life in you. Whoso eateth
my flesh and drinketh my blood hath eternal life, and I will
raise him up at the last day. For my flesh is meat indeed,
and my blood is drink indeed. He that eateth my flesh and
drinketh my blood, dwelleth in me, and I in him. As the
living Father hath sent me, and I live by the Father, so he
that eateth me, even he shall live by me.' The Jews had ca-
villed at these expressions before, but as soon as our Sa-

222

A VINDICATION OF THE

viour perceived that his disciples also murmured at them,
he explained them to them, by telling them that ' it is the
Spirit that quickeneth, that the flesh profiteth nothing, and
that the words which he speak unto them are spirit and life.'

As in St. Paul's account of the institution, we are com-
manded to eat the body and drink the blood of Christ, so
St. John tells us, that unless we do so, we have no life in
us : and lest we should either reject his doctrine with ab-
horrence at the thoughts of eating his flesh and drinking his
blood literally or corporally, or to avoid that, should fix
some other unworthy interpretation on his words, he tells
us that we are to understand him in a spiritual sense, that
it is the Spirit that quickeneth, and that the words which he
speaketh unto them are the Spirit which quickens, and that
life which is thereby quickened.

It is observable, that after our Saviour had often spoke
of eating his flesh and drinking his blood, he comes in the
fifty-seventh verse, to speak of eating himself; by which is
meant according to his explanation at the end, his Spirit, as
well as his flesh and blood, which without that could not
be vitally called him, nor of any avail towards the procuring
eternal life to us. What are wre to conclude from eating
Christ's flesh and drinking his blood, nay, from eating Christ
himself, but that we are to feed on some representations of
his flesh and blood, under which, to make them, in some
sense, him, is conveyed his Spirit, w hich works in us by his
words, and nourishes by his precepts to eternal life?

From this passage of St. J ohn it appears plainly in what
sense the bread and wine are called our Saviour's body and
blood. Christ here, calls his flesh the food or bread of life,
and in St. Paul's account, calls the sacramental bread his
body ; he tells us in both places that we must eat it, from
whence we cannot but conclude that some kind of nourish-
ment is to be communicated by it. What that is, he shews
us by the opposition betw een manna, which could not pre-
vent temporal death, and this meat indeed w hich secures to
us eternal life.

Now if we suppose the two passages of St. John and
St. Paul laid together, the sense of both may be expressed
in the person of Christ, thus : " Endeavour not to procure
to yourselves that perishable kind of food, which can only
support you for a short time here, but endeavour to come

BISHOP OF WINCHESTER.

223

to me by faith, who am the true food, without which you
must perish everlastingly. I intend my flesh for your meat,
and my blood for your drink. But that you may not be
shocked at such a kind of food, I appoint bread to repre-
sent my body, and wine my blood, under which (that you
may not have only the dead unprofitable flesh) I shall sig-
nify and impart to you my Spirit, in order that by its power-
ful impulse, the principles of eternal life contained in my
word, and the saving efficacy of my dispensation may be
applied to your souls. Having thus made provision for your,
immortal part, I desire that hereafter as often as you feast
on, and refresh your souls with this spiritual nourishment,
you do gratefully remember me, who have given up my
body to be torn, and my blood to be shed for the remission
of your sins, and the eternal preservation of your souls."

But our author will not allow this passage of St. John to
be meant of the Lord's supper at all. Let us examine his
reason. He begins with telling us that it hath been applied
to the Lord's supper especially since the doctrine of trans-
substantiation, by some who have laboured hard to make
the application. In this he says what is very true. But
those who laboured that point for that purpose were guilty
of a great oversight in so doing, because the explanation of
the whole passage subjoined by our Saviour, is the plainest
and most direct argument that is to be found in holy writ
against the doctrine of transubstantiation. It is not an ar-
gument by deduction and consequence ; but in express
terms. Besides, wc find the sacrament necessary in both
kinds from the fifty-third verse of this chapter. Nor were
the Protestant commentators guilty of a less oversight in
denying it to be meant of the Lord's supper, for the very
same reasons. Had they rightly understood it, on both
sides, they had in all likelihood exchanged opinions.

He says again that it could not relate to the duty of the
Lord's supper, because it was not then instituted, nor so
much as hinted at to his disciples. This consequence does
not follow. Could not Christ have spoken of an institution
which he intended ? And why should he have hinted it to
his disciples before ? Was not that itself a timely and suf-
ficient hint ? Was it however impossible that he should
speak then of a future institution, and without previous in-
timation given to his disciples? That he does speak of some-

224

A VINDICATION OF THE

what future, and then intended, is plain from his words,
' The bread which I will give is my flesh, which I will give
for the life of the world.'

But farther he tells us that there is such a difference of
expression in the two cases as may shew that they are not
to be applied to the same thing. Our Saviour says in the
form of institution, the bread which you are to eat is my
body, not my body is your bread or your food, &c. But
when our Saviour said, ' this bread is my body,' and bid them
eat it, he intended they should feed on it, and then it must
have been their bread or food, according to what he tells
them in the sixth of St. John.

He observes likewise, that there is no mention in this
passage of eating and drinking in remembrance of Christ
after he should be taken from his disciples ; from whence
he argues that it could not be meant of the Lord's supper,
which is a memorial of his sufferings a long time after-
ward, and could not be put in practice during his presence
with them. By this way of arguing St. Matthew and St.
Mark, in their accounts of the institution, could not have
spoken of the Lord's supper, for neither of them have
mentioned the commemoration ; nay, by the very same way
of reasoning, our Saviour could not Have given this sacra-
ment to his disciples before his own death, for bow could
they commemorate a future event? nor even after his resur-
rection, for how could they commemorate him present ?
These are all the blunders offered by our author on this
head ; what follows is only a modest endeavour to help our
Saviour and St. John to express in the author's sense what
they have attempted to speak in their own words.

I shall therefore lay him aside for awhile, and try if I
can offer any satisfactory reasons, why this passage ought
to be understood of the Lord's supper, beside such as may
be deduced from the explication already given of it.

It is generally allowed that St. John wrote his gospel
after the other three gospels and the writings of St. Paul
had been published ; nay, it is commonly supposed to have
been wrote the last of ail the scriptural canon. His end
for writing it is known to have been no other; than that of
perpetuating certain particulars in our Saviour's history,
which had been either omitted or not fully related by those
who had handled the subject before, in order to rectify some

BISHOP OF WINCHESTER.

225

errors and abuses that had by that means crept into the
church. The Cerinthian heresy was the chief of these.
But before he wrote his gospel, the Heathens had probably
accused the Christians of certain horrible rites, particularly
feasting on human flesh and blood. It seems therefore
very probable that the aforesaid passage was intended as
an explanation of the Lord's supper, on which this charge
had been fixed. The whole discourse is admirably well
fitted to this purpose, because in it is shewn the abhor-
rence with which both the Jews and disciples received the
doctrine of feeding on Christ's body and blood, while they
understood it in a literal sense, and then the true spiritual
sense is immediately subjoined. Now St. John having
cleared up this difficulty about the sacrament, had no occa-
sion to say any thing of the institution. It was enough for
him to explain the nature of the mystery, as for the time,
and manner, and end of its appointment, they were all
sufficiently related before.

It cannot be denied but that St. John recounts many
incidents in our Saviour's life, which had been written by
the other evangelists before him, particularly the celebra-
tion of the passover that very night in which he instituted
his last supper. But he says not one word in that place of
this institution, and the reason in all probability was, be-
cause he had said as much as was needful on that subject
before, in the discourse about spiritual food.

But again, we find in this passage that Christ mentions
his flesh and blood separately, four times over, from which
we must conclude that when they come to be interpreted
spiritually, they must intimate to us two distinct ideas ; but
unless they be applied to the sacramental body, by which
our souls are fed in order to eternal life, and the sacra-
mental blood, through which we have remission of sins,
they cannot represent more than one idea, which is no way
consonant to the care our Saviour takes to speak of them
distinctly.

Again, If we take away our Saviour's human nature,
that is, his flesh and his blood, he can neither be food nor
life to us, because it is necessary to his being either, that he
should obtain remission of our sins ; but without shedding
of blood there is no remission of sins. It follows therefore
vol. v. Q

226

A VINDICATION OF THE

that the food of eternal life mentioned in this passage can
be no other than the body and blood of Christ which he
sacrificed for us, and which are applied to our souls by
faith in the sacrament of his last supper.

Again, If our Saviour had not spoken in this place of
the same food which he afterward calls his body and his
blood, he had not said that he himself was that bread or
food. If he had spoken of his precepts as ordinarily de-
livered in discourse, he could not have called them in any
propriety himself. He might have said indeed, I will give
you the bread of life. But he could not have said, I am
the bread of life. Such an expression is as absurd as if
an ambassador, who is sent with articles of peace to a
neighbouring prince, should say, I am articles of peace.
Or if a husbandman should deliver a system of agriculture
to the world, and upon the strength of the rules laid down
in it, should tell the public, that he himself is corn, and
wine, and oil.

Lastly, If this discourse is not to be understood of the
Lord's supper, it must appear to contradict itself ; because
our Saviour, who so often calls his flesh and his blood
meat and drink indeed, and the food of life in the former
part of it, in the latter end says, that the flesh profiteth no-
thing. But if we understand what he says of the Lord's
supper, the difficulty will clear up, as may appear by this
paraphrase ; ' Except you eat my flesh and drink my blood
you have no life in you, because you cannot receive the
grace and principles which I have annexed to them alone.
But if you receive the symbols appointed by me to repre-
sent my flesh and blood unworthily, they will profit you
nothing, they will to you be my body and blood in no other
sense than to make you guilty of commemorating my death
without renouncing those sins for which I died, which is a
kind of consenting to my death.'

Other reasons might be offered, but I hope these will
suffice to shew, that this discourse is scarce intelligible to
us, if not understood, of the Lord's supper. No plain
reader ever put any other interpretation on it ; and such
readers usually fall in with the true and natural sense of
plain passages, provided they be faithfully rendered, more
readily than commentators do. The reason for it is this ;

BISHOP OF WINCHESTER.

227

the plain honest man searches his Bible for such informa-
tion as is necessary to the saving of his soul, with an eye
to no controversies, but that between himself and the ad-
versary of his salvation, so that with all the understanding
he has, he goes directly on to the true construction, God's
grace in the mean time directing and assisting his honest
inquiry. Whereas your commentators, who are always
deeply engaged in disputes and learned prejudices, lay the
bias of their own prepossessions on the Scriptures, and suf-
fer them to speak nothing but their own opinions.

If any one will needs suppose, after all, that the Lord's
supper is a purely commemorative rite, let him consider
with himself to what purpose such a rite could have been
instituted. Let him consider that barely remembering our
Saviour's death, which is all our author seems to make ab-
solutely necessary, can have no effect, nor be of any use
at all. But then our author will say that he speaks of a
grateful and thankful remembrance. If he does, he would
do well to consider that such a remembrance is altogether
impossible without repentance for past sins, without faith
in God's word and promises, and without charity towards
our fellow- Christians; so that allowing that to be the sole
end of the sacrament, yet still it cannot be purely comme-
morative, since the whole of a Christian's duty necessarily
results from thence.

Drinking the glorious memory of KingWilliam the Third,
has been thought by some to have a profane resemblance
of this sacred institution. However, neither the party
warmth with which the memory of that prince was drank,
nor the party spirit with which that practice was railed at,
could ever raise it so high, as to give any offensive resem-
blance to our Lord's supper, till the publication of this book,
which has brought down the sacrament to a level with that
or any other honorary commemoration. Nay, if we consi-
der the matter well, we shall find that our author has sunk
the sacrament a good deal lower than the glorious memory.
When a company drinks to the memory of King William,
they cannot be supposed to do it with either common sense
or sincerity, without a hearty abhorrence of Popery and
tyranny, without a resolution to oppose both to the utter-
most of their power, and without a firm adherence to the
Q 2

228

A VINDICATION OF THE

political principles on which the late revolution turned.
But if you will believe our author, it is only necessary to
remember the death of Christ. Repentance, faith, and
charity are, according to him, by no means necessarily con-
nected with the duty of eating and drinking in remembrance
of our blessed Saviour. To profess our faith in Christ's
promises, to rekindle our zeal for those principles by
which he wrought the great revolution from a state of sin
to a state of salvation, or to renew our religious engage-
ments to him, may be, in the opinion of our author, no use-
less work, but he thinks they are not necessary when we
meet to commemorate the death of our Divine and Glorious
Redeemer. If this does not sink the memory of our Sa-
viour lower in a religious, than the common practice does
that of King William in a political sense, I am under a
very gross mistake.

I have dwelt the longer on this head, because the fol-
lowing errors of our author are so artfully interwoven with
this, that it would be difficult to get clear of them if this
one were admitted. But his art will now be turned against
himself, inasmuch as the demolition of his foundation must
be attended with the ruin of the whole erroneous fabric
which he has erected on it. Besides, to expose his funda-
mental absurdities and falsehoods under this proposition,
was the most effectual way of demonstrating that this book
could never have been the work of so learned, so ingenious,
and, in short, so great a man as the bishop of Winchester.

If the reader will be pleased to consult the I2th, 13th,
14th, loth and 16th propositions of our author, he will find
that the following proposition is rightly and fairly drawn
from thence.

Thirdly, There is no other preparation necessary to the
worthy reception of the Lord's supper, than a serious re-
membrance of our Saviour's death, so that persons who
lead lives unworthy of Christians both before and after it,
may nevertheless be worthy communicants.

This would be very true, if the sacrament of the Lord's
supper were merely commemorative, for then we might
without the smallest trouble or preparation examine our-
selves, whether we remembered that Christ died for us.
But I hope it appears pretty plain from what was said un-

BISHOP OF WINCHESTER.

22

der the foregoing proposition, that there must be something
more intended by this institution than a bare commemo-
ration.

But let us be determined by Scripture, and the nature of
the institution itself. We find in the eleventh chapter of the
First Epistle to the Corinthians, St. Paul telling that church,
that ' whosoever shall eat this bread, or drink this cup un-
worthily, should be guilty of the body and blood of the
Lord, and should eat aud drink damnation to himself.' From
these words so alarming, notwithstanding the softenings of
our author, it appears very plainly, that we ought to be ex-
ceedingly careful to know in what a worthy reception con-
sists. This we may find by the other admonitions there
given. St. Paul reproves the Corinthians for three vices,
viz. drunkenness, despising the church of God, and uncha-
ritably shaming their poor brethren; which vices rendered
their celebration of the Lord's supper unworthy. Now it
appears that they were not guilty of these vices at the very
time of receiving, but at their love feasts which they cele-
brated, according to our author, before, but according to
others, after the sacrament ; which may serve to shew us
that our behaviour either before or after communicating
ought to be virtuous, devout, and decent, or else we must
be unworthy communicants. It is not at the time of re-
ceiving only that we are obliged to live and act like Chris-
tians, but at all other times, under the penalties of an un-
worthy reception. Perhaps our author will say, not at all
other times, but only immediately before or after, only
while we are in the usual place of communion. This is as
if it was not the heinousness of vice that made the action
unworthy, but the nearness of time. But vice is vice, and
as such offensive in the sight of God, to whom a thousand
years are as one day, at all times. Nor is it these vices
only that are here mentioned, but all others, for the same
reason, that make an unworthy reception of the Lord's
supper. If this were so, our author will say, why did not
St. Paul tell us so ? How can we conclude all this from the
passage now under consideration? I answer, that St. Paul,
in the words already cited, reproves the abuses of the Co-
rinthians, for no other reason but because they were offen-
sive in the sight of God, which is a reason as good against

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A VINDICATION OF THE

all manner of vices and abuses whatsoever, whether com-
mitted before, at, or after the sacrament, though ever so
geographically or chronologically distinguished.

But it happens unluckily for our author, that St. Paul,
after reproving the Corinthians by applying directly to
them and their particular abuses, in the twentieth, twenty-
first, and twenty-second verses, at the twenty-seventh verse
says in general, that whosoever shall eat and drink unwor-
thily, shall be guilty of the body and blood of the Lord, and
then immediately subjoins, 'Let a man examine himself,
and so let him eat and drink.' This is applied to all man-
kind, and ought to be understood as a bar laid against all
kinds of sin and unworthiness. To what end is a man to exa-
mine himself? Is it only to try whether he remembers the
death of Christ or not? Surely that can require no exami-
nation. Or is it in order only to consider the difference be-
tween our Lord's body and the common meal ? Surely that
is not to examine himself, but to examine the institution.

It seems to me a little hard, that while all other affairs
or undertakings necessarily require, according to their im-
portance, certain degrees of preparation, this most sacred
and solemn ordinance, in which not only the body and
blood of our Redeemer are represented, but his spirit con-
veyed, should be approached in an abrupt and irreverent
manner. Is there no decency of dress, or wedding garment
required when we are to be entertained at the table of the
Lord ? Shall we set off our bodies in our best apparel,
when we are to dine with a prince or a great man, and yet
go covered with all the foul rags of our unrepented sins to
sup with the Lord of hosts and the King of kings? This
is not only not to discern the Lord's body from a common
meal, but to treat it with infinitely more indignity. Surely
a wretch polluted, corrupted, and altogether impenitent, is
utterly unfit for the performance of any Christian duty, but
most especially, of the most awful and important institu-
tions. Surely to a soul void of faith in God's merciful
promises through Christ, this sacrament must be imperti-
nence, and his taking it profanation. Surely to a heart
imbittered with malice, and at enmity with its fellow mem-
bers in Christ, this feast of love must be extremely oppo-
site and repugnant. Is it not then necessary that we

BISHOP OF WINCHESTER.

231

should consider well whether we possess our souls in a
spirit of repentance, faith, and benevolence, before we ap-
proach the Lord's table ? And can we form to ourselves
these dispositions in an instant, without either exerting
ourselves in meditation, or imploring the assistance of
Almighty God by prayer ?

If, as our author will have it, the whole nature and es-
sence of the Lord's supper consist in the co mm dm oration
of Christ's death, we ought certainly to commemorate that
inestimable mercy in such a manner as may redound to the
honour and glory of our Divine Benefactor and Master.
But this can never be done without a strict adherence to
his precepts, or at least a deep and sorrowful repentance
for having transgressed them. He that is obstinate in his
wickedness, dishonours the Saviour of mankind, because
he caresses and courts those sins for which he was put to
open shame ; he is at enmity with Christ, because he is in
amity with those vices which Christ came into the world to
combat and subdue ; he crucifies Christ afresh, because he
cherishes and encourages those impieties that nailed our
dear Redeemer to the cross, and pushed the spear into his
side. Now, is it possible for such a one to honour Christ
by receiving bread and wine in his remembrance ? If he re-
members him at all, must it not be as an enemy, or as a
person whose memory he would disgrace ?

Let the reader now consider whether it is with sense or
charity to be supposed that an ambassador of Christ, and a
pastor of his flock, should, against the nature of the sacra-
ment, against the interest of Christ's kingdom, and against
the salvation of his subjects, whom he has bought with his
blood, labour to make the hearts of those who come to the
Lord's table, as impenitent, as faithless, as uncharitable,
and as devotionless every way as he can.

When the reader has done this, if he will turn to the
18th proposition of the Plain Account, and peruse that with
what is said under it, particularly in pages 143, 153, 15G,
164, 173, and 174, he will find that the following propo-
sition is truly and fairly extracted.

Fourthly, There are no privileges peculiarly annexed to
the worthy receiving the Lord's supper, no concomitant
grace, no spiritual benefits, no communion with God. It

232

A VINDICATION OF THE

is no renewal of our baptismal vow, nor seal of the Chris-
tian covenant.

t Our author owns indeed, at the 155th page, that the
sacrament by its natural and reasonable tendency leads us
to thankfulness, to the profession of our dependence on,
and obligations due to God, and our duty towards our
neighbours, and that it is therefore an effectual acknow-
ledgment of our strict obligation to all instances of piety
and virtue, &c.'

It is easy to see that this contains aflat denial of what
the 4th proposition sets forth, which proposition is never-
theless faithfully collected from the pages referred to. But
besides, the matter of this concession made by our author
is manifestly impossible, if it be true that the Lord's sup-
per is a rite purely commemorative, and that there is no
preparation necessary to the worthy receiving of it. If
it be merely a memorial, how can it be reasonably ex-
pected that it should lead the thoughts of those to the
whole system of Christian duties, who are not necessarily
required to make any preparations for it, farther than a bare
and instantaneous recollection of our Saviour's death ? The
thoughts themselves may take what hints, and steer what
course they please ; but this, according to our author's doc-
trines, is no necessary effect of the Lord's supper, the duty
of receiving which is, if we will believe him, * contained
within the limits of eating and drinking in remembrance of
Christ's death ;' so that if we should make any devout or
pious reflections on what we are about, it seems, they must
be more owing to our own goodness, than God's injunc-
tion. And yet I cannot see of what use such reflections, if
they were made, could be towards the improvement of our
lives, since without time and preparation they must be too
transient to have any effect upon our manners.

This doctrine of his concerning the benefits of the sacra-
ment, directly contradicts what he lays down in his four
first propositions, where he tells us, ' that the duty of
partaking of the Lord's supper is not a duty of itself, or
apparent to us from the nature of things, but made such
to Christians by the positive institution of Jesus Christ.'
The performance of all natural duties is usefuland benefi-
cial to us, and the omission hurtful. If this were a natu-

BISHOP OF WINCHESTER.

233

ral duty, it would be beneficial to us, and the omission
hurtful. If this were a natural duty, it would be beneficial
by its own natural tendency, not otherwise. Now our
author denies it to be a natural duty, under his four first
propositions, and yet page 154 tells us, that ' in its natu-
ral and reasonable tendency we ought to found our main
expectations' of the benefits which he enumerates, p. 155.
These sentiments aTe very inconsistent, but then they lie at
the distance of a hundred and fifty-three pages from each
other ; and what occasion for connexion or consistence be-
tween principles so remote ? there are leaves enough be-
tween to keep the peace, though they were ever so strong-
ly disposed to jar.

If our author had not ascribed these benefits to the sa-
crament, though in opposition to the principles he set out
upon, some one perhaps might have asked, Where is the
good of such a rite ? Why did Christ institute what is of no
use to us ? If in answer to these questions, which he could
not but foresee, he had said, that Christ has annexed scrip-
tural benefits to it, which by its own nature it could not
convey, being merely positive, he had contradicted the te-
nor of his whole book, and particularly the very beginning of
the same paragraph, see p. 154, where he speaks of these
benefits. This had been too palpable ; so he chose rather
to let his answer to these questions give the lie to his very
fundamental principle, hoping that the reader would not so
easily perceive it.

Since then this answer of his can never satisfy, and
since no natural benefits are to be expected from an insti-
tution purely positive, other than what our own reflections
could have derived from the action itself, though it had
never been instituted, it follows, that it must either be a
useless right, an empty and idle ceremony, or else there
must be some spiritual benefits preternaturally annexed to
it, and conveyed by it to a worthy communicant. To eat
bread and drink wine can never tend, by their own nature,
to any moral improvement of our minds ; not even when
they are applied to the memory of Christ, if, according to
our author, there is no other preparation necessary than
barely to remember. The most that can be said of this sa-
crament upon his principles is, that it is a useful hint to
our thoughts, as applied by Christ, if seriously received.

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A VINDICATION OF THE

Had our Saviour intended no more than this by it, what
occasion was there for all the solemnity with which it is
so often treated in Scripture ? If he had designed it only
for a mere memorandum of his death, he would not have
said this bread is my body, nor this wine is my blood ; but,
this bread and wine shall put you in mind of my body
and blood.

But our author tells us, that whatever benefits we are
to expect from this institution, they are only such as are
the common effects of all Christian duties, and not pecu-
liarly annexed to this single duty. If this be so, then this
sacrament can be of no use, unless all other Christian
duties be performed as well as it, which is directly con-
trary to what the author labours under in his IGth pro-
position, the sum of which is to shew, that this sacrament
may be worthily received, though other duties should be
ever so much neglected. He that doubles and goes far
about for arguments, is extremely apt at one time to cross
and thwart what he maintained at another. But no more
of this now. I shall have an opportunity of speaking more
fully on this subject under the next proposition.

The author of the Plain Account endeavours to prove
that there is no grace nor divine assistance communicated
in the sacrament of the Lord's supper. To know whether
this be so or not, we must first consider,Vhat is to be un-
derstood by the word grace, and then, whether there is any
grounds in Scripture to hope for that grace in the worthy
participation of this holy institution.

By grace is sometimes meant the Divine favour, or
God's good disposition to protect and succour his ser-
vants : in this sense it signifies the cause. But it more
usually implies the effect of God's goodness towards us,
and signifies the actual assistances of his Holy Spirit,work-
ing in the ordinary way, with our weak endeavours to sub-
due our passions, resist temptations, and strengthen our
resolutions against the trials we are to encounter.

Grace, taken in this latter sense, must be supposed to be
communicated in the Lord's supper, if we will not charge
our Saviour with speaking words without meaning, or run-
ning into tautology ; for in what other sense can eat my
body and drink my blood betaken? Besides, if there be
any similitude implied in these words (and except we sup-

BISHOP OF WINCHESTER.

235

pose a similitude they most be utterly unmeaning), they can
be interpreted in no other sense, than that of refreshing
and feediug our souls, as ordinary bread and wine do our
bodies.

Christ, in the sixth of St. John's Gospel, gives them
this very interpretation; he calls his flesh and blood the
food of eternal life, but shews us in the close of his dis-
course that we are not to expect life from the flesh itself,
but from the spirit represented by it, and conveyed with it.
The body and blood of Christ in the holy communion, re-
present his Divine Person to us, as may appear from those
expressions where our Saviour speaks of eating him per-
sonally. ' I am the bread of life ; he that eateth me evea
he shall live by me.' Now there was in the person of
Christ not only a body to be rent, and blood to be spilt for
us in order to remission of sins, but also a holy and lively
spirit, by which he uttered his most excellent revelation,
in order to the amendment of our lives. As therefore in
this sacred ordinance we commemorate his sufferings for
us, by spiritually eating his body and drinking his blood,
so we must also be supposed to receive his Holy Spirit,
which is to w rite his law in our hearts, because without
that, his flesh profiteth not, though ever so duly commemo-
rated ; without that we eat not Christ, Christ dwelleth not
in us, nor we in Christ; we rather crucify him anew by
those sins that hinder us from participating of his spirit,
and like persons a sinking, instead of assisting ourselves
by his infallible directions, only desperately cling to his
body, as if we rather intended to drown him with us, than
save ourselves.

As the body and blood of Christ can be rationally called
so in no sense but this, so this, if it be well considered, will
appear to be founded on a most strong and beautiful simi-
litude. By bread and wine our bodies are nourished and
our lives are preserved ; by the spiritual or sacramental
food our virtue is fed and strengthened, and eternal life se-
cured. Bread and wine rather enfeeble our bodies and en-
danger our lives, than support the one by nourishing the
other, if our stomachs be distempered, or our constitutions
already infected ; in like manner the sacramental food is
rather baneful than nutritious to our souls, if they are not

236

A VINDICATION OF THE

properly prepared for its reception. Bread and wine can-
not begin health or produce life, but they can renew and
revive both; the grace communicated in the sacrament, as
it does not prevent, but attend that ordinance, cannot in-
spire virtue where there was none before, nor plant eternal
life in the midst of dead works and sins, but it can feed a
virtuous disposition, it can perfect good works, it can che-
rish the principles of eternal life, and bring them to matu-
rity. Bread is the strength of man's heart, and the staff
of his life ; grace is the support of the conscience, and the
vital principle of eternal salvation. Wine maketh a glad
heart, and a glad heart, like a medicine, prolongs our days;
so the grace of God infuses comfortable hopes into the soul ,
by which eternal life is assured to us, for we are saved by
faith improved into hope.

Our author denies that in the nature of the sacrament
there is any communion with God necessarily implied ; and
yet, according to him, the nature of the sacrament consists
in a thankful remembrance of Christ's death. Now, is not
thanksgiving an act of worship ? And is there not some
communion or intercourse with God in every act of wor-
ship ? But he will say there is no extraordinary or peculiar
communion with the divine nature, farther than what is
common to all other acts of worship. Here every rational
and candid interpreter of Scripture must differ from him.
We have but just now proved that some participation of
God's grace must be supposed in this institution. Now is
there no communion, when on the one side grace is im-
parted, and on the other the most grateful acknowledg-
ments rendered 1 When God assists his servants, and they
at the same time gratefully bless their good and bountiful
Benefactor, is there no intercourse to be supposed ?

Does not Christ invite us to approach, and unite our-
selves to his divine nature, when he bids us eat his body
and drink his blood ? There is communion among those
who only eat together ; shall there be none between him
that affords himself for our nourishment, and us who feed
on him ? Our Saviour tells us in the sixth of St. John, that
he who eateth his flesh and drinketh his blood dwelleth in
him, and that he reciprocally dwelleth in that person. They
that dwell together are said to have fellowship and com-

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237

munion with each other, and shall there be no communion
supposed between those who dwell mutually in one an-
other ? Now it is in the holy sacrament of the Lord's sup-
per that Christ and the faithful soul partake each other,
and spiritually enter upon this joint-indwelling, as ap-
pears from the words of institution, as well as from Christ's
express declarations in the aforesaid chapter of St. John.

Well, but then the author of the Plain Account will say,
if Christ and the communicant unite so closely in the ce-
lebration of this rite, how can it be in any sense comme-
morative ? If Christ be present to us, how can we be said
to remember him ? I answer, that the bread and wine in
the sacrament represent to us Christ's body torn, and his
blood spilt ; that they are therefore memorials of his death
which is past, and of his real body and blood that are now
in heaven ; and that notwithstanding this, they are the
pledges and vehicles of his favour and grace to all worthy
communicators. Is it impossible that the same thing should
serve to convey a bounty and also preserve the memory of
our Benefactor ? He that holds an estate by the last will
and testament of his father, can make use of the deed both
to secure possession, and perpetuate in him a grateful
sense of his father's goodness. This instance does not
come fully up to the case in hand, but it serves to shew
that there is no inconsistency in making the same thing
both a means of communicating a favour, and at the same
time a standing token and remembrancer of him to whom
we owe it. I think it cannot be denied but that we may
remember Christ absent in the flesh, though at the same
time we feel him present in spirit, and communicate with
him by thanksgivings on our part, and spiritual benefits on
his. Why may we not by one and the same act commemo-
rate those sufferings by which remission of our sins was
procured, and obtain assistance to resist temptations ?

Our author denies likewise that the Lord's supper is
either a renewal of our baptismal vow, or a seal of the
Christian covenant. Before we can determine upon the
merits of this doctrine, we must consider the nature of
our covenant with God, and of the parties contracting.
Whosoever is baptized into the Christian religion, solemnly
promises or vows to God, that he will conform to the arti-

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A VINDICATION OF THE

cles proposed by Christ Jesus. On the other side, God
promises, that if he does so, he will apply to him the merits
of Christ's sufferings and death, by virtue of which he shall
be entitled to an inheritance in heaven. A violation of
this covenant in any of its articles, on our part, must dis-
charge Almighty God of his obligation to perform what was
stipulated on his.

Now such is the nature of man, that he no sooner comes
to the use of his thoughts, his tongue, and his hands, but
he employs them all in the daily transgression of some
article or other of this covenant; by which means the
covenant must be rendered of no effect, and the whole work
of contracting through Christ come to nothing. But our cove-
nant is not purely a covenant of works, like that of Moses,
but of mercy also. The Divine person we have to deal
with is not only just to perform what he has promised,
but is ready also, in compassion to our infirmities, which
he knew before he contracted with us, to pardon the par-
ticular transgressions of our covenant, which we may hap-
pen to be betrayed into by our nature prone to evil. But
this pardon is only to be expected on our sincerely repent-
ing, and resolving to be more strict and careful how we
transgress for the future. Yet it cannot be sufficient barely
to repent and resolve ; we must also confess what we have
done with sorrow, and some way or other solemnly renew
the covenant which we have by our sins annulled ; and
the religious act of renewal ought, since there is the same
reason for it, to be as public and as solemn as that of our
first contract. It is treating God's goodness, in proposing
articles of peace, ungratefully, and trifling with his ma-
jesty, to violate our contract with him, and yet expect
the performance of his glorious promises, without doing
any thing more to reinstate ourselves than barely re-
penting.

However, let the seeming necessity of a sacred and
solemn act of renewal be ever so great, we can have no
right to it, nor warrant for it, but from the word of God.
Now if we search the whole New Testament, we shall find
but two federal acts solemnly instituted by Christ, namely,
baptism and the supper of the Lord. The renewal cannot
be effected by a repetition of baptism, which is purely ini-

BISHOP OF WINCHESTER.

239

tiatory ; it follows therefore that the act appointed for that
purpose, if any, must be the supper of the Lord.

Let us now see whether this last institution of our Sa-
viour carries with it any federal characters that may far-
ther shew us, that it was intended to be applied to this
purpose.

First, then, it is to be observed that it was substituted
in the room of the passover, which was a type of it, as the
lamb sacrificed therein was of our Saviour. Now it ap-
pears from Exodus xii. 19, that the passover was not
only entirely a federal act at the first performance of it in
Egypt, but so in some measure afterward, since that soul
was to be cut off from the congregation of Israel, i. e. to be
put out of the Mosaic covenant, who should not observe
it, or celebrate it with leavened bread.

But what puts it out of dispute that it is a federal act
is, our Saviour's calling the cup the new covenant in his
blood, which expression will not bear the gloss our author
gives it, when he calls it only the memorial of the new
covenant. Our Saviour expressly calls it the new cove-
nant, and afterward desires it to be drank in remembrance
of him. If we take these words of our Saviour in the sense
our author would impose on them, we shall make them
signify only the same with the words that follow. To
avoid this we must understand them in some other sense ;
and what sense can we so rationally interpret them in, as
that which they plainly and naturally intimate ? It is true
neither the cup, nor the wine contained in it, can, strictly
and properly speaking, be a covenant. Nor can the blood
of Christ, if our author will insist on that. But the blood
of Christ can be the means of procuring this covenant be-
tween God and his people, it can ratify and seal that
covenant ; and the cup that represents it to us can be the
sign of this ratification on God's part, can be a means
whereby we receive the same, and a pledge to assure us
thereof.

It will appear still plainer that the Lord's supper is a
means of applying God's covenanted mercies to us, and of
renewing our engagements to him, if we first consider that
it is a representation of Christ's death, and then reflect on
those passages of Scripture, in which his death is said to

240

A VINDICATION OF THE

be the means of the new covenant, in which we are said to
be justified, and to have peace and redemption through his
blood. In whatsoever solemn act the merits of Christ's
death are applied to us, in that very act we must be sup-
posed to covenant with God in some sense; because there
is no uncovenanted application of God's mercies or Christ's
merits. Now the sacrament of the Lord's supper is a so-
lemn act instituted by Christ, commanded to be kept up
till his coming again, and often repeated ; so that it ex-
actly answers the character required in order to make it a
solemn and authorized form to renew our baptismal vow by.

In the sixth of the Epistle to the Romans, we are said to
be baptized into Christ's death. Here that institution by
which we first covenant with God, is directly applied to
the death of our Saviour, to represent and apply which
the Lord's supper was appointed ; by which it appears that
baptism and the Lord's supper are so far of the same nature,
and intended for the same purpose, inasmuch as the merits
of that death which we covenant to receive in baptism, are
again stipulated to us by the express mention of a covenant
in the supper of the Lord.

This may suffice, instead of a great deal more that might
be said, to prove the opinions of this author, contained in
my 4th proposition, to be groundless, erroneous, and per-
nicious, and consequently to shew, that such a perform-
ance as this Plain Account can never, without the greatest
violence done to charity and truth, be ascribed to such a
person as the bishop of Winchester.

If the reader will be at the pains to peruse the preface
and pages 90, 91, 92, 106, 178, 179, and 180th, he will per-
ceive that the substance of the following proposition is
contained therein.

Fifthly, The duty of partaking in the Lord's supper is
not so connected with other Christian duties, but that it
may be well performed without them, or they without it.
If this were universally admitted, it would make our people
more truly and practically Christians than they are, and
greatly increase the number of communicants.

I agree with our author, that all duties ought to be dis-
tinguished from each other, that the reward of performing
all may not be expected from the performance of one only.

BISHOP OF WIVCHESTER.

241

But nevertheless there may be a duty, of which we cannot
rightly acquit ourselves, without either performing the rest
or at least, setting our minds in such a frame as to have
some tolerable assurance of performing them for the future.
Such I take the sacrament of the Lord's supper to be for
reasons already assigned.

Though all the moral duties which are required of us by
the Christian religion be distinguished from, yet they are so
connected with one another, that there is no transgressiug
one, without being guilty of violating all the rest. It is
therefore to no purpose to observe those which we have
perhaps no temptation to omit, if we indulge ourselves in
the contempt and transgression of others. There are two
reasons for this. One is, because the committal of one
crime naturally leads to that of another, not only by cor-
rupting and disposing the mind to evil; but by means of a
natural connexion among vices. The other is, because no
one commandment of God can be broken, without being
done in a denial or defiance of that authority by which the
whole system of duties is imposed.

Whosoever therefore shall teach, that the performance
of one single duty is acceptable to God and capable of con •
ciliating his favour, as our author does, without a strict ob-
servation of all other duties, must be guilty of a great sin
against the souls of his fellow-Christians ; and if, like our
author, he does this with a design to hinder mankind from
placing their hopes of the divine favour in the performance
of one single duty, when others are neglected, he sins most
intolerably against reason and common sense. Our au-
thor tells us, that we may do this duty worthily^and so as
that it shall be acceptable to God in itself, though in the
rest of our lives we be very blamable. God does not
speak so of the ordinances of the Jewish law, between
which and the moral duties there was not so necessary a
connexion intended, as under Christianity. In the first of
Isaiah, he says thus to the Jews. ' Your new moons and
your appointed feasts my soul hateth, they are a trouble
unto me, I am weary to bear them ;' and the reason why
they were so was ' because their hands,' as he tells them in
the next verse, ' were full of blood.' So let a Christian
ever so seriously remember the death of Christ, while he
vol. v. B

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A VINDICATION OF THE

receives the sacrament, yet it shall be ' an abomination to
the Lord/ if he do not put away the evil of his doings from
before those all-seeing eyes, that are too pure to behold
iniquity. But supposing it were otherwise, and that duties
like men, shall be judged of, and accepted singly by Al-
mighty God, can a duty confined within the narrow limits
of eating and drinking in remembrance of Christ's death,
have any virtue in it, or merit any reward?

No, though this, and all other positive duties are made
so merely by divine appointment, without any thing in their
own nature to oblige ; yet must God be supposed to have
had a previous inducement to the institution of them, as
our author himself confesses, or else it had been inconsis-
tent with his wisdom and goodness to have imposed them.
Now this inducement or end proposed by them all (I mean
under the Christian dispensation) could have been no other
than the advancement of the true religion and the promo-
tion of virtue. This is the common end of both the sacra-
ments and that in which all other positive institutions, how-
soever distinguished by their particular ends, must concen-
tre. No notion therefore of the Lord's supper can be a
right one, that represents it to us as not tending through its
own peculiar end, to this general one. Let the reader judge
now, whether our author's notion is conformed to this rule,
whether a rite purely commemorative, for which there is no
preparation previously required, by which there is no divine
grace communicated, and between which and our other
Christian duties there is no connexion, can possibly tend
to the advancement of religion and the promotion of virtue.
To what purpose are positive duties, unless they support
and enforce the moral 1 And how can they do this, unless
they be necessarily connected with them ?

If these doctrines of our author were once universally
received, I know not but for some time they might induce
people to go oftener to the sacrament, than they do, inas-
much as they would remove all fears of going unworthily
from all kinds of people, though ever so wicked, and make it
the most easily performed duty in the whole Christian cata-
logue. But I am fully persuaded, that they would at length
bring it into such contempt, as an empty and useless cere-
mony, that it would not be thought worthy the going to. It

BISHOP OF WINCHESTER.

243

is true there would be no bar against going directly from the
stews to the table of the Lord ; yet as there would appear
to be no good in going, people would not trouble themselves
with it, if they had any thing else to do.

But though these doctrines should continue to crowd
Christ's table to the very end of the world, yet still, as they
must diminish the devotion, faster than they could possibly
increase the number of the communicants, they could never
answer any religious end, nor tend either to the improve-
ment of men's lives, the salvation of souls, or the glory of
God. Christ, we may presume, reckons his guests, not by
the head, but the heart, and counts no hearts his but such
as are clean from sin, or averse to it, and warmed with the
love of God, and the beauty of Christian holiness. But
if these doctrines should obtain, they would not only
bring in guests from the streets and common roads, but
from the common shores and dunghills too. "Would not
the death of Christ be gloriously commemorated by a herd
of thieves, whores, and bullies; of panders, sharpers,
and perjurers ; by a rabble of drunkards, adulterers, and
murderers ?

If my reader is not one of those libertines, who are al-
ways ready to suppose the worst of a parson, he will never
ascribe such a system of doctrines to a bishop; and if he
have the least mite of common sense, he will never sup-
pose that the bishop of Winchester, whose conscience was
so tender that he could not bear to have this sacrament pros-
tituted to the temporal end of the Test Act, could think of
laying open such a divine mystery to the familiarity and in-
trusion of the worst of men.

There are still behind many other absurdities, false ex-
positions of Scripture, of our communion service, and our ca-
techism, and a world of art used to intersperse such expres-
sions as may help to make the performance less shocking
to the orthodox, but unwary reader. I have not leisure how-
ever to animadvert on them all. What I have noted and
censured may serve in some measure to prevent the mis-
chievous effects of this work of darkness, this mystery of ini-
quity, which recommends falsehood under the shew of
truth, and sanctifies sin. It may shew, what I chiefly in-
tended, that it cannot be the work of an apostle.

R 2

244

A VINDICATION OF THE

Let us now take the same liberty with our author, who-
soever he is, that he has taken with Christ, and suppose
him summing up, and paraphrasing his whole performance
to his readers, thus : —

My dear fellow-Christians, I have long observed with
concern the apprehensions you labour under, and the vast
trouble you are at, in preparing yourselves for a certain
rite, called the Lord's supper. All this is owing to preju-
dice and groundless notions infused into your minds by
superstitious teachers, who have taught you to imagine that
there is some spiritual benefit annexed to it, when worthily
received, who have taught you to apprehend some danger
in receiving it carelessly, and in the midst of your sins, who
in short have taught you to be a great deal too good on
this occasion. Now to rid you of all these hopes and
fears, and to discharge you from all fancied duty or tie to
these works of supererogation, I will give you a plain ac-
count of the nature and end of this rite. Not to amuse and
detain you with many words, you have nothing else to do,
but just to eat some bread, and drink a little wine, and ex-
actly as it is going down, remember the death of Christ.
This is all, take my word for it. As for whining for your
sins a long time before, or praying, or resolving to lead a
new life, or putting yourselves under a severe examination,
yon may be at the trouble of so doing if you please, and
have nothing else to do ; but I tell you, Christ has laid
no such burden on you, I tell you, he will accept very well
of your eating and drinking in remembrance of him without
all this coil. You have for this long time been obliged to
go to church in order to perform this rite, and placed with
a great deal of formality upon your knees about a table ;
but there is nothing of all this in Scripture, nay, and com-
mon sense is against it. What can people mean by eating,
and praying, and drinking, and kneeling all at once ? You
have a notion that you cannot receive it unless your mi-
nister consecrate it for you. Why will you be so priest-
ridden? It is the receiver himself that consecrates it ; so
that you may take it without the help of a parson, any
where, any time, any way. So you do it in remembrance
of Christ you may be sure you have done it according to
the end and manner of its institution ; there is no going

BISHOP OF WINCHESTER.

245

wrong. Your parsons are a kind of fellows of narrow
education and narrow notions, or else they would never
restrain this rite to the penitent, the faithful, and the meek,
as they do. I grant you, such devout persons ought not
to be excluded from this rite, nor ought those either who
are not so disposed. To confine it to your pious folks
only, is to leave our Lord a thin table. There is no war-
rant in Scripture for such a restraint; and for man to pre-
sume to set bounds where Christ has set none, is impiety,
and arrogance, and uncharitableness, and narrow-hearted-
ness. I tell you, Christ keeps open house, and his table is
free to all. Nor is he so nice about the dress you are to
appear in, when you visit him, as your ceremonious par-
sons would persuade you. He will not take offence at such
trifles as your sins, when you come in a civil and neigh-
bourly manner to sup with him; fear not, he is not so cap-
tious. What your parsons prate to you on the subject of
preparation for this rite, is a mere bugbear, nothing but a
scarecrow. As vain also are those expectations of grace
and spiritual infusions, which f hey have so often inculcated
to you. But Christ is not obliged to make good their large
promises. Believe me, you have nothing to fear, and as
little to hope for from this rite. Your teachers have hud-
dled all the Christian duties together, and confounded them
one with another ; so that by their way of managing the
matter, you are given to understand that no one duty can
be well performed without all the rest, as much as to say,
you cannot say your prayers, without giving money to the
poor, nor keep the sabbath, without visiting the sick, nor
perform this rite of the Lord's supper, as it is called,
without doing I know not how many other duties, that have
nothing to say to it at the same time. This is all a jest.
One thing at once, and it will be the better done. You
know what too much cooking does. Upon the whole, there-
fore, come all of you to the performance of this rite, how-
soever distinguished by your vices. There is no respect of
persons here. You are all welcome. But as you are ex-
empted from all trouble both before and after, the least you
can do is to come seriously. Compose therefore your ges-
tures and the muscles of your faces. Put on a serious
look, and a serious air. And as for the future, you are to

246

A VINDICATION OF THE

celebrate this rite In a tavern or any where else, on any
occasion, I think it the more necessary to caution you
against a jocose or ludicrous behaviour at the time of re-
ceiving. I tell you therefore, that unless you be very
serious, unless you eat seriously, and drink seriously, you
had as good not do it at all. It is a religious rite, and you
must be serious at it. Some of you perhaps may imagine,
that I am not strictly orthodox in relation to this rite ; but
if he will shew mc one sentence in my whole book, that I
cannot reconcile with the Bible, nay, and with the commu-
nion service of the church of England and its catechism,
I will give him leave to call me schismatic, or heretic, or
what he will. Indeed I had been worse than a lunatic, if
I had not always provided a saving against all imputations
of that kind. 1 love you very well, my dear readers, as
you may plainly perceive ; but not so well as to run the
hazard of losing a handsome livelihood for your sakes.
Besides, truth, at its first appearance, must not glare upon
weak eyes. It ought first to be insinuated with a nice and
delicate address, and as soon as the world is grown a little
familiar with it, it may then go naked. If any of you should
take it into his head to think, that I am not over-zealous
for Christian piety and devotion, let him cast his eye to-
wards the end of my book, where he will find a specimen
of my devotion. He will there see prayers in their full
pathetic perfection, and in a genteel and polite style, con-
trary to the vulgar custom. He will there see a spirit of
piety strong enough to keep up an ejaculation for the length
of thirty pages, which will fully convince him, that not-
withstanding all the appearances in my book upon the
Lord's supper, I am no enemy to devotion. I will take
my leave of you, my gentle readers, with one piece of ad-
vice, which was never so much needed as in these too
religious times. Be not righteous above measure.

Having thus epitomised our author's performance, I
shall now acquaint the reader with the substance of a con-
versation that turned on the subject of this book, at which
I happened to be present some time ago. The company
was made up mostly of men of letters, who had all seen
and read the plain account. After many remarks, some
critical and some theological, they came at length to guess

BISHOP OF WINCHESTER.

247

at the author ; but they could not agree among themselves
upon any particular church to which they could give him.
They observed, that he insinuates at the beginning of his
preface, that he is a clergyman of the church of England,
by saying that he had once the care of a parish ; but
this was generally regarded, as said with a design to con-
ceal himself, and recommend his principles. To the like
artifice they ascribed his attempt to reconcile his doc-
trines to our communion service, and all the guarded ex-
pressions he makes use of to elude the imputation of
impiety and error, with which after all he is manifestly
chargeable.

There was one who took him to be a Quaker ; his rea-
son for being of that opinion was, because he endeavours to
debase the nature of the sacrament, and give the world a
low notion of it ; as a dead rite, consisting entirely in a
mere outward act. I'll warrant you, said he, if the author
could once bring the world to think with this book of his,
we should immediately have another to shew the emptiness
and vanity of such an idle ceremony, and the folly of per-
forming it externally any longer. But I believe he might
save himself the trouble ; because if it were come to that,
no sober Christian could think it a duty to observe it.

There was another who would needs have it to be the
work of a Corkian Jacobite, as he expressed it ; because,
according to him, the arguments of the late bishop of Cork
against drinking of memories had been undeniable, had
there not been a concomitant grace supposed in the sa-
crament of the Lord's supper; which alone can difference
it from drinking in memory of any other person. Now,
said he, could this author bring the sacrament to a level
with the glorious memory, the latter would then appear a
profanation, and so must be laid aside. But I hope things
will never come to that pass. I hope no artifices of his or
any body's else will ever be able to make us forget our
great benefactor king William.

This gentleman seemed to speak from a spirit of party,
so his conjecture was received with little regard.

A third person insisted that the author must be a Je-
suit. You see, said he, with what art and chicanery he

248

A VINDICATION OF THE

manages his arguments, how he wrests the Scriptures, how
he winds and doubles, and throws out ambiguous expres-
sions ; but above all, what pains he takes to represent the
Protestant notions of the sacrament, and especially those
of the Church of England, as inclinable to the error of vili-
fying this holy institution. If this book could once pre-
vail among us, what might not Papists then say? Be-
sides, you see, he makes the sacrament consist in a mere
opus operatum, but does it as covertly as he can, that
after we have refined away all our true and orthodox no-
tions of this institution, Popery may be found at the
bottom.

There was a fourth, who delivered it as his opinion,
that the author, be he of whatsoever church, must have
published the book with a design to increase the number of
occasional conformists, by shewing dissenters of all kinds,
that they are in the wrong to make a difficulty of conform-
ing to a rite so indifferent in its own nature, when a place of
profit may be thereby obtained. If this sacrament, said he,
is supposed to be purely commemorative, to need the con-
secration of no kind of clergy, to require no preparation in
order to it, and to have no spiritual benefits conveyed by
it. I cannot see how even a heathen could think of refusing-
it, provided there were any thing to be got by receiving it.
The elements would in that case be as common as beef or
water.

I subscribe to your opinion, said one who sat next him ;
but I must add, that I look upon the author to be a Soci-
nian. His notions of the sacrament are the very same with
those of that heresy. As they sink the person of Christ to
mere humanity, they likewise bring his ordinances propor-
tionably low ; accordingly, throughout the whole plain ac-
count, there is no mention of Christ's merit as a means of
our salvation, though his subject required it, not a syllable
said of his divinity. The author places no relation between
Christ and his church, but that of master and servant, or
disciple.

This hint was no sooner given, than the whole company
unanimously gave into his opinion. When they recol-
lected the tendency of the work, they were still farther

BISHOP OF WINCHESTER.

249

confirmed in it. Since this they have ascribed it to one
or other of the new light heretics; but none of them
could ever think of attributing it to the bishop of Win-
chester.

If, however, it is still imagined, that this sink of heresy
and immorality could possibly have flowed from a church
of England pen, I cannot but condole with that church
upon producing a treatise against the sacrament of the
Lord's supper, as well as with her Protestant sister, the
church of Scotland, upon producing another in favour of
fornication. We live in strange times indeed, when there
is only just so much religion and virtue left among us, as
can afford bread or a name, by being wrote against.

I hope, since it is at present inconvenient for our
clergy, to meet in convocation, that they will endeavour,
each of them to find out the execrable author, and if he is
a clergyman, drive him from their body, with a just zeal
for religion ; or if that cannot be done, refuse all commu-
nion with him. Whom can it be more necessaryto excom-
municate, than him who has laboured to pervert and vilify
the most sacred ordinance of our religion, the very seal of
our Saviour's last will and testament, and the very act of
communion itself?

But if the author cannot be discovered, I hope Christ
and the Christian church may expect so much from the
pious zeal of our bishops, that they will not suffer the book
to go uncensured, but will at their visitations publicly con-
demn its doctrines, and give a strict charge to their clergy
to drive this wolf in sheep's clothing from among their re-
spective flocks. While the false friends of religion shew
so much art and industry to destroy it, shall its true friends
shew no zeal in its defence, but stand by with a cool
prudential indifference and calmly see its ruin? Shall
our religion have many cunning and vigilant opposers,
and none but lukewarm and inactive assertors? Shall
it be thought enthusiasm or a breach of Christian charity,
to stand up in defence of Christianity ? Open enemies
the church of Christ may boldly defy. Against such
it can oppose reason enough to overthrow all their forces.
But covert enemies and pretended friends are to be sought

250

A VINDICATION, &C.

out and treated In another manner. They should be drag-
ged from their dark corners and exposed to the light, that
they may be proved by the light ; and when it is found by
examination that they have been dealing in works of dark-
ness, they should be put to open shame, and kept at a pro-
per distance, to prevent infection ; at least, till by a tho-
rough quarantine they have purged themselves of those pes-
tilent principles, that make it unsafe for other Christians
to come near them.

SOME

PROPOSALS

FOR THE

REVIVAL OF CHRISTIANITY.

TO THE

AUTHOR OF THE CONFESSIONAL.

Sir,

From the report of some friends who had read your Con-
fessional, ere I had an opportunity of giving myself that
pleasure, I imagined your performance was built on a plan
much nearer to that of the following elaborate treatise,
than I find it is. You aim, it is true, at the same mark,
and draw your materials chiefly from the same applauded
authors who furnished me with mine. Perhaps it is owing
to my vanity, that I still think I have better hit their meaning,
and come more roundly, as well as briefly, to the point in
view than you have done. If you really saw this my trea-
tise before you wrote the Confessional, you ought to have
made me a compliment on having pointed out the scheme
of your whole book. As we are both but borrowers and
compilers, by no means original writers, either in regard to
the. matter or tendency of our lucubrations, you could not
surely have thought this too great an honour. Be this as
it will, I must observe to you, sir, that all your lay readers
at least are extremely dissatisfied with that air of worldly
selfishness which runs through your whole book. You talk
so much of bread, of promotion, of the wealth of the
church, &c. as objects you wish to arrive at, without the
ugly obstacle of subscriptions in the way, that the laity,
who are to be taxed for the levy of these emoluments,
think there will be little advantage gained by them in the
abolition of creeds, &c. if they are to be at equal expense
in maintaining your no-system, as in supporting that of the

252

A LETTER, &C.

present establishment. You may perceive, I take another
course, and one infinitely more acceptable you may be
sure, to them. The sort okclergy I propose will cost them
nothing. Whoever you and I are, especially if we are be-
lieved to be clergymen, the world must look on me as
infinitely more disinterested than you, and on mine as a
more saving scheme than yours, by the entire amount of
all the sums arising from tithes and glebe lands throughout
England and Ireland. Take it for granted, therefore, that
Whenever the legislature shall think proper to change
hands, they will pass by yours, and go plump into mine, as
exactly the same with the drift of our favourite originals,
and as incomparably more consonant to the rules of good
economy, both national and domestic.

SOME PROPOSALS,

&c. &c.

There was a pamphlet published in the year 1708, against
abolishing Christianity in England. The title, it is true,
was bold ; but the author, though supposed to be a parson,
was so modest as only to argue for the outward profession
of that religion, without insisting on any thing farther as
necessary to be retained, than mere nominal Christianity.
His arguments seemed so reasonable, that they only abo-
lished the thing itself, but still adhered to the name and
profession, because both were incapable of giving any um-
brage to the principles and manners of the times.

The author, like a true parson, that is never to be sa-
tisfied, encouraged by this unexpected success, had the
assurance the very next year to print a Project for the Ad-
vancement of Religion and Reformation of Manners; in
which, to the great offence and surprise of the public, the
religion he proposed to advance, was the old stale affair
of orthodox Christianity, as some affect to call it, together
with the clog of the church, as hitherto received in these
countries ; and the manners he would reform us to, were
those no less antiquated customs that had been all lately
exploded under the unfashionable name of virtue. The na-
tion may see by this example, how apprehensive it ought
to be of the encroachments of the church, and how cautious
of encouraging a set of men, whose designs are boundless,
who are professed enemies to liberty, and who, if not op-
posed in time, will again reduce us to slavish mortifications,
and superstitious prayers.

His project was knocked on the head by these three
little defects in itself; first, the presumption and exorbi-
tancy of the thing raised a general contempt and indigna-
tion in the breasts of all free Britons, whose liberties it
proposed to abridge by a narrow way of thinking, and a
certain stiffness and formality of living, which was directly
opposite to the gay and easy manner they had just began
to learn of the French. In the next place there w as nobody
so stupid but could perceive that it wras designed to serve

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PROPOSALS FOR THE

a party. For as his project consisted chiefly in a proposal to
the queen to promote none but men of virtuous, regular, and
religious lives, to places of trust in either church or state ;
who sees not that the promoting and enriching himself and
his set was at the bottom? This was too partial and narrow a
scheme to take, because there would not have been men
found to fill our vacant employments, and though there
had, yet almost the whole bulk of the nation must have
been excluded ; so that it would have been a more flagrant
grievance, and a greater abridgment of the civil rights of
the subject, than even the Test Act itself. In the last place,
the project in itself, was, and is, and ever will be, imprac-
ticable. I defy any queen or king either to distinguish the
virtuous from the vicious, or the deserving from such as are
otherwise. No man shews himself to his sovereign; and I
may venture to say that there is not a king in Europe who
ever saw one of his own subjects yet. But supposing a
prince could distinguish between man and man, wrould it
be consistent with any one refinement in modern politics to
heap his favours on a few, and pass by so great a majority
of his loyal subjects, for no other reason truly, but because
they do not go to church, nor say their prayers, nor worship
a God ? If he can make it their interest to serve him, what
need he care how far they gratify their inclination in the
choice of their principles, and in their manner of living ?
Besides, if what 1 have often heard, from Machiavel and
other great politicians, is true, your honest and religious
fools are the most unfit creatures in the world to serve about
a court. The narrowness of their principles, and the sickly
delicacy of their consciences so hamper both their heads
and hands, that they are altogether unqualified for busi-
ness. A prince who has a genius equal to his high station,
with such a set of precise formalists to execute his de-
signs either among his subjects, or with his neighbouring
princes, must make much the same figure that a man of
mettle and spirit does, whose hands and feet are cramped
and contracted by a severe fit of the gout. When he would
make a stride he stumbles at a straw. When he would make
his subjects tremble and his neighbours quake with the vi-
gorous shake of his sceptre, he can scarcely wield a pin.
We may observe upon the whole, that his scheme, if it

REVIVAL OF CHRISTIANITY.

255

could have had any effect at all, it must have been only to
make virtue and religion mercenary, by annexing places of
profit to the practice of them. If the state should once set
itself to encourage virtue and discourage vice, it might come
at last to destroy all virtue, because the appropriating tem-
poral power and wealth to certain modes of living must be
a heavy bias on the liberty we ought to enjoy of living and
acting as we please- Now there being no virtue without li-
berty, whatsoever tends to abridge our liberty tends like-
wise to the destruction of virtue. He that has not leave to
be vicious is forced to be virtuous (pardon the contradic-
tion), I mean, is forced to live as if he were virtuous, which
is the same thing with hypocrisy. Had this project taken
place, the devil might have complained of foul play, inas-
much as the whole weight of worldly interest would have
been put into the scale against him, and a manifest par-
tiality shewn to religion.

Our Freethinkers will teach us larger notions, and more
comprehensive principles than these ; they will shew us that
people ought not to be deprived of their civil privileges on
account of irreligion or immorality, since they are still
useful members of the society, since they serve the public
to their own private detriment, and since they generously
throw away their fortunes, ruin their healths, and damn
their souls, purely fox, the public weal.

By this the reader may perceive the weakness and par-
tiality of this projector; so I shall take my leave of him
and his schemes, and try if I can present the public with
others of a more free and generous tendency, founded on a
more extended way of thinking, and, considering the times,
more likely a great deal to succeed.

I will not arrogate to myself the glory of these propo*
sals I am about to represent to my readers : they lie scat-
tered up and down among the writings of our best English
authors, and the world is only beholden to me for fetching
them into a narrower compass, by a faithful abridgment of
the sum and substance of each, so that the uses and excel-
lencies of them all maybe more clearly conceived, and more
fairly compared. I shall speak out their sense too perhaps
in plainer terms than their authors, who writing against the
slavery and prejudice of the times, were obliged for the

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PROPOSALS FOR THE

most part to insinuate their sentiments in an artful and
doubtful manner. If the reader should find any consider-
able inconsistency in the schemes one with another, he is
not to be startled at it, because they are drawn from the
works of various authors, and the public may approve and
the legislature embrace any one, without being tied down
in the least to the rest ; however, though there may be par-
ticular differences, there will be a general likeness observ-
able among them all, which they derive from the opposition
of each to the one set of prejudices that have been esta-
blished among us.

The many projects that have been proposed or set afoot
for the advancement or revival of Christianity, have owed
their miscarriage to the folly and avarice of the projectors,
who always took care to make establishment and tithes,
and church endowments a part of their schemes. This is
the cause that the utmost attempts of the clergy could
scarce ever procure more to be retained than mere nominal
Christianity. If they had proposed such methods as should
have been neither expensive nor burdensome to the laity,
perhaps before this there might have been a very consider-
able number of real Christians among us. The projectors
I draw from were aware of this, and have avoided it.

The first thing necessary to be done is to demolish the
present established church to the very foundation. I be-
lieve it may be safely taken for a maxim, that the Christian
church has been the destruction of the Christian-religion :
it follows therefore, that Christianity can never raise its
head till the very rubbish of this proud pile be entirely re-
moved from off it. The Test Act, with all the other laws
relative to church affairs, ought to be repealed. It is im-
possible to establish one religion or modification of religion,
without persecuting all others : for what does establishment
consist in, but the restraining the rites of all the citizens to
the professors of one religion ? And what is this but par-
tiality and persecution. Now if this be done in favour of
the true religion, it is the most likely thing in the world to
destroy it, because it must give it the appearance of a state
trick and a party spirit ; it must make it seem tyrannical,
selfish, and worldly ; and as it decks it in pomp and riches,
must render it the object of envy and the prey of its ene-

REVIVAL OF CHRISTIANITY.

257

mies. If we would have religion go safe, we must not leave
any thing about her that is worth taking away, because
such things are never taken away without violence and
abuse. If we would have a church that should last for
ever, let us erect it of pure spiritual materials, without any
rotten mixture from this world, that must at last bring it to
the ground ; without enclosing it in the mud walls of worldly
interest, that can neither be handsome nor lasting in a
church, and without putting one stone or beam in it, that
may entice church-robbers to convey them to their own
houses. As the clergy have been the chief enemies to
Christianity, the next thing that is to be done is to extir-
pate them root and branch. The present set ought to be
either banished, or hanged to a man; because there is no
hope of ever reducing them to a proper poverty of spirit,
though we bring them ever so low in purse. Two admirable
effects towards the revival of Christianity will proceed from
hence. First, the people being left without teachers, may
have leave to teach themselves, and instead of the learned
and fanciful interpretations which the clergy have taught
them to put upon the Scriptures, they may understand them
in the plain and natural sense. Every man may be free to
think for himself, and regulate religion according to his own
way of thinking. For the same reason parents, who com-
monly set up for a kind of priest in their own families, and
sometimes pretend to preach to their children and servants,
ought to be hindered, by capital punishments, from in-
structing either in the principles of Christian religion, be-
cause they will infallibly teach them to think that Christian-
ity w hich they themselves take to be so, and by that means
educate them in such prejudices as cannot but be attended
with wrong interpretations of Scripture when they grow up.
Besides, when they come to years of discretion, Christian-
ity may begin to appear stale and old-fashioned to them,
having been so long trifled with during childhood, or per-
haps a cheat, having been imposed on them before they
could judge of its merits. All methods ought to be pro-
hibited in advancing the true religion, that can possibly be
so applied as to serve a false one. The other excellent ef-
fect that will proceed from the extirpation of the clergy is,
that all those who have been turned away from Christianity
vol. v. s

258

PROPOSALS FOR THE

by the avarice, ambition, and ill lives of our priests, will re-
turn to it again, when the cause of their apostacy is re-
moved. To this the dispersion of church wealth among the
laity will contribute not a little, by putting them again in
good humour. They will quickly begin to think more fa-
vourably of a religion they are to lose nothing by. Money
is so scarce, and religions so abound in these times, that
Christianity can never be introduced into these countries,
unless it come for nothing.

Having thus cleared the ground by removing these two
encumbrances of church and clergy, let us next see what we
had best put in their places, and how we may contrive to
prevent their being re-established.

My authors are much divided on this article: some are
for never tolerating any such thing as clergymen in these
nations for the future. They say every fibre of the clerical
thorn ought to be rooted out of Christ's vineyard, lest it
should again increase, and overspread the whole ; that the
core of this corruption ought to be entirely cut out, and
purged away from the Christian body, lest it fester, and
mortify, and infect the vitals; and that if we suffer clergy
of any kind, or in any sense of the word to live among us,
they will certainly bring back the church, and render the
profession of Christianity so expensive again, that nobody
will care to meddle with it.

Others disapprove of this extremity ; because, in their
opinion, Christianity can never be divulged among us,
without some such kind of men ; and their reason for being
of that opinion is this. Christian religion, say they, is con-
tained in an old book called the Bible; so that unless the
people be able to read, though it is in English, they will be
never the wiser for what it contains. The clergy therefore
that they would have, are such as can read, and their whole
employment to teach children to know their letters, to make
syllables of letters, and to make words of syllables. To pre-
vent their encroaching again upon the laity, as they have for-
merly done, there must be a law made, that if any of these
teachers shall take above a penny a quarter per child, and
be legally convicted of the crime, even by the affirmation of
any one in the school, he shall be immediately hanged. If
he be convicted of teaching his children any formula of re-

&EVIVAX OF CHRISTIANITY. 259

ligious principles, or explaining any part of the Bible to
them, or catechising them, he shall be forthwith sentenced
to be torn to pieces at horse-tails. If he be convicted of
receiving a present from any body, of sneaking or saunter-
ing within half a mile of any gentleman's house, as if he
wanted to be asked to dine with the servants, or of fin-
gering one farthing of any kind of money belonging to any
body else, under any pretence whatsoever, beyond his own
quarterly penny, that he shall be instantly burned alive.
That in order to have these laws more effectually executed,
any neighbouring justice or country squire may take cog-
nizance of the aforesaid crimes, and upon the affirmation
of any one person, not under the age of four years, proceed
immediately to sentence and execution. It is thought (and
I think not without reason) that these laws will sufficiently
guard us against the usurpations of priestcraft, provided
they be duly executed; and there is all the reason in the
world to hope they will, since the execution is committed
to those very persons who will first feel the ill effects of
their encroachments, should they be suffered to raise their
heads again. It is the country squire, or the man of landed
interest, whose estate may be subjected to tithes, that has
most reason to be apprehensive of the clergy ; to those
therefore it will be most prudent to commit those laws that
are to prevent the growth of the church.

Some there are who seem still to have so much of their
old prejudices unconquered, as to imagine that the Christian
religion can never be taught, unless there be some persons
to teach it ; that the people would be too indifferent about
it, if they were bred up in an entire ignorance of it, to get
themselves instructed in its principles when they come to
years ; and that many of them are too poor to have their
children taught to read, even at a penny a quarter. For
these reasons they are of opinion that it is in some sort ne-
cessary to have certain persons publicly appointed to teach
the principles of the Christian religion. They wish this
could be done without expense or danger. But here is the
difficulty. How shall we get people to instruct us, who will
take nothing for their pains ? How shall we get such persons
as will infallibly teach us Christianity in its utmost purity,
and set examples agreeable to the strictness of its morality ?

2G0

PROPOSALS FOR THE

It is not easy to get over this rub. However I will offer
one expedient, which may perhaps deserve to be considered.

I believe it is agreed on all hands, that if there could
be a man found entirely free from all appetites, desires, and
passions, he would make a very good clergyman, because
he would never be tempted by ambition, or avarice, or
luxury, to encroach upon the laity. But it is impossible to
get such a one, unless he is absolutely out of the need of
meat, drink, and clothes; because he that stands in need
of meat and drink, will certainly desire them, and this de-
sire will in all probability, as is usual, transport him to the
luxurious excess of choosing beef before Poor-John, and
wine before water. Again, if he cannot subsist without
clothes, who knows, but instead of wearing a mat, he may
have the pride to make his cassock of a cadda, or somewhat
even finer than that, which the laity truly must pay for,
that the good man may apply himself to the instruction of
the people, without any worldly lets or hinderances. All the
expensive refinement and luxurious delicacy observed at
the tables of the great, though one could scarce imagine it,
is founded on the necessity we are under of eating and
drinking ; and all the finery and foppery of the world is
owing to our not being able to go naked. Now if we would
have a clergyman free from all that luxury, gluttony, ava-
rice, and pride, which proceed from these natural wants, as
their first principles, he should be able to live without meat
or drink, and be weather-proof, any place from Nova Zem-
bla to the Cape of Good Hope, without a stitch of clothes
on him.

First as to wearing of clothes ; it will be allowed me
that men are capable of going naked, if they be accustomed
to it from their infancy, as is manifest from the examples
of many nations in America. Nay, the experiment is now
made at home with very tolerable success, so that many of
our poorer sort have been made, by a like treatment, little
inferior to horses or asses, in bearing the injuries of the
weather. Now if we should send none to our colleges but
such as have been accustomed to hardships of this kind
from their infancy, they might be trained up in a few years
so as to need no more garments than our first parents did
in their state of innocency. If they were accustomed to

REVIVAL OF CHRISTIANITY

261

sleep on the ground, and had their clothes withdrawn by
degrees, as they could bear the cold, by the time they
commenced bachelors, they might strip to their shirts, and
the degree of masters might be taken by them quite naked.

It is not so easy to propose a practicable method for
breeding them up to an independency on meat and drink;
notwithstanding I hope it may be done. Many instances
may be given of people who have lived so many days with-
out food that they got over the desire, and even seemed to
survive the necessity of it. The woman who took up her
lodging in the church of Talla, and lived there twenty-eight
days, without either meat or drink, is still fresh in every
body's memory. It is true she died soon after, but it is
very likely her death was occasioned by the meat they
thrust down her throat. Who knows but she might have
been immortal, if it had not been for this violence? Bu-
chanan gives an account in his History of Scotland, of a
man who could at any time fast thirty, forty, or fifty days
at once, without receiving the least hurt by it. It is likely
enough that the celebrated parsimony and abstemiousness
of the Scotch may bring them nearer to a possibility of liv-
ing entirely without food than any other nation ; for which
reason we may choose out our candidates for holy orders
from among such of them as have been least accustomed to
food. If there ever was a kale garden in the family since the
memory of man, it should incapacitate the whole race for
the ministry, because the habit of feeding plentifully or spar-
ingly, or eating or not eating at all, often depends very
much upon the hereditary practice of the family. There are
families of the East Indians, who by being constantly em-
ployed from generation to generation in the pearl fishery,
frequently produce men that are able to hold their breath
half an hour under water. Suppose now, that food is as
necessary to life as breath ; yet if we consider that we are
commonly obliged to breath about twelve times in a minute,
and not eat over once in every twelve hours, it will be
found upon a fair computation, that he who abstains from
air for half an hour, has gone as far in that article as he
who abstains from food for fifty or sixty years. I cannot
see why nature should not be as pliant to custom in the
one respect as the other. Why can we not make the ex-

262

PROPOSALS FOR THE

periment however? Let us take the aforesaid lads, whom
wo are inuring to nakedness, and, withdrawing an ounce of
their allowance every day, try if we can bring them to sub-
sist without aliment. I am confident that if (hey are care-
fully culled out of those families, who, upon searching the
rent-roll of landlords, are found to pay the greatest sums
per acre, they may be easily brought to live without any
other nourishment, at least, than such as the bramble and
the hawthorn may afford them : they are almost able to do
it already : a little more practice would qualify them to
live a pure spiritual life, above all dependency on matter.
If this scheme were once set a foot, we might then have re-
ligion, which has hitherto been so intolerably expensive to
us, taught, without costing us a farthing, and taught too in
its utmost purity ; for these holy men, so far removed above
gross and carnal food, so exempted from the wants and
weaknesses of other men, could never be tempted to mis-
lead us out of worldly views. With what confidence might
such men as these preach up abstinence and fasting, who
could fast all their lives? With what a good grace could
they inveigh against foppery, with all the pomps and vani-
ties of the world, who could make a coat of their own skin,
and go stark-naked ? With what a becoming humility would
religion appear in those open and undisguised pastors ?
They must be perfectly ingenuous and sincere, because
they could have no inducement to inculcate what they did
not believe themselves, no temptation to pluralities, no in-
satiable thirst after higher promotion to carry off their
thoughts from their duty. The laity would always be in
perfect good-humour with them, because church-lands and
endowments, with all the exactions of ecclesiastical courts,
would then be given up; tithes and small dues, about
which such a coil is kept between parson and parishioner,
would be no more.

The better to set forward this scheme, all the books that
have ever been wrote on religious affairs since the closing
of the scriptural canon, ought to be burnt. It is impossible
to restore the purity of Divine revelation, without purging
away all the dross of human invention, with which it is
clogged and encumbered. By putting this in practice, we
shall replace ourselves where John the evangelist left us,

REVIVAL OF CHRISTIANITY. 263

that is, in the very midst of primitive purity and simplicity,
without one controversy to distract us, or one commentary
to mislead us. We shall have neither creeds to contract
the Scriptures into a littleness proportionable to the puny
faith of some, nor bodies of Divinity to swell them to the
enormous bulk which human invention has given them, in
order to suit religion to the faith of others who can swallow
and digest any thing. We shall neither have articles, nor
catechisms, nor canons, nor acts of councils to restrain the
Scriptures to particular senses, and abridge our right of
putting what sense on them we please. It has never been
well with religion since it became a science, and could not
possibly be learned without being taught. It has been com-
mented and interpreted, till it is scarce possible to be un-
derstood. It has been explained till it is filled with myste-
ries so inexplicable, that we have lost sight of its plain and
genuine meaning, another having been put between us and
it that means little or nothing : your professors of divinity
are rightly called Theologi, because they have reduced it to
words and dead letters, and their works may well be called
bodies of divinity. They have all the qualities of bodies
void of souls, and matter inanimate. They have a perfect
' vis inertiae,' which disposes them to lie for ever still, if
they are not set in motion, and which will set the world in
an eternal ferment, if they be once roused. They are so
opaque that scarce one ray of the gospel can escape through
them. Since the abolition of Christianity they may be
looked upon as its corpse or carcass resigned to the worms.
We cannot expect that the spirit of Christianity will ever
return to animate such lumps as these. How is it possible?
Which is the true body among the ten thousand ? Or are
they all the true bodies of divinity, by a kind of transub-
stantiation, as the Popish wafers are pretended to be of
Christ? If it were not for such performances as these we
might every one have the pleasure of a peculiar religion of
his own, which might be deduced from Scripture by an un-
limited licence of interpretation ; or if convenience required,
made up first in our own minds, and then reconciled to the
Bible at leisure.

There is another kind of books which it will be as ne-
cessary to commit to the flames as the former, I mean your

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PROPOSALS FOR THE

systems of logic. Of all the authors in the world these are
the most impudent, because they take upon them to teach
us to reason ; and of all the readers theirs are the most
slavish, because they submit their reason to be taught, as
if reasoning could be an art . I wonder we have never had
professors to teach us how to see, and instruct us in the pro-
found and mysterious science of beholding. Is not reason
as necessary as sight, and oftener applied to ? How can
we suppose then that it is less perfect? There is no kind
of impostors so pernicious, or so carefully to be guarded
against, as these, because they have, from the very first to
the last of them, conspired the perversion of our noblest
faculty, even that by which we are distinguished from
brutes. Thought, that was designed for the most bound-
Jess and towering flights, is limited to an arrow track, and
tethered to a certain space, so that a man is no longer
master of his own thoughts, nor capable of thinking as he
pleases. All mankind truly must be obliged to one way of
thinking ; the most absurd and impossible attempt that
could ever enter into the head of man, and the most directly
against all liberty. And who is it that is to impose his own
way of thinking on the rest of the world? Why, a dry me-
thodical pedant, who has as just a title to impose his will,
and be universal monarch, as his reason, in order to become
universal tutor to mankind. No two men ever thought the
same way ; no, not even two logicians ; nor is it possible
they should, till a method can be found out to manacle and
shackle the mind, like the body, which it is to be hoped
never will. Man is not a machine. He is a free agent.
But I defy him to act freely, unless he think freely, and that
is impossible, while his reason is directed by the reason of
another. It is on this account that, the Christian religion
can never be received while these books are in being, be-
cause they would needs compel us all info the same way of
reasoning, in order that we might all put the same interpre-
tation on Scripture. This would end in a total extinction
of all liberty ; and who would care to give up his liberty ?
Who knows what restraints might be laid on our passions
and our pleasures by this method of restraining our reason
to particular interpretations of Scripture ? Why ought we
not to have the same freedom of understanding in the use

REVIVAL OF CHRISTIANITY.

265

and application of a religion that is allowed in the choice?
Though Christianity, apprehended syllogistically, may pos-
sibly please a few, yet we may venture to say, that it must
disgust the generality of mankind, particularly all the polite
and gay, and such as are governed by any tolerable taste
of things.

One good consequence that attended the abolishing of
Christianity is, that since that, the several sects and
churches have treated each other with less spleen, and the
spirit of schism is observed to abate every day. Our zeal
for the Christian religion degenerated at last into an un-
natural warmth for party opinions and denominations which
cannot be destroyed till the natural or radical heat is ex-
tinguished. Schism is like an incurable inflammation in
the Christian body, which no lenitives can cool or heal till
death puts an end to its malignancy, by quenching the na-
tural fermentation of life, that supported it against itself.
The little stir that is still kept about ceremonies and such
like matters, like the fermentation and tumour observable in
the corpses of such as have died suddenly, will soon cease;
so that the vital flame of Christianity may return without
being infected with those calentures that have already
proved mortal.

This is therefore a happy conjecture for the legislature
to make all convenient dispositions for the revival of Chris-
tianity; not that I would have our lawgivers or governors
pretend to establish or impose it by regal and parliamentary
authority ; but they ought to set the nation in a proper way
to receive it, for as matters are at present, it can never be
admitted. Perhaps I shall be better understood when I
propose the alterations that are necessary to be made.

First, then, his majesty must be most humbly addressed
to abdicate the crown, and renounce all right and title there-
unto in him and his heirs for ever. Christianity is incon-
sistent with a government that is in any sense monarchical.
A king, like another man, must put his own interpretation
on Scripture : now how can each member of the society be
free to explain the Scripture in his own way and for his own
purpose, when there is one at the head whose interpreta-
tion is backed by royal power? And who will choose a re-
ligion which be is not at liberty to understand in such a

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sense as he thinks proper ? This is perhaps one reason why
the Dutch are the most religious of the Europeans, and we
the next, as approaching the nearest to a republic of any
nation that is not entirely such. The members of the pre-
sent established church, together with the Papists, are so
weak as to imagine it possible for Christianity to be re-
ceived and supported under any form of government ; so
they can take no umbrage at a new revolution, on a reli-
gious account. But the church of Scotland has always
rightly judged that the religion of the Bible can never thrive
under the influence of a kingly administration ; and therefore,
since there is one entire church against monarchy, and the
other two indifferent, perhaps his majesty will be graciously
pleased to make way for the revival of Christianity, by de-
molishing that regal power, which may in time be converted
into a tyranny over the opinions of a free people.

As soon as Magna Charta is burnt, and the present con-
stitution dissolved, it will be then proper to think of model-
ling our civil affairs, in such a manner as may best suit with
the restoration of Christianity. I know there are some who
will insist strongly on the danger of admitting any form of
government, and the happiness of living quite out of the
fear of having individual liberty inreligious matters abridged
by public authority ; but anarchy is allowed by all politi-
cians to be an impossible state. Mankind must fall into
some kind of government. Wherefore to prevent our run-
ning into a worse, the best way will be to throw ourselves
into a democracy immediately. In that form wre may have
religion under as great variety of forms as we please. Every
one upon the abrogation of kingly power may commence a
little king in himself, and regulate his religious principles
and opinions as arbitrarily as his desires and his w ill may
require.

Perhaps it may be objected, that even in a democratical
state there must be magistrates, and that the supreme ma-
gistrate, for the time being, may be possessed with a spirit
of proselytism, and employ his power to advance his own
religion, and oppress those of other people. The only safe
way to remedy this, is to have magistrates of no religion. It
is not to be expected that there will be men found so candid
as to let others continue unmolested in the profession of

REVIVAL OF CHRISTIANITY.

267

their several religions, provided they have any themselves,
and be able to disturb them. Every magistrate therefore,
from a generalissimo down to a petty constable, must, be-
fore he enters upon his office, publicly renounce all religion,
and profess himself, in the strictest sense of the word, an
Atheist. If afterward, during the term of his administra-
tion, he shall be seen at any public place of worship, or
heard to maintain any religious opinion, or known to coun-
tenance one profession or discourage another, as soon as
he can be conveniently convicted of his crime, he must be
put to death. But the better to prevent all danger of com-
mitting the state to persons of any religion, the people must
be careful to elect only such for their governors as, by their
lives and conversations, have given sufficient proof of their
being entirely free from all religion.

The greater part of the mischiefs, that have fallen out
in civil society, has been owing to the mistake of establish-
ing some religion, and mixing government and that together.
A more inconsistent compound was never jumbled into one.
The ingredients are so heterogeneous and incompatible,
that they ought by all means to be kept asunder. The go-
vernment ought never to meddle with, or lend its assistance
in religious affairs, because in those all order and govern-
ment must be absurd and prejudicial. The professors of
religion ought never to interfere with the government, be-
cause in that there must be no religion. The two ought to
be kept entirely clear and independent of each other, be-
cause ambition in the religious is contrary to Christianity,
and regard to religion in the government will render it par-
tial, to the prejudice of true religion. To attempt uniting
them is to mix and confound things sacred and profane.

As establishing any religion has always been found to
be attended with the worst consequences, particularly in
suppressing the religion so established, I would by no means
advise the legislature to establish the Christian, even sup-
posing they were Christians themselves. It is humbly sub-
mitted to their wisdom, whether, if we must have an esta-
blished church, it would not be advisable to establish Ma-
hometism. It would in all likelihood produce two very
good effects. First, it would go fair to ruin the credit Ma-
hometism has already obtained among us, because if taxes

268

PROPOSALS FOR THE

or tithes were laid on our people for the support of the
mufti, it would raise up a thousand objections against their
religion among so ingenious a laity, and be more likely to
detect the imposture of their doctrines than any other ex-
pedient that can be thought of. Then again Christianity
would probably have the benefit of being persecuted by the
established clergy, by which we may be sure both the num-
ber and zeal of i(s professors would in a little time increase
prodigiously.

But if it be thought too far to go all the way to Turkey
for a state religion, the legislature may make use of the Po-
pish to as good effect both ways ; and besides, it is a stately
religion, and fitter by far than any other for the magnificence
and parade of a highday or a public appearance. I am fully
persuaded that, if our laity were to suffer the exactions of
the Popish clergy but for two or three years, there would
not be a man of them that would not be able to refute a
Jesuit, and fully expose the impudent pretensions of the
pope. It is as probable likewise that if that church w ere
established among us, and Christianity came to be intro-
duced afterward, it would meet with such opposition and
persecution from the inquisition as could not but produce
a glorious harvest of martyrs, and wonderfully set forward
the conversion of a people who have always distinguished
themselves from all other nations by a brave and undaunted
spirit of opposition.

When the constitution is once put on the aforesaid foot-
ing, several lawTs may be made to favour and assist the re-
vival of Christianity ; such as, that nobody be suffered to
harangue the populace in defence of it, because it has been
found that such declaimers as have been hitherto licensed
to speak publicly in its defence, have often put off their own
notions instead of scriptural doctrines, and employed a
world of false eloquence to insinuate false principles.

Another law may be made to prohibit disputations on
religious subjects, by which means religious zeal having
no vent at the tongue, may be turned through its proper
channel into a virtuous life and conversation. Virtue has
for this age or two been deprived of its due nourishment from
religion by a violent flux of disputation, that has carried off
the wholesome food, and left nothing but crudities behind.

REVIVAL OF CHRISTIANITY.

269

My authors furnish me likewise with three other
schemes, which, though not so promising as the former,
do nevertheless deserve to be remembered on account of
their singularity, if they had nothing else to recommend
them.

The first is, to prohibit all religions whatever under pain
of death. Upon the first view of this scheme one would not
be apt to imagine it could answer the end proposed, be-
cause Christianity must be made a capital crime among the
rest. But upon more mature consideration it does not seem
altogether so absurd. If all religions were forbid on pain of
death, Christianity might nevertheless force its way among
us, because it can inspire a contempt of death, and then all
others must by that means be effectually kept out. This pro-
ject would certainly prevent all hypocritical profession of
Christianity ; and what would be admirable is, that we
should have as many martyrs as Christians.

The second is to burn the Bible. This seems even more
extraordinary than the former, because its author insists on
the destruction of all other books wrote on the Christian re-
ligion ; so that one would imagine it might by this means
be reduced to the necessity of either depending entirely on
the broken chain of oral tradition, or else being utterly ba-
nished out of the world. But my author maintains that
Christianity is as old as the creation of the w orld, and that
the kind of Christianity introduced by Christ is novel and
imperfect. Nay, he farther insists, that the Christianity of
Christ is destructive of the right old Christianity, and that
before the one can be restored to its ancient and universal
purity, the other which perverts and corrupts it, must be
destroyed. Whether this is so or not, I am not historian
enough to determine. For my own part I never heard of
such a religion, and universally received too in the world,
before the coming of Christ. However, the matter is hum-
bly submitted to the learned reader, who must work it out
by himself, the best way he can, because I can neither fur-
nish him with any helps from my author nor myself. I can
only advise him to consult the Egyptian and Chinese re-
cords which I have never seen ; it is possible he may there
find Christianity introduced and universally received forty
or fifty thousand years ago. If he does I hope he will com-

270

PROPOSALS FOR THE

municate his discovery to the public. If it is asked what
book or scripture we are to apply to in order to be informed
of the old Christian principles, my author answers to our
own understandings and hearts. If this be so, the old Chris-
tianity must certainly differ very much from the new, which
requires a good deal of pains, especially among the illite-
rate, before it can be thoroughly learned. Several para-
doxes necessarily follow from our author's doctrine, such
as, that in order to be good Christians we must deny Christ ;
that if we would believe in the Christian religion, we must
first believe Christ to be an impostor ; that the doctrines of
Christ were planted in the world long before he was born ;
and that he came into the world only to confound and de-
stroy his own religion. My author, who in King James's
time was a Papist, took the hint of this scheme from the
church of Rome, that forbids to read the Bible.

The last scheme, which I find supported by more votes
and better reason, is to establish all religions. The practice
of the old Romans is a strong argument in favour of this
scheme, so far as it relates to the good of the state. They
no sooner conquered a nation, than they took care to culti-
vate an interest with its gods, by making them free of the
city. The gods of any distinction had temples built for them,
and those of inferior note were admitted into the temples of
their betters. My memory furnishes me with but one ex-
ception to this. There was a constant persecution of onions
and garlic, those celebrated Egyptian deities, kept up among
the Roman soldiery and populace. If it is asked how this
can possibly tend to the advancement of Christianity, I an-
swer, that as by this means all religions will be likely to
have a fair hearing, all that can possibly be said for each
will soon be known, and disputations will be kept constantly
on foot, so that the false continually clashing must at last
perish through their unsoundness, and the true one or the
Christian survive alone. Besides, where there are many
religions publicly authorized, it usually happens that none
of them is followed with much zeal. Now this state of in-
difference is the fittest disposition in the world for the exa-
mination of truth. There are few, however, that can be per-
suaded that a person almost indifferent to all religions may
be easier converted to Christianity, than one already preju-

REVIVAL OF CHRISTIANITY.

271

diced in favour of some other religion, as if it were harder
to excite a religious zeal than convince the understanding
by dint of reason.

It is not improbable that these proposals may at first
shock some of your prejudiced persons who have been bred
up in the slavery of old errors, and a narrow way of think-
ing ; however, I shall not think my pains ill bestowed, if
my short sketches be approved of by those clear heads and
free spirits, that have so often admired them in the great
originals, from whence I have only copied them in minia-
ture. The times seem to be pretty forward, though perhaps
not quite ripe for the execution of such great designs ; I
must therefore expect to be treated as all public spirited
projectors usually are, with envy and detraction. But I
may comfort myself with this reflection, that I should
never have undertaken to propose expedients for the refor-
mation of the times, had I not thought them at the lowest
ebb of virtue ; and from such, who would hope for either
candour or gratitude?

The vulgar may perhaps imagine, that the authors I
have borrowed these proposals from, were enemies to
Christianity, because they have laid designs to revive it,
that are above the comprehension of plain and illiterate
people. But I assure them, no canonized saint of the
church could give higher encomiums of the truth and ex-
cellence of the Christian religion. Now to suspect them
after this of a design to subvert Christianity would be most
cruel and unchristian.

Our legislators, who have more discernment, it is hoped,
will distinguish themselves from the populace, by enter-
taining none of their bigoted and superstitious apprehen-
sions, and by judging with more freedom and refinement.

However, if none of the foregoing proposals should
happen to be approved of, we hope our lawgivers will
think of some other expedient more effectual for the re-
vival of Christianity in these countries. There are several
very good political reasons for it. First, as religion,
which, in the divine poet Herbert's time,

Stood a tip-toes on our land,
Ready to fly to the American strand.

is now flown, so that those who have any regard to it will

272 PROPOSALS FOR THE REVIVAL, &C.

be obliged to fly alter it ; our lawgivers would do well to
use tbeir utmost endeavours to have it revived among our-
selves, to prevent the decrease of our people, and the
wasting our estates. Would it not be absurd that our par-
liament, while they are with so much diligence concerting
measures for raising sufficient quantities of hops, wheat,
&c. by the cultivation of our own lands, in order to pre-
vent the sending out our money to procure those commodi-
ties from abroad, should in the mean time take no care to
revive and cultivate Christianity, which, if revived among
us, might keep the inhabitants in the nation?

Christianity is of incomparable efficacy in rendering its
professors regardless of riches, and the other good things
of this world ; nor does it less powerfully inspire patience
under oppression and tribulation. A true Christian can
resign himself to any kind of treatment, without murmuring ;
he can bear contempt and poverty without the smallest re-
sentment at him who squeezes or plunders him. Now I
humbly submit it, whether it is not extremely the interest
of all who have estates, that such a religion be embraced
by the lower kind of people.

A

DISSERTATION

ON

THE CONSTITUTION AND EFFECTS

OF

A PETTY JURY.

Mos erat antiquus, niveis atrisque lapillis,

His daranare reos, illis absolvere culpa?. — Ovid.Metam.

There is a sort of an ecclesiastical saying in every body's
mouth ; ' The nearer the church, the farther from God.' Per-
haps if this civil one were introduced, it would not be
amiss ; 'The nearer the court, the farther from right.' It is
a common observation, that there is no where more filch-
ing, and picking of pockets, than at the execution of a felon.
For the truth of this we are to credit those who frequent
such entertainments. But I can aver upon my own know-
ledge, that in no place more tricking and dishonesty is
learned and practised, than in and near our courts of jus-
tice, as they are called; I do not mean that the jail,
which generally makes a part of the court-house, is a semi-
nary of thieves, and a kind of college where the arts of evad-
ing law, and escaping justice may be easily and cheaply
learned by the dregs of the people. What I mean, is, that
in the court itself, where the law is explained and causes
tried, the wealthier kind of people are taught a more re-
fined system of arts, by which property may be confounded
in a creditable, and blood shed in an honourable way.

Having lived for these four or five years in an assize
town, and having not only conversed a good deal with the
people, but also attended at many trials of different kinds,

VOL. V. T

274

A DISSERTATION ON

I have had frequent and flagrant opportunity of observing,
that for one that obtains justice, a hundred are (aught in-
justice at an assize. This I will not charge, as is generally
done, on the periodical flight of powdered practitioners
that circulate with our judges, and to make law the more
necessary, endeavour to banish religion from among our
country gentlemen, who, being obliged to take that matter
upon authority, had rather trust to a lay-brother, than him
that gets the tithes. Many of these people, it is true, who
have learned to talk, do some hurt. They sap the only
foundation of honesty, by undermining religion ; and every
body knows the less honesty the better for them.

The general decay of justice must be owing to some
cause more powerful, and more nearly concerned in the
administration of our laws. I am afraid the constitution
of a petty jury is chiefly to be blamed for it. However,
whether it is or not, will perhaps better appear upon exa-
mination.

A petty jury consists of twelve men, who are obliged,
upon oath, well and truly to try, and true deliverance make,
of such causes as are brought before them. Their trial
and deliverance is to be the result of the evidence pro-
duced by either or both parties in the debate. As soon as
they have heard the witnesses examined, they are shut up
in a close room, and one set to keep the door, who is
sworn to sutler neither meat, drink, fire, nor candle to be
carried in to them, nor any of them to go out thence, till
they are ready to give a verdict, in which they must be
unanimous to a man, or it is not decisive. If there is but.
one who dissents from the opinion of the rest, they are all
confined under the aforesaid difficulties till he agrees, nor
can they be set at liberty, till the judge is out of the
county.

Such is the constitution of a petty jury, which, were it
shewn to some one, who had never heard of a jury before,
would probably appear a very unpromising instrument of
justice. The necessity that the whole number should be
unanimous, is the first thing that would shock him. Some
cases indeed are made so plain by the evidence, that all
mankind must agree about them; but there are infinitely
more cases when? the evidence is neither so clear nor full,

PETTY JURIES.

275

but that of six who attend to it, one or two would differ
from the rest, at least till they had conferred. And it
should seem no less improbable that conferring should re-
concile them. Every one who is in the least acquainted
with human nature, knows, that to persuade or convince is
a very difficult undertaking, and that the 'difficulty is still
incomparably greater, when the reasons, the opinions, the
prejudices, and perhaps interests of one man are to be
beat down, and those of another erected in their place.
We see that in mere speculative disputes, the shame of a
defeat, and thirst of victory are alone sufficient to make
them endless.

It may be objected here, that the oath "of a petty juror,
and the sense of his duty will probably take off those bi-
asses from his mind, and leave him at liberty to hear reason
and to form a fair and candid judgment. He that knows
mankind, knows the case to be otherwise in general. In
most men, passion and interest are superior to principle,
and govern without disguise. In many, they conceal them-
selves under a shew of reason, and so impose upon con-
science. But in those few that are swayed by conscience,
if their oath rids them of prejudices and attachments, it
substitutes in the room of them such a scrupulous and
timorous exactness as will make it very hard for them to
be determined either by their own or other people's reason-
ings; insomuch that if we could suppose a jury of such,
the case must be extremely clear in which they could
agree. A man of candour frequently finds it difficult to
decide a doubtful case within himself. If in one mind
there is so much room for debate and doubt, what must
there be among twelve, whose ways of thinking are at least
as peculiar and individual as their faces ?

How rare a thing is it to see a company of four or five
agree about such points as happen to be debated among
them ? It is well if they can bring their various sentiments
under but two opposite opinions. I speak this of com-
panies made up of people upon an equality with one an-
other. Even when the fortune or reputed understanding of
one makes him a dictator to the rest, his opinion is only
complimented with a seeming concurrence. But when a
man is sensible that the property or life of his neighbour,
t 2

270

A DISSERTATION ON

and his own soul, are all risked upon the justice of his
verdict, then if there is either sense or conscience in hira,
they will oblige him to examine with the greatest nicety, and
judge with the utmost circumspection. And what will be
the effect of all this ? Why, in some cases, and in some
minds it will be attended with such doubts and scruples as
the man himself can never determine, though he call in all
the assistance of other people. But in others, such a nice
and severe disquisition will end in an opinion so riveted,
that no arguments nor persuasions will be able to get the
better of it. In either case there will be no determination ;
or if there is, it will be against the conscience of some in
the number. In short, if a man is more concerned to exa-
mine with care, and judge for himself upon oath, than
without it, it follows that opinions, formed at such a peril
of his soul, will be less accommodated to the opinions of
others, and yield with infinitely more reluctance to per-
suasion, than such as he is accountable for only to his un-
derstanding, which, nevertheless, few men know how to
surrender.

It is plain that the Gothic compilers of this constitution
have taken all the above-mentioned difficulties for granted,
by the means they have used to procure verdicts notwith-
standing. The twelve men are to be kept close in the most
uncomfortable confinement till they can agree. They are
to have neither meat, drink, fire, candle, nor easement, un-
less their porter is so charitable as to damn his soul for
their relief, till they can all think one way. The contrivers
of this expedient being sensible that there is a very strict
connexion between the mind and body of man, and not
knowing how to strike immediately at the mind, played
their engine against the body, by distressing of which they
proposed to reduce reason and conscience to a proper pli-
ancy. It is manifest, that in this they took more care to
have a verdict, than that justice should be done, though the
latter was the only end to be obtained, and the jury itself
but the means.

I believe there cannot be an instance given of a more
barbarous attack upon reason, or greater violence done to
the conscience. The body is to be starved, and the life
put in imminent danger in order to bring over the under-

PETTY JURIES.

277

standing, while its real determination is supposed to be
withheld by conviction, and its outward assent by an oath.
Is it not as monstrous to consult justice by forcing a una-
nimity in this manner, as to force uniformity by persecu-
tion, in order to the advancement of religion 1 By thus
laying a weight upon the body, the external assent is
brought over, while conviction and conscience stare it full
in the face. I fancy it must be entertaining enough to ob-
serve the sentiments of a jury that differed widely at its first
going out, drawing nearer and nearer to each other as the
reasons, offered by the appetite and stomach grow stronger
and stronger, till all their differences being devoured, as it
were by hunger, are digested and done away, and the
opinion of him or them who are least dependant upon meat
and drink, is returned as the unanimous opinion of them
all. "What are reason and principle in the way of hunger,
that breaks through stone walls ?

Such would be the objections of one, who never heard
of a jury before, to the form of our petty jury, from the
mere nature of the thing itself. It may be asked then, how
such an unreasonable scheme for the administration of our
laws came to take place among us, and what induced the
nation to submit the bulk of all its business, the properties,
liberties, and lives of the subject, to a contrivance so mis-
shapen and so ill-concerted? It is not unlikely that the
same causes which usually produce unjust laws, or partial
schemes of government had their share in the production
of this. If it is very liable to interest, and can be easily
made to serve the occasions of the leading man or party in
a country, as I shall shew presently, this might have helped
it into practice at first, and supported it afterward. It is
certain, however, that it is of Gothic original, and that it
was invented, and at first practised by a rude and barba-
rous people, little skilled in the art of government. Be-
sides, at its first invention it might have had a more tole-
rable form ; taken altogether, it seems to have been the in-
consistent work of different ages, if not of different interests.
It is probable that at first, it was only a court of twelve
men, who were to be unanimous, or there could be no ver-
dict ; but without an oath, without confinement, &c. which
seem to have been added afterward, in order to force a

278

A DISSERTATION OX

verdict, and yet provide for an honest one, as well as pos-
sible. It was brought into Great Britain by the Anglo-
Saxons, to whose government and laws it might have been
better adapted than to ours ; it certainly was to their reli-
gion. They were heathens, among whom the obligation of
an oath could neither have been so sacred nor so binding
as among Christians, truly such. When they became
Christians they were too tenacious of their old customs and
privileges, to lay this form aside, though the necessary una-
nimity on the one hand, and the dreadful obligation of an
oath on the other, rendered it then so inconvenient. The
sufferings of the English under the Norman kings, among
which we may reckon as chief, the abolition of their ancient
laws, which had been lately reduced to a body by Edward
the Confessor, were so great, that they thought themselves
happy in the restitution of them by the charter of Henry
the First. At such a juncture, had there been greater defects
than this we are complaining of (and greater are scarce pos-
sible) they would have made no scruple of embracing them,
accompanied with their ancient liberties and laws.

Thus the petty jury, as we now have it, being intro-
duced piece by piece, came down to us as a part of our
constitution ; and as it was always supposed to be the chief
foundation of the people's privileges, it was not to be ex-
pected that the people should desire to see any alterations
made in it. Though if it can be shewn that its form is such
as exposes the bulk of the people to the iniquity and op-
pression of their petty tyrants, more than it guards them
against the power of the crown, they will have but little
reason to glory in it as the basis and bulwark of their pri-
vileges.

To effect this, it will be sufficient to prove by experience,
and from its own nature, that it has the strongest tendency
to render perjury and partiality familiar to the commons in
general, and to exclude those from sitting as jurors, whose
consciences are not to be corrupted by any means. For
wherever this is the case, wherever oaths are made light of,
and common honesty despised, wherever good and honest
men, whose consciences are governed by religion, are shut
out from the administration of the laws, and the administra-
tion left only to such as have nothing to consider but how to

PETTV JURIES.

279

serve themselves, or those who can serve them again, there
privileges, and liberties, and rights are a mere jest. The
great man, or the ruling party disposes of every thing at
discretion.

But to the first point, viz. That a petty jury tends
strongly to render perjury and partiality familiar to the
commons in general, or the people. It is a constant prac-
tice, when any one dissents from the opinion of his brother
jurors, first to endeavour to reduce him by the strongest
arguments they can offer ; if those do not take effect, the
next expedient isteizing; if conviction and conscience still
hold out (and in reason and charity those ought to be sup-
posed as the principles of an opposition so very inconve-
nient and prejudicial to himself), then he is to be represented
to the world as a wretch of the most perverse and crooked
disposition, as stiffened by a bribe, or partial to the wrong
side against justice and his oath ; in short, as a man with
whom business cannot be done, nor measures taken. This
character is fixed on him as a brand by which other sheriffs
are warned to avoid him, and his countrymen so frightened,
that no body cares to be on the same jury with him again.
Besides, as he can serve nobody, nobody will serve him.
As he has opposed the reigning interest, it will not fail to
oppose him, whenever it is his misfortune to have any busi-
ness of his come before a jury. All these considerations,
added to hunger, cold, confinement, and darkness, beat
strongly against his conscience. He must be a little hero
to bear up and combat such a frightful muster of almost
every thing that can hurt him in this life. There is nothing
more rare than such a spirit. Notwithstanding all the dif-
ficulties in the way of unanimity, arising from diversity of
opinion, and the solemnities of an oath, we see the diffi-
culties and terrors just now mentioned, on the other side,
prevail so over them, as to bring the jury (unless it be once
in a thousand times that they stay out a little while for de-
cency's sake) to a ready and cheerful agreement. Business
is dispatched, and right settled, with almost as much ex-
pedition, as if the determination were lodged in the breast
of one single man ; and we are agreeably surprised to see
causes of the most doubtful and difficult nature, decided in
a few minutes by twelve men, any two of whom could find

280

A DISSERTATION ON

matter of many hours dispute in any ordinary controverted
point, where neither their discernment is awakened by an
oath, nor their caution by a sense of justice. That the de-
sire of doing justice should make one less scrupulous, and
an oath less conscientious, is surprising; or that where
there are more scruples, there should be fewer doubts ;
where more conscience, less debate and disquisition, is
what from a knowledge of mankind, one would not expect.
Nor indeed are those causes of nicety and dispute in all
other cases, the causes of agreement in this ; no, in this
they are no causes at all ; they do not interfere ; they are
superseded by the fear of being outlawed, in the manner
mentioned above, or by a willingness to court the reigning
interest. These principles are to be thanked for all that
harmony with which our differences are decided by petty
juries. The ends these aim at are well known and easily
agreed upon.

As soon as any one has once or twice made a sacrifice
of his conscience to the aforesaid considerations, he is then
qualified for business, he neither thinks perjury nor par-
tiality such odious or such terrible crimes as he took them
for at a distance ; he is prepared to use them on other oc-
casions as well as on a jury, whensoever his own interest
or the service of his friends, which to him (generous man!)
are the same thing, shall require it. His conscience, a
little refractory at first, being now backed and bitted by his
interest, trudges on quietly through thick and thin, and is
so very tame, that it will, without wincing in the least, suf-
fer him now and then to take up a friend behind him in a
dirty road. This gentleman thus qualified, and with this
happy turn to business shews a particular zeal for the ser-
vice of his country. He is never wanting to the sheriff nor
his friends. You see him bustling and squeezing forward
into the eye of the court, ready to answer aloud to his name,
and catching at the book, when he comes to be sworn,
with an eagerness that shews he has the business of the
county at heart.

Now as almost all our squires and freeholders take their
turns to sit on the public business as petty jurors, so they
have all an opportunity of qualifying themselves as afore-
said. I submit it now to all the candid and observing,

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281

whether a petty jury may not be looked on as the nursery
and school of all our country law-jobbers, and county po-
liticians, as the source of almost all that shameless par-
tiality, impious perjury, and cruel oppression, under which
the country groans ; and of all those monstrous verdicts
especially, with which the petty juries of one county have
surprised and shocked even those of another.

Again, this same constitution of the petty jury, while it,
as it were with one hand scatters the contempt of justice
and an oath among the people, with the other drives away
the honest and the conscientious from the administration
of our laws and the service of their country. It must be
great resolution indeed, and such as few men are masters
of, that can encourage an honest man to make one on a
petty jury, when he knows, that if he should dissent from
the interest that is to govern the rest, he is to be made the
public mark of calumny, that his reputation, and his for-
tune, if it is liable, are to be worried by the den of lions,
whose teeth are spears and arrows, and whose tongue is
a sharp sword. Few men would care to run into the mi-
serable dilemma, either to act against their consciences,
or to bring on themselves the persecution of the county in
which they live. For this reason it is that honest and scru-
pulous men absent themselves from the public business, and
choose to be fined rather than incur a much greater evil,
which they have so just reason to fear, the clashing of their
consciences, and the constitution of the petty jury will
bring upon them. By this means the fine, that was in-
tended for the public good, becomes a tax upon conscience
and common honesty, commodities so rare that I believe
the duty on them brings but little into the treasury of any
county. An honest man who keeps a shop, or deals in any
kind of retail, whose business and trade depends upon the
number of his customers, is more especially concerned to
shun an assizes, if there be any cause to be brought on
above the trial of a pickpocket; because he is more de-
pendent on his character, and on the good or ill-will of his
neighbours, than people in any other kind of business.
Nor is the loss of this class of men to justice a small one,
because, of all kinds of men, capable of being on a petty
jury, from the country squire to the five pound farmer, there

282

A DISSERTATION ON

are none, generally speaking, so rational or conscientious
as the merchants, none on whom the welfare of the nation
does so much, or so immediately depend, none therefore
who are both so well qualified for, or so justly entitled to,
the administration of law and justice.

Can any country be more unhappy than one in such a
situation as this, with meddlers, and time-servers, and
party -men, to say no worse, and worse need not be said, to
execute its laws, and distribute justice ? And can any
thing be plainer than that the form and constitution of a
petty jury is principally in fault I Let every one judge now
whether, in a place, where self-interest, avarice, and cor-
ruption prevail, the rich, and the cunning must not have the
management of every thing. It is not possible that there
should be common privileges or a public good where ho-
nesty is wanting, because conscience being thrust out of
play, and interest, the only principle, the only spring and
motive of all that passes, power must be bought and sold,
must inevitably fall into the hands of a few, who are able
to purchase it. By this means that share of power, which
by our constitution is vested in the commonalty, is as ef-
fectually taken out of their hands as if there were but one
will in the nation. In some counties the government, which
ought of right diffusively to belong to the whole body of the
people, is collected and shared by two or three, who asso-
ciate to dispose of it, as seems best to themselves, without
being diverted from their schemes, or maiming their mea-
sures by weak scruples about justice. Among these, how-
ever, justice is sometimes done, and the people admitted to
some share in affairs by the mutual jealousies, and the fre-
quent contentions among their leaders. W hen the great ones
fight for the power, the people, under their feet, sometimes
catch up such parcels of it as fall in the scramble. There are
but two sides of a question, so that when those in power are
divided, the stronger party must take one side, and some-
times it happens luckily to be the right one. In other
counties the administration is purely monarchical. There
is one person who can carry any thing. Whoever has a
point to gain must have his assistance, and in lieu of it en-
gages his whole interest, and his most vigorous services to
that person. And as this either was, is, or may be the

PETTY JURIES.

283

case with every one within the county, so the little tyrant
has every body at his devotion. Who now is so blind as
not to see, that this could never happen, had oaths and the
love of justice the weight among us that they ought to have?
And who does not see by what means we are taught the
scandalous contempt of oaths and justice that reigns among
us ; and how it comes to pass, that a people made free by
the present constitution of the kingdom, are shamefully
and miserably enslaved by their corruption and want of
conscience?

I know nothing more ridiculous than to hear our people,
as they often do, calling a petty jury the foundation and
security of all their liberties and privileges, and idly con-
gratulating themselves upon that influence and weight which
it gives them in their country. They think themselves very
happy that they and their differences are to be judged by
their peers.

But if there can be no liberty nor privilege where there
is no conscience, as it is plain there cannot; and if it is
true, as it certainly is, that the bulk of the people make no
conscience of deciding as the ruling party directs, I cannot
see where those boasted privileges are to be found. Shall
any man glory that he is to be the instrument of another's
will, that he has leave to repeat another man's words, that
he is employed to carry on the designs of another, though
to his own eternal shame, and perhaps at the expense of
his soul? And yet this is all these mighty judges and
governors are trusted with. Nor have they more reason to
rejoice in their right to be judged by their peers, as they
call it. To be judged by one's equals is, no doubt, a high
and inestimable privilege, but are our commonalty judged
in this manner? No, though they see some of their own
rank on their juries, yet they see one or more at the head
of them in all matters of moment, as far removed above
them in wealth and pow er as many barons are. And when
this is not the case, those twelve men are not going, as the
people imagine, to examine and judge of the affair before
them, but only to go through the legal forms, and at the
conclusion to bring in the verdict dictated to them by the
leading man or men of the county, who are no more their
peers or equals, though they are called so, to distinguish

284

A DISSERTATION ON

them from the nobility, than the nobles themselves. To be
judged by one's peers, in any sense that can be called a
privilege, is to be judged by such equals, as from living in
a condition nearly the same with our own, may have humi-
lity enough to consider our case with attention, fellow-
feeling sufficient to temper the rigour of justice, and what
is more than all, by being upon an equality with the parties
in the dispute, may fear to injure either by an injust ver-
dict. But does he that rules a county fear the displeasure
or complaints of a poor farmer or tradesman? Does he
feel the anguish of an unhappy prisoner, or a miserable
family distressed by robbery or oppression? Will he con-
descend to discuss w ith exactness the differences of mean
people, which, though they are to them affairs of the last
consequence, are nevertheless contemptible trifles to him?
If he will, why, then it is no happiness to be judged by
our equals, since our superiors can do it as well, and we
are very idle to boast of a privilege, which we neither have,
nor can see reason to desire.

Upon the whole, the observation of every one may sa-
tisfy him, that a petty jury, in teaching perjury and dis-
honesty, takes away the liberties of the people, and brings
them into the most abject state of slavery that can be ima-
gined. It is the peculiar and the glorious privilege of
honesty and integrity that they cannot be enslaved, and
that nothing else can be free. It is the reproach and mi-
sery of dishonesty, that by its own nature it unavoidably
brings on itself tyranny and oppression. If a man is to
be sold, there is one always ready to buy him. If selfish-
ness and avarice, helped out by baseness and dishonesty,
can set consciences to sale, ambition will never fail to find
purchasers. And those who buy other people's con-
sciences, cannot but have mercenary ones of their own.
The petty tyrant of a county always exercises his power
in the same manner that he got it ; only, as it fares in all
kinds of traffic, he will not give it, unless for more than it
cost him. This impudent and saucy encroachment from
which few, if any counties, are free, is the cause of all that
perversion of justice, which scarce any honest man has
not one time or other suffered by, nor scarce any rogue that
lias not rejoiced in. This gives away right, persecutes

PETTY JURIES.

285

innocence, protects crimes of all kinds, among which mur-
ders, especially of the most barbarous and horrid nature
are brought off, not only with impunity, but triumph. There
is no need to assign instances. There is not a county in
the nation that has not over and over again imbrued itself in
innocent blood, within these twenty years past, by acquit-
ting murderers, proved guilty with such evidence, as the
laws of God and man have made sufficient.

To say, that the Judge of all the earth will exact public
vengeance for the groans of the oppressed, and the cries of
innocent blood, is to expose one's self to the ridicule of an
infidel and abandoned age ; an age taught by perjuries on
petty juries, to fear God and divine justice no more than
it fears the laws or justice of men. However, a remedy
must be applied to these enormities. If the nation has not
the virtue to redress this terrible grievance, nor natural
medicine of its own to cure so miserable a malady, no doubt
divine Providence will, as usual, put it under such a dis-
cipline as may at once atone for past grievances, and be
likely to suppress them for the future. But as Providence
seldom redresses general grievances, unless by general ca-
lamities, would it not be better to avert the necessity of so
dreadful a remedy by an easy and rational method of human
contrivance? Taking it for granted that it would, I shall
propose such a one as may probably answer the end, with-
out making any other apology for my so doing, than this,
that the scheme I intend to offer is not my own, and that it
has already been practised with excellent effect by the
wisest and best governed nations in the world.

I believe every one will allow, that a scheme, by which
the sanctity of oaths would be preserved, justice duly ex-
ecuted, and the people judged by their peers, without any
alteration in our national constitution, or any material
change in our laws, would be a very useful and desirable
one ; and I hope that which I shall propose will seem the
most likely to answer all those great ends.

The first thing to be done in order to this scheme, is to
appoint a jury or certain number of men for all trials.

Let twenty-three be the number, and let the choice be
made as it is at present, by the return of the sheriff, and
the right to object. In criminal cases, let the prisoner at

286

A DISSERTATION' ON

the bar be permitted to object peremptorily to no more than
five persons ; but let him have a right to throw out every
man of the whole return, provided he can assign a suffi-
cient reason. In cases of property, let the choice be made
as it is at present ; but let the number be twenty-three.
Let the twenty-three men, when fixed, be sworn in a most
solemn manner, well and truly to try, and true deliverance
make in the case to be brought before them. Then let them
proceed to trial. As soon as all the witnesses are exa-
mined, and the judge has summed up the evidence, let two
spherical pieces of marble, one white and the other black,
of half an inch in diameter, be delivered to each of the
jurors. After this, let the jury continue in its box for ten
minutes ; and if any one of them speaks to another, or if
any one, not on the jury, speaks to one or more of the jurors,
let him be fined fifty pounds, or imprisoned for a year.
Let them then, in the order in which they were sworn, re-
turn, each man his own verdict, in the following manner.
Let there be placed before the judge of assize two brazen
urns, each four feet high. Let the mouth of each urn be
wide enough to receive the largest hand. Let the mouth
grow narrower towards the bottom, till it forms a neck
only two-thirds of an inch in diameter within. Let it open
again to a foot in width, and at two feet distance below the
narrowest part of the neck ; let a thin slider of brass cut
off the lower space of the urn horizontally. Let this slider
have a handle on the outside by which it may be pulled
out or thrust in. Let one of these urns be set to the right
hand of the juror, and the other to the left. Let that on
the right be the urn of verdict. If the juror would acquit
the prisoner, or find for the defendant, let him put his right
hand into the mouth of the right hand urn, and drop his
white stone into it; if he would condemn the prisoner or
find for the plaintiff, let him drop his black stone into it.
Let him with his left hand drop his other stone into the
urn on his left hand. As soon as the stone drops on the
horizontal plate of brass, let the judge pull out the plate,
upon which the stone will fall into the lower part of the
urn. If the stone, when it falls on the horizouial plate,
does not render one clear and audible sound, let the party
on either side, that suspects, appoint a man, who, before

PETTY JURIES.

287

the judge pulls out the horizontal plate, shall put his hand,
having first shewn that he has nothing in it, into the belly
of the urn, at a door made so high in the side of the urn,
that the stone cannot be seen through it ; and having felt
whether there is more or less than one stone on the plate,
he shall withdraw his hand, shewing that he has nothing in
it. Upon this the door shall be shut by the judge. If he
who was appointed to feel the inside of the urn, says there
is but one stone in it, the judge shall then pull out the
brazen plate. But if he says there is none, then the juror
shall be fined fifty pounds, and be obliged to drop in his
stone in pain of five hundred pounds or three years impri-
sonment. If the tryer says there is more than one stone,
then the judge shall take them out, and obliging the juror
to drop a single stone, shall fine him the sum of fifty pounds.
When the whole twenty-three men have thus deposited
their votes, the judge, in the sight of both parties and all
the people, shall open the bottom of the urn of verdicts, at
a door made for the purpose beneath the horizontal plate of
brass, and taking out only one stone at a time, shall shew
it to the parties and the people, till he has taken out twelve
of one colour, upon which he shall shut the urn and draw
out no more. If there are twelve white stones, the prisoner
is acquitted or the defendant found for. If there are twelve
black stones, the prisoner is condemned or the plaintiff
found for.

As this scheme will at first sight seem a little odd, it will
not be amiss to assign the reasons of each particular in it.

And first, as to the number twenty-three. By the pre-
sent constitution of a petty jury, there must be an agreement
of twelve men to make a verdict. If the reasons for that
number aTe good, they will be as good for the number in
this proposal, because the least majority in twenty-three
being twelve, and the veidict being the opinion of the ma-
jority, there will always be an agreement of twelve at least.
If it be objected here, that when there is an agreement of
only twelve against eleven, as it will sometimes happen, the
verdict will in that case, be really the verdict of one only ;
and that it would be hard that the property of any one
should be determined by a single man, and harder still that
a life should depend upon one vote; I answer, that an

288

A DISSERTATION O N

agreement ol' twelve men obtained with a due regard to
their oaths and to justice, even when opposed by eleven,
is a more equitable verdict, than one obtained in the pre-
sent way, by which oaths and justice are brought into such
contempt. When a jury of twenty-three men are so di-
vided, it shews the case is very doubtful, and that the evi-
dence and arguments on both sides are nearly equal. Such
they would appear to a jury of the present kind, and so
perhaps as to divide it equally ; and if they did, an argu-
ment brought about by disputing, teazing, solicitation,
fear, or favour, inducements that have nothing to do with
the merits of the cause, would be neither an evidence of,
nor a security to, justice. One fair and candid voice, if
there were no more, is certainly better than six, brought off
in a jury room from a judgment formed upon hearing the
evidence. And if it be said, that as the judgment of the
eleven is as honestly and candidly formed, as that of the
twelve, so it ought to weigh, in the scales of justice, nearly
as heavy, whereas by ray proposal it is allowed no weight
at all ; I must beg leave to insist that this is unavoidable,
where the case is very doubtful, and that an agreement of
twelve men in the present way cannot alter the nature,
though it may the appearance, of the case, to the great de-
triment perhaps of the one party, but in such cases must
be founded on mere partiality and perjury. There is not
a doubtful case, in which, if the twelve men on a petty jury
of the present form are agreed on one side, you might not
find twelve more, at least as honest, that would agree on the
other side. Now twelve against twelve leaves the matter
as it was. If it be objected that when the case is so
doubtful, there ought to be no decision, I leave this to be
answered by the advocates of our present jury, in the con-
stitution of which there is so much care taken to force a de-
cision by methods quite foreign to the merits. In the pro-
posal now before us the decision is brought about by a
candid inquiry into the evidence, and supported by an
oath, and that oath guarded against all temptations by se-
crecy and safety.

As for a criminal in particular, if he have a right to
throw out five peremptorily, and as many more, as he can
shew good reason for, from the sheriff's return, he is rather

PETTY JURIES.

289

better secured, than justice will allow, considering that
mercy generally leans a little too strongly to his side. The
right, which the present regulation affords the prisoner at
the bar to throw out twenty by peremptory objection, seems
to be unreasonable. The chief, if not the only argument
for allowing of peremptory objections at all, is this :

A poor prisoner may have good reasons for objecting
to several persons returned for his jury, which, in his cir-
cumstances, it would be dangerous for him to assign. But
then it is scarce at all to be supposed, that twenty instances
of this kind will happen to any one man. There are seldom
more than two or three gentlemen of the first rank returned
on such juries ; and it is altogether in relation to them that
the peremptory objection is useful. They are not really
the prisoner's peers. They may have it in their power to
injure him at, or after, his trial. It is necessary therefore,
that he should have a right to remove them from his jury, if
he thinks them prejudiced against him, in a way the least
disobliging. Bui on the other hand, if too great a liberty
be allowed the prisoner, he may by that means throw out
all such persons on the return, as he thinks too strictly just
to acquit him ; and indeed this happens every day. An in-
dulgence of such a nature ought to be but sparingly allow-
ed. As no one ought to be upon a jury against reason, so
no one ought to be' thrown off, without a reason; and of
this reason the court ought in almost all cases to judge.

It is evident from experience, that a mistaken pity,
which the juror has no right to shew, the prisoner not
being at all the object of his mercy, is strictly to be guarded
against, especially in trials of murder. There is scarce any
body so monstrously wicked and cruel, as to put his fellow-
creature to death, even though he may have had a quarrel
with him, against justice and his oath. But there are pro-
digious numbers afraid to condemn, though they judge the
prisoner guilty. And yet the allowances given to criminals
are so great, that those who gave them, must have done it
on a supposition, that the generality of men would con-
demn a man to the gallows, though innocent ; and few ac-
quit him, if guilty.

The next thing to be considered in the scheme, is the
manner proposed for the jurors to vote in. It Will, I be-
Vol. v. v

290

A DISSERTATION ON

lieve, be readily granted, that those, who are to administer
the law in any capacity whatsoever, ought to be exposed
as little as possible to temptations to partiality. It has been
already shewn, that the present form of a petty jury does
extremely expose jurors to such temptations, and how.
This is what the scheme under consideration proposes
chiefly to remedy, first by taking away the hunger, cold,
darkness, and confinement, which have hitherto been most
absurdly applied to prove the prisoner at the bar guilty or
not guilty, and to support the plea of either the plaintiff or
defendant; and in the next place, by enabling the juror to
return his real judgment according to his oath, without the
least fear of suffering any way for his impartiality. This
latter is effected two ways. First, the jury after hearing
all the evidences sworn, and the substance of what they de-
livered, summed up by the judge, are to sit for ten minutes
in the box, that no body may tamper with them ; and silent,
that they may not tamper with each other, nor discover each
other's sentiments. During this time each juror may settle
his own judgment upon the matter with greater clearness,
competency, and impartiality, than he could, were he to
dispute every particular point with his fellow-jurors. The
judgment of a juror ought to be formed from, and founded
on, the evidence only. For once the opinion or persuasion
of another sets him right, it misleads him a hundred times.
If one juror founds his judgment on that of another, those
two are in effect but one.

Why is not a written, or orally reported evidence re-
ceived before a petty jury ? Is it not because such an evi-
dence might receive some addition, or diminution, some turn
Or bias from the hand by which it must be sent, if the wit-
ness were not to be examined personally? But this incon-
venience might be partly incurred, if any juror were to re-
ceive the evidence through the conception of his fellow-
juror, as he must, if he gives up his own sentiment for his,
after a debate. By the method now proposed a juror may
have leave to form his judgment from the testimony brought
before him, and at the same time conceal it from his fellow-
jurors. So far impartiality in regard to the cause, and
safety as to himself, are provided for by one and the same
expedient.

PETTY JURIES.

291

Nor are those two necessary points less effectually se-
cured by the method proposed for collecting the votes of
the jurors. Each can render his vote, without discover-
ing his judgment to any body ; he can conceal the stone,
by which he intends to vote, within his hand, till he puts
his hand within the mouth of the urn, which will effec-
tually hide the colour of his vote, till it has got out of
all danger of being seen. He can put the other stone into
the other urn with the same secrecy; and secrecy is ne-
cessary in that as well as the other stone, because if the
"colour of that were known, it would discover the colour of
the other. As soon as the judge shall have drawn twelve
stones of one colour, he is to cease, because there is then
a verdict, and because should the stones be all of one co-
lour he must discover the judgment of every man on the
jury, by exposing the stones to view. After the verdict is
published, the judge may (the urns having been so con-
trived for the purpose) mix all the stones together in one
urn, by which means the votes will be for ever a secret,
unless any juror has a mind to discover his own. As all
the perversion of justice, the partiality and perjury, of
which our petty juries have been guilty, was chiefly, if not
wholly, occasioned by the knowledge that every one must
necessarily have of the judgment of every man on the jury,
so it is hoped, that by thus effectually preventing that know-
ledge, the injustice occasioned by it might be also prevented.
If we would have justice done, we should not suffer the
doing of it to be attended with any sort of inconvenience.
If it is possible, he that is to do it, should have his person,
his character, his fortune, his peace, so securely guarded,
that no consequences of his impartiality might ever affect
him in any quarter. The law ought to leave those who
are to administer it, as well as those who are to obey it, as
little exposed as possible to temptations to mal-adminis-
tration, or disobedience, either from their own weaknesses,
or from the practices of others.

It may be here objected, that this very secrecy, to se-
cure which there is so much pains taken in this proposal,
would be more prejudicial to justice, than the contrary,
inasmuch as a dishonest juror would little care how un-
justly he voted, if he were sure to conceal his vote. This
u 2

292

A DISSERTATION ON

objection is built upon a supposition, that shame and re-
gard to character are the chief or only motives to the doing
of justice. But we see that if people can have the con-
science to do an unjust thing, they will easily find impu-
dence to face it out. Twelve men can keep each other in
countenance, supported by the ruling party in the county,
and the general vogue into which dishonesty of that kind is
brought, by being often repeated. The objection supposes
too, that injustice and perjury are treated with due abhor-
rence, that the person who has been guilty of them, is
shunned and despised by mankind : which is not true. Re-
spect waits upon rank and fortune, and contempt only upon
poverty. If justice is to be built upon the sandy founda-
tion of regard for credit and a good name, it must soon
tumble to the ground. Impartiality is never justly esteem-
ed, nor the contrary truly despised, but where religion and
conscience have laid a general foundation for indignation
in the one case, and veneration in the other. If then there
is so just a spirit of censure among us, why should we not
rather ground the execution of our laws, on that sense of
religion, which it necessarily supposes. But this objection
takes the thing in question for granted (viz.), that the more
the sentiment of any juror is known, the less apt he will be
to make a partial return. This would be true if we could
suppose him never tampered with. If I have not suffi-
ciently proved the contrary of that which this objection
maintains, in the first part of this dissertation, let universal
experience prove it for me.

But the scheme does not only provide for a just verdict,
by making it safe for the jury to return such a one ; it also
guards against any frauds that might be committed, for or
against, in collecting the votes. The stone is to be only
half an inch in diameter, that it may be the better concealed
in the hand. The neck of the urn is to be only two thirds
of an inch in width, that two stones may not be dropped
through it at once ; and if they are dropped, the one after
the other, they must detect the cheat by rendering each a
distinct sound on the horizontal plate of brass. The sound
will be sufficiently loud, because the stones falling from two
feet in height, will strike with force enough to be heard at
a good distance. The parties on both sides, upon any cause

PETTY JURIES.

293

of suspicion, will have a right to search the urns, not only
before the poll begins, to try whether the urns are made
according to law, or whether there be any stones of the same
kind with those, by which the jurors are to vote, leftin them,
but also during the poll, if foul play be in the least sur-
mised.

It is most humbly submitted to the candid and judi-
cious part of the nation, whether this scheme is not better
fitted to answer the ends proposed by a petty jury than
the present practice. In the latter every juror's vote is pub-
lished, and that publication bringing with it I know not
how many considerations to bias the mind, occasions infi-
nite perjuries ; in the former, if a juror has the smallest
mite of conscience, he will vote according to it, since by
concealing his vote, he effectually secures himself against
the malice and revenge of the party whose cause he con-
demns. In the latter justice is left exposed to fear and
favour ; in the former it is as well defended against both,
as is possible in human affairs. In the latter, the rights
of the people to judge and be judged by their peers is quite
taken away, and engrossed by a few of their superiors ;
whereas in the former those rights are restored to the peo-
ple according to the constitution of our country, and the
true indention of a petty jury. The proposal makes no
change in the national constitution, neither contracts the
power of the crown, nor extends the liberties of the people ;
it only defends those liberties against the artifice and op-
pression practised by a few upon the body of the people,
upon conscience and common honesty. The laws in being
will quadrate as well with a verdict obtained by this scheme
as by the old one ? or if any alteration would be necessary
it would be so small, that both it and the proposal might
be brought within the compass of an act of parliament.

I hope the reader will not think it too much to expect
an act of parliament for the purpose, since the cause of con-
science and justice, since the good of the public is so inte-
rested in it ; and lite the parliament, always studious of
our welfare, has already shewn its sentiments of a petty
jury by the ballotting act, the intention of which is to
prevent partiality in the choice of a petty jury. Now the
necessity of this prevention, every one knows, is in propor-
tion to the opportunities of, or rather temptations to injus-

294

A DISSERTATION ON

tice, thrown in a juryman's way by the constitution of a
petty jury. But why a remedy in cases of property, and
not as well in criminal cases 1 Are our lives less valuable
than our possessions ? Or why a remedy in part, when the
cause of grievance might be as easily cut out of our consti-
tution root and branch ?

But some will object that changes in the law are dan-
gerous. It is true they are, when they bring with them any
considerable alteration in the constitution ; but the change
now proposed can effectno sort of constitutional.innovation.
The several parts of the political building, are just where
they were, only in a little better repair. If mere changes in
the law are so dangerous, how comes it to pass that we are
not long ago ruined by the frequent acts of parliament to
amend or repeal old laws, and to establish new ones ?
Changes for the better are as useful in the law as in other
things. That the change now proposed would be for the
better, I hope will appear to every body who considers,
that as the matter now stands, a party can carry the most
unjust cause, or a single person, through ignorance, preju-
dice, or obstinacy, hinder the most equitable from taking
place ; that, after much time and trouble, to say no worse,
a trial may be drawn, like a game at Polish, to the irrepa-
rable detriment of both parties, especially that which is in
the right ; and that on the other hand, not only these griev-
ances are likely to be redressed by the proposal, but a
world of perjury and corruption prevented.

The same objector will perhaps say, that though the
proposal looks plausibly, yet it would not be safe to throw
the course of law and justice, out of the old channel, into
one new and untried. Butperhaps it would, provided the old
channel is manifestly rendered indirect by turning to avoid
this height, and winding through that hollow; provided too
that the new one is apparently direct and regular. How-
ever, allowing this objection to be true, it does not in the
least affect the proposal, the nature and substance of which
is so far from being new, that it has been much better tried
than our petty jury. It is essentially the same with the
Athenian and Roman practice ; and therefore as an ample
experiment has been made of its usefulness and excellence
by two commonwealths so famous for wisdom, good go-
vernment, and liberty, those who cannot see its usefumess,

PETTY JURIES.

295

or dare not trust it, because they have not actually tried it,
ought to approve of it, upon the authority of Athens and
Rome, rather than of a petty jury, on the recommendation
of the Goths and Saxons, from whom we have it. That we
have notmade any trial of the proposal ourselves, is true.
But in answer to that, it will be sufficient to observe, that
the trial we have made of a petty jury gives it no manner
of advantage ; but on the contrary, gives every friend to
reason and justice occasion to wish for any other expe-
dient.

The Athenians sometimes voted with white and black
stones, in much the same manner with the scheme. They
had two urns, each of them so narrow at the neck that
one stone only could be put in at a time. They put all the
white into one urn, and all the black into the other. They
shewed the ball openly, and presented it with their thumb,
fore-finger and middle. In this way of voting, the judg-
ment of every one was known ; so to remedy this great de-
fect they afterward made use of little balls, or pellets of
brass, one half of which being perforated by a small hole
were damnatory, the other that were not perforated, ac-
quitted. When they presented these, they could cover the
two apertures of the hole with their thumb aud finger, by
which means at the same time that they shewed openly the
single ball by which they voted, they concealed the nature
of the vote. They did not confer between the examination
of witnesses, and voting their verdict. The decision was
found by the majority, and the poll taken by an officer ap-
pointed for the purpose, who with a rod kept the different
kinds of balls asunder, as they were told out. In capital
cases they went through two polls; in the first they deter-
mined whether the person should be condemned or ac-
quitted ; in the second (if the person was condemned in
the first) they determined the quality of his crime and pu-
nishment.

The Romans for many years gave their votes viva voce,
by which method many of the lower people, through fear of
their superiors voted against their consciences. To remedy
this evil, Gabinius procured a law, that the people in their
elections might not vote openly, but by certain tablets.
Afterward Cassius preferred a law that this way of voting by

29G

A DISSERTATION ON

tablets should be used by the judges in their judgments, and
the people in their comitia tributa, in which they treated
of mulcts aud amercements. Caelius the tribune extended
this privilege of voting by the tablet to cases of treason,
and Papirius to the proposal of their laws. The manner
in which they voted was this. Every judge received from
the praetor three tablets ; on one there was an A. for ab-
solvo ; on another C. for condemno ; aud on the third N. L.
for non liquet. These the judges, who answered to the
jurors among us, conveyed privately into urns set for the
purpose, and their determination was found by the majo-
rity. I do not find that the judges conferred between trial
and determination, but that immediately upon receiving
their tablets they disposed of them into the several urns
according to their sentiments.

Thus we see both the Athenians and Romans, after
having felt the ill effects of a method, in substance the
same with ours, laid it aside, and betook themselves to that
which I have been proposing. So we have their example,
not only for the thing itself, but likewise for the expediency
and prudence of the change. They concealed their votes,
which they could never have done had they conferred upon
the merits, and they were determined by a majority; they
were in some measure forced into this contrivance by the
growth of artifice and ambition among them. If this
seemed a sufficient cause for such a change to them, why
shall it not when aggravated by the propagation of perjury
under a religious dispensation so much more binding on
the conscience than theirs, seem also sufficient to us ? And
if their legislature had the virtue and the concern for the
public welfare, to make an alteration by which their pri-
vate interests were more affected, than in such a case the
interests of any peer or commoner among us can be, why
may we not expect it from ours, who are prompted by the
same love for their country, and the influence of a better
religion ? What blessings will that parliament merit from
the people, and meet with from Divine Providence, whose
zeal for justice, for liberty, and the veneration due to the
name of God, shall bestow on their country a law so neces-
sary and of such extensive benefit ! Those worthy mem-
bers of either house, who shall appear the foremost to set

PETTY JURIES.

297

on foot some effectual scheme for this great purpose, and
bring it to effect, shall be esteemed the fathers of their
country for the present, and be remembered by succeeding
generations as public benefactors of the first rank. And
as the righteous shall shine in a better life than this, as the
stars in heaven, so I wish it were no offence to the mistaken
delicacy of these liber ane times, to say that such friends to
justice and the sanctity of oaths, shall shine as stars of the
first magnitude and lustre, or as the sun in his strength.
Surely our poor country is not quite destitute of such pa-
triots, nor truth, justice, and liberty of such assertors.

On the other hand, there can be no contempt too great,
no reproach too infamous for such, as shall subscribe and
abet the many grievances under which their religion and
country labour by opposing the only visible remedy that
can be applied to them. What notion ought we to enter-
tain of a conscience capable of postponing so great and
excellent a purpose to little base views of engrossing the
interest of a county, of wresting the laws, and warping
justice by such an instrument as perjury ! Or what notion
can we form of an understanding (if such a one there be)
that is so wedded and enslaved to a usage, merely because
it is old, that he dare not change it for a better, nay for an
older! With what indignation ought an honest heart to
rise at a wretch so impudently proud and selfish as to pre-
fer the grandeur of being the ruling rogue of his county,
to the cause of justice and his country's good ! And
with what scorn ought a man of sense to look down on a
mind possessed with greater veneration for the mere rust
and cobwebs of antiquity, than for conscience and liberty !
Surely there cannot be many of these in our poor country :
if there are, it is a poor and miserable country indeed.

Some people will say, perhaps, that this proposal is
made by somebody, who has contracted a prejudice against
petty juries in general, from some disappointment suffered
by the verdict of a particular jury. But I solemnly protest
that neither I, nor any near relation of mine that I know of,
was ever engaged in a law-suit of any moment . Nor is there
anymore reason for my being prejudiced against a Gothic,
than in favour of a Greek or Roman usage. It is tracing the
source of this little Dissertation too far to suppose it the

298

A DISSERTATION, &C.

effect of any thing, but that which it declares in every page,
a concern for the sanctity of oaths, and the free and fair
distribution of justice. If it is a fault to be grieved at the
perversion of the one, or the violence done to the other, I
am guilty. And if I have been mistaken in either the evil
I complain of, or the remedy I have proposed for it, I stand
corrected ; but it is only by the censure of those, who have
both understanding in such matters, and some zeal for con-
science and common honesty. Those who have not, may
be good critics in the laws of private cabals, and dark as-
sociations ; but I hope they will never seem to be proper
judges of their country's laws. They seldom look as far as
their own real interest, never farther. They cannot extend
their views to the public good, nor make a nation the ob-
ject of their affection and concern. They cannot therefore
judge of the public interest.

THE

CHEVALIER'S HOPES.

O navis, referent in mare le novi
Fluctus, O quid agis? Fortiter occupa
Portum.

An affair of great importance is no sooner undertaken by
any one, thau all persons and parties, according as they are
more or less concerned in the event, become in proportion
solicitous to inquire what hopes he may have of success ;
some, because they affect his cause, others, because they
hate it and fear him ; and not a few who are little influ-
enced by the justice of any cause, would however be glad
to know the strength of his, that they might the better
judge on which side to seek for their own safety or ad-
vancement.

There are, no doubt, many persons, who know much
better than the writer of this pamphlet, what reasons that
young man, who is now making war in North Britain on
one of the most powerful monarchs in Europe, may have to
expect success ; but there is a far greater number equally
concerned, yet totally ignorant of those reasons, who by
means of that ignorance may be tampered with on this oc-
casion by designing persons, and in the end undone. For
their information, and with an honest view to their real
welfare, the hopes of this bold adventurer, are as fairly and
fully set forth in the following paper, as can be expected
from one who is not of his privy council.

In the first place, as his majesty king George is engaged
in a war with France and Spain, and his forces on the con-
tinent give no inconsiderable obstruction to the ambitious
views of the house of Bourbon, while his arms at sea are
daily cutting off from it the sinews of war, and ruining its
trade. To rid itself of these obstructions, no method so
promising presents itself, as to set us together by the ears,
and find us work at home, and for this purpose no instru-

300

THE CHEVALIER'S HOPES.

ment is judged so proper as that pretender to the crown of
these kingdoms, whom France and Spain have so long de-
spised and renounced in recognising his present majesty's,
and his father's title to the aforesaid crown, not to mention
that of queen Anne, king William, and queen Mary. The
king of France thus reasons with himself. If I can, by
means of the chevalier de St. George, raise a civil war in
Great Britain, although that war should end in his ruin, yet
in the mean time it will oblige my enemy to withdraw his
forces from Flanders, and leave me the remainder of that
country an easy conquest in the spring ; it will also force
him to recall his fleets to defend his own coasts, and once
again open the seas to my merchants, that is, to my factors;
and if for this purpose I employ the chevalier's son, per-
haps as he is descended from a Polish family by the mo-
ther's side, the attempt in his favour may be made use of
with the diet of Poland, to hinder that nation from espous-
ing the Austrian interest next campaign. But in case the
chevalier should by my assistance succeed, and mount the
throne of Great Britain, I shall then have what terms from
him I please, his Protestant subjects will render his pos-
session so insecure, that without my support he will never
be able to maintain it, he must therefore not only reimburse
me all my expenses, and pay me for all my .services in the
most ample manner, but he must give me all the advan-
tages in trade I shall ask ; my wines must pass into all the
British isles free from duty, their wool must be suffered to
fall into the hands of my manufacturers at my own price,
and in an unlimited abundance. They must not pretend to
rival my subjects in the fishing trade, or that of the East
Indies, or the Levant. Cape Breton must return to me
gratis and of course. As the seeds of endless feuds and
wars will by these means be sown in the kindly soil of
Great Britain and Ireland, I can with little trouble keep
them up and foment them, until those countries being ruined
by their own animosities and my practices, shall like a
horse broken and tamed by my rider the chevalier, take
me on their backs, and instead of defeating all our schemes
as they for many ages have done, shall trample down the
liberties of Europe beneath me. It is true I have long
treated the chevalier with neglect, but the prospect of a

THE CHEVALIER'S HOPES.

301

crown, which he can never hope for but by my assistance,
will make him a ready tool to my designs.

The queen of Spain, who wants a kingdom for another
son, and finds that the English fleet renders her designs on
Italy very precarious, is ready to lend any assistance in
her power to an attempt that must embroil these kingdoms,
that must either recall our fleet from the Mediterranean, or
hinder its being properly supplied and reinforced, that must
also make it infinitely more easy to bring home the trea-
sures of the West Indies, without which France and she
are undone, and unable to buy the assistance and neutrality
of needy princes, of corrupt ministers, of states devoted to
no other god but money, and to make war on their neigh-
bours with due force and perseverance. Besides the che-
valier is a good Catholic, our king and we are detestable
heretics, and therefore all the assistance she can spare is at
the service of the former.

The pretender knows all this full well, and as he is
weary of being only a titular king, he is willing to become
a viceroy of the house of Bourbon, rather than be any longer
burdensome to his holiness, and support a mock majesty
at Rome upon contributions; in some hopes however of
at length being able to shake off by some means or
other the yoke of France, than which nothing can be more
airy nor vain, because the disturbances' of Great Britain,
should they continue for any time, will give France an
opportunity, and she will not fail to lay hold of it, to put
it out of the power of all her neighbours to give the least
check to her designs.

His first hope therefore is founded on the assistance of
France and Spain, which may prove as fallacious as those
' of the late emperor, to whom the friendship of the house of
Bourbon was worse than open enmity, and in the sequel
became fatal.

His next is in the pope ; that holy father of the church
is deeply concerned to see three kingdoms rent from the
only church in which there is any chance for salvation, and
exerting their strength not only in defence of their own he-
resies, but also in opposition to all his ghostly endeavours
for the recovery of other nations, as much bewildered in
errors, and alienated from God and him as themselves. He

302

THE CHEVALIER'S HOPES.

sees (and we presume it is with some small regret) the vast
tracts of land in these kingdoms, formerly enjoyed by
monks, and nuns, and Romish bishops, together with the
ample revenues, which before the Reformation flowed from
hence into the exchequer of Rome, and were employed in
most pious uses, now applied to the support of heresy, or
at least enjoyed by heretics. To recover this wealth to
himself, as well as the souls of those that now wickedly
riot in it, to the church, may possibly be an object of his
holiness's wishes. The pretender hath spent time enough
at Rome to inform himself, whether the pope hath-any han-
kerings after money or not, and whether he would be will-
ing to make him his farmer here, in hopes by that means to
put things on that old happy footing.

As to the assistance the pope may lend him in order to
his ascending the throne of these nations, although at first
sight it may seem but small, yet the pretender cannot but
think it more powerful than even that of France and Spain;
for in the first place as he is a sound Catholic, he cannot
but know that the pope, being God's vicegerent, hath the
only right to dispose of all earthly kingdoms, which he hath
often insisted on, and being infallible could not be mis-
taken; besides he knows that the pope is himself, and in a
more peculiar manner, king of England, ever since king John
of pious memory resigned the crown to him; on these two
accounts neither the pretender, nor any body else, could
lawfully take any steps towards such an acquisition, with-
out the pope's permission and deputation; and as the pre-
tender can derive no right to the crown of these kingdoms
but from the pope, so neither is it possible for him to suc-
ceed in his design, but by the exercise of the pope's spiritual
weapons and power in their full plenitude : his holiness
hath weapons for all purposes : but what are most wanted
on such occasions as this, are dispensations and prayers.

As to dispensations, they are most absolutely neces-
sary, for as the pretender cannot hope to succeed, without
repeated and solemn declarations, without even oaths and
vows to preserve and protect the Protestant religion, toge-
ther with the constitution and laws of these kingdoms, and
whereas if he were always to act in conformity to these
vows, he would as little promote the interests of the pope,

THE CHEVALIEIl's HOPES.

303

as king George himself, it is absolutely necessary, that
while he carries his own declarations in one pocket, he
should also carry the pope's dispensation in the other.
The pretender and his sons are men of great religion and
devotion ; it is therefore not to be expected of them, that
they should merely to get these three kingdoms, which
they attempt not with any view to their own interest, but
purely out of love to the church and us, be put under the
ugly necessity of making, and over and over again repeat-
ing, the most solemn vows, every one of which at the time
of making them, they intend to break in every single article,
without his holiness's ample dispensation from the guilt of
such deliberate and wilful perjury. These dispensations
would be also necessary to take away the guilt of treachery
in other more particular instances, and in all those acts of
murder, massacre, and cruelty, which the prosecution of
such an affair might require, they would be necessary too,
to set the hands of others at liberty, as well as those of the
pretender and his sons ; and therefore we may take it for
granted the young chevalier did not part from Rome, till he
was armed with weapons enough of this sort to cut the
ties of nature, and dispense with all the laws of God and
man.

As to prayer, the other spiritual weapon in the hands of
the pope, and the only true church, the pretender, we may
be sure, depends more on that, than even on his dispensa-
tions ; the latter can only procure him the services of pious
and scrupulous men, whereas the former is necessary to
obtain the blessing and assistance of Divine Providence, to
which that church alone hath access. Indeed it will re-
quire all her boasted interest with heaven to be heard in
favour of such a cause, and such a scheme as the present
disturber of our peace sets out upon. And nobody but he
who can dispense with all the ties of conscience, who
can turn wrong into right, and the most atrocious crimes, of
perjury, treachery, rebellion, bloodshed, massacre, &c. into
services meriting even in the sight of God, is fit to pray for
the success of a scheme that can never prosper without the
assistance of all these, which therefore he hath not only
dispensed with, but authorized for that very purpose. As
the pretender cannot possibly carry his design into full

304

THE CHEVALIER'S HOPES.

execution without being guilty himself of perjury and
treachery of the blackest nature, without prevailing on the
leading men of these kingdoms, the commanders of fleets
and armies, the officers of the crown, &c. to betray the trust
reposed in them by a country extremely bountiful to them,
and to trample on their honour, promises, and vows ; with-
out arming us against each other, and wading through an
ocean of blood; without involving millions of innocent and
harmless people, in the general desolation of three king-
doms; as, I say, he can never hope to arrive at the throne
without this and a great deal more of the like nature, it can-
not but seem strange to a Christian, that such a scheme of
means in order to such an end, should be dictated and
blessed by the universal father of the church. It is a mys-
tery which transcends our comprehension, and is sufficient
to try the utmost resignation of a Papist, that the pope,
and all the Romish clergy, should be now on their knees,
earnestly soliciting the infinitely good and gracious God to
bless and prosper such a scheme; that they should be
praying to Christ (who with his own mouth commands all
his followers to bless and curse not) to curse their fellow-
Christians ; to Christ who bids us pray for those who per-
secute us, to intercede for a scheme of persecution; to
Christ who by one of his apostles assures us, that the wrath
of man worketh not the righteousness of God, to reclaim the
Protestants by the sword, by fire and faggot ; to Christ,
who by another, condemns the doing of evil that good may
come of it, to advance the cause of what they call the true re-
ligion,by perjury, treachery, murder, &c. Praying, in short,
to a God of infinite truth, to bless and prosper falsehood and
treachery of the grossest nature ; to a God of infinite justice,
to bless the darkest iniquity and the most outrageous vio-
lence ; to a God of infinite goodness and mercy to bless a
scene of bloodshed and cruelty, w hich neighbours, relations,
brothers, are to act on one another. Happy is that church
and great its privileges, that hath a right to solicit God for
such favours, and to expect they should be granted ! and
wretched is the case of poor Protestants, who are excluded
from the privilege of praying, or hoping for things in them-
selves reasonable and just.

To consult w ith the devil about a scheme, and in concert

THE CHEVALIERS HOPES.

305

with him, to pitch upon one of the most foul and infernal
that author of evil can invent, and then gravely to apply to
God to second and prosper that scheme, is a species of
piety, which the popes and the church of Rome have
claimed and enclosed to themselves ; and I hope no Protes-
tant church will ever think of breaking in upon that pale,
or making so free with Almighty God.

Such are the assistances from abroad, on which the in-
vader of our peace relies. He is not without hopes of
mighty aids from within ourselves. As to those the High-
landers have lent him, they are not to be numbered among
his hopes ; they have already to the eternal shame of two
regiments of dragoons, gained him a victory ; it is however
to be supposed, he expected to be joined by all the inha-
bitants of the Scottish mountains ; but they are not all mad,
some of them have behaved with uncommon bravery and
fidelity to the government ; and it is to be hoped that most
of those, who for his sake have ungratefully forfeited their
allegiance to a most indulgent king, will for their ownsakes
soon prove as untrue to their new master.

His next hopes are in the Papists of Great Britain and
Ireland, especially the latter. It is natural to all men to
advance the religion they have most at heart, and for that
end to desire a king of their own persuasion. To attempt
this by such means as the law of God, and a well-informed
conscience will allow, is what no rational man can blame
them for, because it is what he himself in the like circum-
stances would or ought to do ; but for such as have already
the free exercise of their religion, and are secure of it as
long as they carry, as becomes good subjects; for such as
have their lives, their properties, their liberties, ensured
them by the same equal laws with their Protestant neigh-
bours, for such as have all these blessings maintained to
them in the most ample manner, after having so often with
the blackest treachery and cruelty, endeavoured to ruin the
constitution, and cut the throats of their indulgent protec-
tors, for such men, so generously spared and indulged, to
betake themselves again to night-risings, and bloody mas-
sacres, which are all the assistances they can at present lend
the pretender, is to act w ith the foulest ingratitude, and the
most detestable treachery ; is, in short, to act against all
vol. v. x

306

THE CHEVALIER'S HOPES.

the ties of nature, and all the laws of God. Great as the
influence of their clergy may have been in darker ages over
the consciences of that people, I can hardly think they
will be able at this time of day to bring them into such
horrid measures. A thinking Roman Catholic cannot but
be sensible, that the lowest privileges enjoyed in a free
country, are infinitely preferable to the highest, under an
absolute government. He who hath the least share of
liberty among those who are free, is more his own master
than the most dignified slave. The Papists of Ireland, as
they share in the gentle discouragements the island in ge-
neral lies under, have fewer privileges than those of Great
Britain ; and yet even they have more liberty, more means
of enriching and making themselves happy, and of entail-
ing that happiness on their posterity, than the subjects of
France and Spain, where the poorer people, though Catho-
lics, are under the melancholy impossibility of ever rising
above canvas cloths, wooden shoes, and black bread; and
the richer possess the fruits of their industry only at the
discretion of that arbitrary power under which they groan;
where those who are in best circumstances only manage
their fortunes for the king, and those who have nothing but
a life, will never be able to call it their own, till their kings
and queens have as much of the world as they and their
families can desire. Can the Irish, in the service of the
house of Bourbon, forget the expedition to Oran, and the
siege of Philipsburgh, at the latter of which places they
served rather as fascines than soldiers, and suffered such
hardships as forced them to fly from their French friends
whom they had served at the expense of health, and the
peril of their lives, to the English, whose laws they had
violated by entering into foreign service, and whose rela-
tions they had massacred in 1641 ? So much safer is it to
offend the government of England than to serve that of
France. Have the Irish at home forgot that France so
lately treated their countrymen in this manner, when she
stood in the utmost need of their services ? and do they ex-
pect belter usage from her, should she come to lord it over
them by her deputy the Chevalier ? Are they insensible of
the treatment their poor scholars get at Douay and St.
Omers, where they are fed with scraps of bad food, and

THE CHEVALIER'S HOPES.

307

worse learning ; where they are never encouraged to hope
for the least preferment, and from whence they are reira-
ported with no other qualifications than such as are neces-
sary to keep a poor unhappy people in ignorance, that they
maybe the perpetual tools of France and Rome, as long as
the avarice of the one, and the ambition of the other, shall
have occasion for them? If those who are tutored up to
deceive them, were content to impose on their understand-
ings a set of subtle errors, political and religious, it would
be no wonder if they should not be able to see through
them ; but when nothing less will serve their turn, than
persuading them to prefer slavery to liberty, to believe that
bread is flesh, and wine blood, and that a God of truth and
mercy will bestow heaven on them for betraying and mur-
dering their benefactors; is it not astonishing that so gross
an imposition can be passed upon them, especially as they
live among neighbours more enlightened, and may here
have leave to read the word of God ? But it seems to be
the severest part of the curse inflicted on them for the most
unheard of barbarities and massacres, that they are given
up to be deluded by the same spirit of infatuation, that
produced those\errible effects in former times. The highest
and most powerful subject in France hath nothing he can
call his own, let his loyalty be what it will. The lowest
and poorest subject in these nations is at the defiance of
the king, as long as he conforms himself to the laws. The
subjects of France can have liberty of conscience, although
stipulated for by the most solemn treaties, only at the peril
of their lives. The Papists here may outwardly profess,
and publicly avow that religion, which so often shook the
throne, and sheathed the swords and knives of its profes-
sors in the bowels of their benefactors. In France, Spain,
&c. every body is forced to be of one religion ; here those
may choose a religion agreeable to their consciences, who
think it any privilege to have a choice in matters of the
highest consequence.

I hope the Roman Catholics of Ireland will rightly un-
derstand the above expressions, by which the author is
far from intending to reflect on them, considered merely as
a people. I know no nation under the sun more naturally
humane and averse to blood, and, when left to themselves,
x 2

.308

THE CHEVAI.IEU's HOPES.

more grateful and faithful than the native Irish : what then
must we think of their religion, which we see is capable of
transforming tbem into the most outrageous savages, into the
most treacherous and bloody assassins ? Nay, what must
their own good natured hearts teach them to think of it, were
they allowed to think at all ? Divines may attack the church
of Rome with a thousand scholastic and technical arguments
about transubstantiation, about supererogation, about the
worship of saints and images, about praying in an unknown
tongue, &c. but these surely are needless, since it is impos-
sible that religion should come from God which inspires
rebellion on principles, which lays it as a duty on the con-
science to break faith, commit murder, or do any thing
that God and nature abhors, or the devil can tempt us to.
What need of farther arguments ? Is it possible a rational
creature should swallow such enormous lumps of error and
wickedness for true religion? No, but the devotees of that
church are first taught to renounce their senses and their
reason, and then in that condition even such impositions
as these are not too gross to go down.

There is this difference between the spirit of Popery
and the Reformation, that where Papists have the power,
they persecute and destroy, without the smallest provoca-
tion, all such as are forced by their consciences to dissent
from them. Whereas, in countries where Protestants have
the upper hand, they tolerate, nay, protect the Papists after
the most grievous provocations, and knowing the danger-
ous tendency of their principles, which they still avow,
treat them as if they thought them fit to be trusted. Let
him who hath but the smallest share of sense and reason,
judge which of the two follows the example of Christ, who
would not call down fire from heaven to consume those who
refused to receive him, who died healing and praying for
his persecutors. But what avails it to plead the example of
Christ, or to urge his precepts? Were Christ now to ap-
pear at Rome, he would not be deemed a Christian ; he
would be treated as a heretic, he would find a new san-
hedrim in the inquisition, he would be excommunicated
from his only true and Catholic church, and that not
by a written form, not by a mere bull or anathema, but by
a form, called fire and fagot. He would in short be not

THE CHEVALIER'S HOPES.

309

only shut out of the church, but expelled the world, and
sent again to his Father in the chariot of Elijah; and all
this for speaking'against the spirit, and acting against the
power and credit of the Roman Catholics, that is, the par-
ticular universal church.

Should our Papists rise in favour of the pretender, let
them remember that as the Protestants are great in their
mercy and forbearance, so are they great also in their
courage, and love of liberty ; let them consider that the
present Protestants are the offspring of those men whom
their fathers armed, inured to war, and supported by greater
heads and higher powers, never faced in 1641 nor 1688, but
to their shame and ruin; let them consider that as in such
a case their adversaries are to sell their all, they will infal-
libly sell it at the highest price ; and let them also consider
with terror, that should a noble spirit, exerted to the ut-
most for a glorious cause, make them once more victorious,
how is it to be supposed they will treat a people, whom
they have so often found perfidious and bloody ? What
terms are a conquered people to expect, whose religious
principle it is to keep no terms nor measures with others ?
If this paper should be read by any of that deluded and
unhappy people, let them seriously weigh what hath been
said above, and take this timely caution from a real and
most affectionate friend, whose heart trembles and bleeds
for them on this critical occasion.

Let them not think their cause of rising more just on a
national account, and because they had a prior right to this
land we live in, and be by that means vainly induced to
hope for the assistance of Almighty God ; for it was God,
who for wise ends mixes the nations of the world, sometimes
by commerce, and sometimes by conquest, that sent the
English into Ireland, as he did the Normans into England,
and the Romans into Gaul, to civilize a barbarous nation,
to quash their continual intestine wars, to introduce arts,
sciences, and learning, and thereby prepare the way for
sound religion and good laws ; besides, upon their own
principle, they themselves must quit the country, for they
were neither the aborigines, nor first seizers of the land :
but there is no country, now known to us, possessed by the
race of its first inhabitants. God often sends the sword

310

THE CHEVALIER'S HOPES.

to chastise barbarism and vice, and to introduce the pen ;
insomuch that it was happy for many nations, that they
were conquered and forced to make room for others. Had
not the Irish been persuaded by foreign priests and politi-
cians, who practise on them for their own ends, to shut
their eyes against the light that shines so clearly and dif-
fusively over their country, they had not been so many
hundred years behind the rest of Europe in improvement,
they had been long since qualified for, and advanced to,
the most honourable places their country hath to bestow ;
nay, had they even retained the whole of Popery, excepting
such principles as tend to treason and rebellion, they had
still been the makers of their own laws, they had still been
at liberty to administer them to themselves. It is not the
Reformation, nor the Constitution, nor the laws in being,
that exclude them from places of trust and honour ; it is
their own false principles, that gave birth to the exclusive
laws, and still continue to rivet them to the earth in igno-
rance and obscurity. If he who might have shone in par-
liament or the government, is now condemned to wield a
spade or wait on sheep, let him thank his good friends in
Italy and France for it, let him thank the untoward genius
of his religion for it, nay, let him thank it for his exclusion
from infinitely higher promotion in the kingdom of that
God, who is truth and love itself, and of those benevolent
beings who abhor the traitor and the murderer, whose
robes, far from being dyed in the blood of their fellow
creatures, have been whitened in the blood of the Lamb.

The present Papists of Ireland scruple not to say, they
detest the perfidy and cruelty of their ancestors, and would
rather represent the spirit that prompted them to it, as a
national than an ecclesiastical spirit. But we know the
good nature of the Irish, and the recorded cruelty of Po-
pery too well, to be mistaken in this, although the spirit of
Popery hath not for a century past, shone in bonfires made
of Protestants bodies, it was only for want of power and
opportunity. An unerring church cannot change her prin-
ciples, nor must her sons pretend to dispute them or her
commands ; whoever does, though it were to save the throat
of his Protestant father or wife, becomes by his heretical
tenderness a Protestant and a heretic himself, and as

THE CHEVALIER'S HOPES.

311

such must expect to be damned. Although the volcano
hath made but two small eruptions, viz. at Thorne and
Saltzburg, during the last hundred years, yet may we still
see its smoke, and smell its brimstone, and concluding from
thence it is by no means extinguished, expect from it an-
other flood of fire and devastation.

If the Papists of Ireland would be thought to have laid
aside the black infernal spirit, I have been speaking of,
why do they not crowd to the magistrates and take the
oath of allegiance ? But methinks I hear them objecting,
that such a conduct would gain them no credit with the go-
vernment, inasmuch as it will still be supposed, they ex-
pect to be released from that oath by the pope's dispensa-
tion. Unhappy people ! who as they cannot be tied like
other men, so neither can they be believed or trusted. All
they have left is to be quiet and loyal, that their conduct
may vouch for them what they cannot effectually utter,
either by oaths or declarations, and by that means come in
time to merit indulgence.

The next hope of the chevalier is founded on the Pres-
byterians. He looks upon those of them in England and
and Ireland to be so chagrined at the Test Act, and their
brethren in Scotland so dissatisfied on their account, and
because of the union, as to give him a good chance to be
joined by the greater number of them, and to obtain a neu-
trality from the rest, in this he hath found himself almost
wholly mistaken, having as yet got almost nothing from the
church of Scotland, but its sweepings, consisting of a dis-
solute and desperate rabble, who ought never to be
reckoned to any church. As their adherence to that church
could give no credit to it, so neither ought their defection
to reflect on it. The Presbyterians are firm Protestants,
and loyal subjects, and fond of liberty. In all these dif-
ferent respects, they are incapable of promoting any scheme
recommended from Rome, abetted by France and Spain,
and calculated to extirpate all civil and religious liberty.
They have their discontents, the merits of which I shall not
here pretend to discuss ; but they are only the discontents
of brothers, which will never hinder them from arming
against a common enemy, and following the example of
their fathers in the late revolution, whose aversion to the

312

THE CHEVALIER'S HOPES.

church of England was greater than that of their sons, and
yet they drew their swords in her defence and their own,
with such a heart and good will, that they were felt to the
quick at every blow. Some hot-headed people among them,
it is true, may perhaps speak like malcontents, but this is
not to characterize the whole body, the sense of which we
are to take from their loyal and affectionate addresses, and
their importunate call for arms to defend the Protestant
cause. The common enemies of us, and all that is dear to
us, do all the.y can, to revive old grudges, and sow the seeds
of new ; but they will find that Protestants of all denomi-
nations have too much sense to be caught with such chaff,
and understand themselves and their adversaries too well,
to let the enemies of the Reformation gloss the sentiments
of the reformed churches to one another. It is not a Pa-
pist, nor a rebel, that will be permitted to tell the church
of England, what her sister of Scotland thinks of her, nor to
carry back the answer. All our unhappy divisions have
hitherto taken their rise from artifices of this nature, or
drawn their poison from them : but God be thanked they
are now seen through, and become so stale, that hardly a
child is to be ensnared by them : the dissenters of England
and Ireland are not to be told the difference between their
condition and that of their brethren in France; they have
sense enough to see a less glaring disparity; and while
they behold the Hugonots flying every day from Popery and
tyranny into these happy countries of liberty and reforma-
tion, it will be hard to persuade them to fiy quite the con-
trary way, to Popery and arbitrary power; from the arms
of a limited and Protestant government. As to their causes
of discontent, than which nothing among us is more to be
lamented, there are those who if our common enemy were
once removed, would lay a scheme before the legislature,
which may possibly satisfy all parties. This hope of the
pretender is so ill grounded, that it needs not a farther re-
futation ; it ought indeed to be treated only with scorn and
silence.

The next hope of his which I shall take a short notice
of, will, I trust in God, prove as airy and idle as the former.
He hopes to be assisted by many of our nobility and gentry,
and of those who preside over our fleets and armies. As to

THE CHEVALIERS HOPES.

313

the first, I need only say, that men who live in ease and
opulence are not apt to wish for changes, much less are
they likely to be the active promoters of revolutions, in
which their fortunes are to be staked at a very uncertain
game with those w ho have none : however, there are
bubbles in this sort of game as w ell as that of hazard ; and
I will by no means promise for all our estated gentlemen,
that they will have sense enough to consider the difference
between a certain and a very precarious fortune, which lat-
ter is, all they can hope for upon the promises of the pre-
tender, in case a revolution should take place.

As to the commanders and officers of the fleet and army,
they too have all they can desire, and more a great deal than
they could expect by a change, though it were of their own
making. Should they take money for treason, what could
they do with it in a ruined country and under an arbitrary
power? Is it to be supposed they will listen to promises of
promotion from one, w ho comes out of the very mint of dis-
pensations, or that they can hope to be trusted by a person
to whom they have betrayed their former bountiful master?

As to both the gentry and the officers, they have long
eaten the bread of a delightful country, and enjoyed in it a
series of golden days ; is it to be supposed they have no gra-
titude, no love for such a country, no desire to continue in
so happy a condition? or is it to be supposed they have
no regard to their honour, or the solemnity of their oaths ?
The pretender, in expecting any assistance from them,
makes them the compliment aloud to tell them, they are the
most despicable of all fools, and the most low and detesta-
ble of all knaves. But I hope he shall find in every single
man of them the great soul and the heroic spirit of colonel
Gardiner, who like a good man, and in that I comprehend
a wise one, chose to fall in the cause of G od and his country,
rather than to protract a wretched life, made infamous by
the character of a coward and a traitor, till some fever or
worse disorder should put an end to it with the agonies of
a month or a year.

But if through the extreme decay of religion in all sorts
and orders of men, honour alone, as it usually happens,
should prove too slender a tie fo keep the conduct of such
men w ithin the bounds of duty, it affords a melancholy sa-

314

THE CHEVALIER'S HOPES.

tisfaction to foresee, that they themselves must reap the
first-fruits of their own perfidy.

Again, the pretender reckons to his party, and not with-
out reason, the bulk of those who are dissatisfied with the
present administration. There are in all communities,
though ever so well governed, numbers of people, who are
not so near the head of affairs as they could wish, nor pro-
moted according to their own opinion of their abilities :
others who are well enough pleased to see our trade en-
larged and protected, and our enemies humbled, are never-
theless not so well pleased to share in the necessary ex-
penses previous to the doing this, as in the profits arising from
it ; and therefore not only grumble at all sorts of taxes, but
have a thousand objections to the application of the funds
arising from thence ; they would have a great deal done,
but they would have it done for nothing.

These economists, in the reign of queen Anne, made a
prodigious outcry about the expenses of that glorious war
she carried on with France, and at length prevailed so far
by their representations, as to procure us a separate peace,
which saved indeed the expenses of another campaign, but
left us to pay ourselves about sixty millions, and an ocean
of blood expended on that war, which France must have
paid us, had we gone on but another summer, and given us
a much better peace into the bargain.

As all men are politicians, every one passes his cen-
sure on what is a doing by those at the helm ; and without
understanding in the least, either the posture of our domes-
tic and foreign affairs, or the springs and motives of the
public conduct, are seldom satisfied, unless things go to
their own minds. It is true, continual prosperity and suc-
cess are all they desire from their governors ; but they do
not consider how much their own meddling humours and
clamours contribute to frustrate their expectations ; how
often accidents, which there was no foreseeing, and the
contrary pursuits of our allies, whom on some occasions
there is no reducing either to our interest or their own,
make the wisest measures, the very worst that could have
been employed. These sort of political maggots, are al-
ways engendered in the greatest numbers, where the sun-
shine of freedom is warmest. No country ever swarmed

THE CHEVALIER'S HOPES.

315

more with them than our own, in which there are crowds
of hireling writers, who scribble in the pay of France, and
feed them with pamphlets and weekly scraps of disaffec-
tion, which they purchase for more by the year than they
pay in taxes, as suicides buy poison from the apothecary
for their own use. They may be justly compared to men
in a fever, who ascribe that uneasiness which arises from
within themselves, to the bed or the posture they are in, and
therefore can never be a moment quiet, but are always
turning from side to side, and always find themselves less
at ease in every new situation. If these men, by the as-
sistance they are disposed to lend the pretender, should
enable him to new model our affairs, they will find them-
selves, to their unspeakable disappointment, in the same
condition with those, who in the days of Cromwell, being
unable to endure the government of a good king, plotted
and fought till they had given themselves a tyrant; after
whose death, having an opportunity of trying their own
skill in the art of governing, they soon became more impa-
tient of their own tyranny, than they had been of his, and
were forced to call home the king.

As to the nonjurors, who sacrifice all to conscience,
although on political considerations, they may think them-
selves obliged to stand on the pretender's side, yet when
they consider that this cannot be done, without helping to
introduce Popery, if they have not totally divested them-
selves of all regard for the Reformation, they will hardly
desire to set so rigid a Papist on the throne ; but if their
consciences are only political, and so little regulated by
Scripture as not to obey the powers that be, that are ordain-
ed of God, they will join the party of the pretender, to
which, however, for our comfort they will add but little
weight or influence, for they are few, they are poor, they
are but parsons.

Tis no small cause of satisfaction to all, who regard
either our country or our religion, that no man can be of
the pretender's party, without at the same time declaring
against common sense or common honesty. It is to be the
sink of other disappointed pretenders to places, which no
one but themselves ever thought them fit for ; of villains
who could not get leave to rob the nation under the shelter

316

THE CHEVALIER'S HOPES.

of its constitution ; of bankrupts who have no other way to
pay their debts but by revolutions ; of thieves and vaga-
bonds, who hope under him to rise from picking of pockets
to plundering of houses and cities; of felons spewed out
of their country by transportation, and returning like evil
spirits to haunt the house out of which they have been ex-
orcised by the law ; of murderers who were forced to fly
for blood, which having tasted, their infernal minds are
athirst for more ; of Deists, and Atheists, and rakehells,
who having made a wild waste of conscience, character, and
fortune, fly to Popery to salve the first, and to rebellion, to
repair the other two ; of the tools in short of France, of
Rome, of tyranny and superstition, who have no views nor
interests to push at, but such as they share in with the au-
thor of all evil. Such is the goodly muster about the
standard of the pretender, from whom an honest man would
be ashamed to accept of even a kingdom, if they had it to
give : but I hope this rebellion will prove only a purge to
our body politic, and work out the noxious, but latent hu-
mours, which the law was not able to throw off.

"Would to God I could say, that the next and last hope
of the pretender, which I shall take notice of, were as ill
founded as those I have already considered ! Although he
hath no reason to hope for success from the merits of either
his title or his party, which summed up all together, amount
to nothing ; yet from our demerits, from our corruption both
in principle and practice, he hath but too great cause of
hope. We have, it is true, a form of godliness, a reforma-
tion of religion, established among us by law; but (I trem-
ble when I utter it) that form and that reformation are
hardly to be found, but in books, and on paper. Look
into men, and you will find it either, generally speaking,
contemned or hated. It is a lamp in a deserted path,
where few or none care for walking. It is a treasure of
coin no longer current, for the image and superscription it
bears, is now esteemed of little or no value, and the metal
is regarded as base or counterfeit. In the name of com-
mon sense, what do they mean who talk as if they feared
the encroachments of Popery, and the abolition of our reli-
gion, although they are, or may be sensible they have no
religion to lose, nor any inlet for another? I see much said

THE CHEVALIER'S HOPES.

317

in general terras by the present occasional writers, about
our sins against God, and the necessity of a speedy repent-
ance ; but no man ventures to point particularly to those
sins, and to our national vices. This is a deadly symp'.om,
and looks as if we were so sore and tender in all parts, as
not to bear a touch, nor to be able to state the case of our
own disorders, or hear them traced to their true causes.

The great ones, to whom God hath given a sabbath
every day, w hile he asks but one in seven for himself, have
refused him that, and deserted his house and table; so that
unless it is to qualify for some place of profit, he seldom
receives the honour of a visit from them : but this is not all,
their conversation and their lives in general, speak an utter
contempt for all religion ; these are followed by the lower
ranks of men ; so that irreligion is now extending itself
down to its own natural station among the poor and igno-
rant. For a long time the apostles for libertinism and
Deism, sowed their tares with great caution and art, as it
were in the night, and even those who saw their art, being
glad to be deceived, sucked in with greediness their deli-
cious poison : at length their principles having taken suf-
ficient root, they openly ventured to inculcate the conse-
quences, and have published invectives against Christ and
virtue, which have been honoured with many editions, and
the author's pictures have found a place in the closets of
the great.

Infidelity hath also had its full share of encouragement
and promotion. I believe it would be a strange thing when
any considerable place is filled in the state, the army, or
the church itself, to hear it asked by the promoters, whether
this or that candidate be a sound Christian or not : this is
not inquired after as a necessary qualification even in a
divine, by which means many have got into high places
in the church, who have made no other use of their situa-
tion, but to propagate loose principles, and lay by great
fortunes for their families ; a mere market hath been made
of holy orders, and all the emoluments to which orders can
be made a stepstone : our creed, articles, and rubric have
been openly attacked by those who subscribed them, and
solemnly engaged at the altar of God to defend them;
while others who disapproved of this conduct, have pru-

318

THE CHEVALIER'S HOPES.

dently winked at it, and like dumb dogs stood silently
looking on; the Lord that bought us, is openly denied by
great numbers, who are yet impudent enough to call them-
selves Christians. While Christ's honour is idolatrously
given by the Papists to saints and angels, and those who
are no gods ; it is profanely denied to himself by Arians
and Socinians ! While all this is a doing, there are no
convocations to check the growth of infidelity, nor do these
nations render God one public testimony, by any single act
of their care for the purity of his religion. Our conduct is
such, as if we gave up the whole Christian cause at once.
If the interest of trade, or the management of the revenue
were thus wholly neglected by the public, what would be-
come of the nation ? And is the religion of the country no
national concern ? No country under heaven ever thought
so but our own, or if any did, it soon paid a dear price for
its neglect.

I have here in a few words, touched on the general cause
of those enormous impieties and vices that reign over these
degenerate countries, and insult the Majesty of heaven.
We have within these few years seen one company of gen-
tlemen interrupting divine service on Sunday, and in the
open church, with a game of cards, and another consecrat-
ing a mock sacrament, and administering it to twelve dogs,
with a triumphant impunity ! Many blasphemies here and
in England, where they are not satisfied with toasting the
glorious memory of Oliver Cromwell, but proceed to drink
the devil's health, have sounded the hideous prelude to
Atheism, to something worse than Atheism. These things
are shamefully overlooked as matters of little import ; but
I must take the liberty to say that those who have power
to restrain such practices for the present, and prevent them
for the future, but neglect to do it, are as much the ene-
mies of God, as those who openly bid defiance to him ; and
do but blaspheme him with the impious tongues of other
men : perhaps since men have given up the honour of God,
the time is drawing on, when he will judge it proper to as-
sert it himself, and be his own avenger.

Comets, some philosophers hold, are sent to reinvigo-
rate the springs of nature, and rekindle the decreasing heat
of planets, by certain preternatural effusions : who knows

THE CHEVALIERS HOPES.

319

but the wise God, whose ways are past finding out, observ-
ing the genuine warmth of religion almost extinguished
among us, and Christian zeal frozen to an icicle, is sending
the comet of Popery to visit these kingdoms, in order either
to give new life and fire to the zeal of Protestants, or to
consume a people, who cannot be warmed by a milder or
more genial degree of heat.

Bad principles never fail to beget suitable practices.
Thorns do not produce grapes, nor thistles figs ; but bad
principles, assisted by the most shocking examples in those
who lead the world, have given an assured countenance,
and full range, to all sorts of vices in their most enormous
excesses. The price of an oath is as well known as that
of any other commodity: justice is every where most
grievously perverted. The public is on many interesting
occasions sold and betrayed. No man knows whom to
trust; and no wonder, for every one being conscious of
the infidelity of his own heart, suspects those of his neigh-
bours to be as false and faithless.

There are but a few left, who lament the sad and dan-
gerous condition, to which we are reduced ; and those few
are despised as enthusiasts, or hated as pretended re-
formers : their lives and conversations are a standing re-
buke to the abominable age they live in, and therefore
there is a general cry against them : it might be said of
this or the other age that it was wicked : but the peculiar
characteristic of our age is, that it is wicked upon principle,
that is, avowedly wicked.

Many others there are, who because liberty and pro-
perty are interwoven with the Christian religion in our
establishment, shew in conversation some seeming regard,
and cold concern for that religion : but it is too evident
they wish its prosperity only for its brethren and compa-
nions' sake, because they do nothing for it ; nay, they sa-
crifice it on all occasions to what is falsely dignified with
the name of prudence, and to worldly interest ; they kiss
it, and sell it, as the first of their class did its blessed au-
thor. They call out for repentance, but lend not a finger
to that necessary work themselves, though if they look in-
ward they cannot but see how mainly their own conduct
hath swelled the sins of the nation.

320

THE CHEVALIERS HOPES.

At such a church and nation as this, thus tottering with
its own unsoundness, thus self-subverted or inviting a sub-
verter, the pretender is now pushing with a power, that
would be despicable if opposed to a body less infirm : but
as it is a miserable situation to be at sea in a rotten vessel,
while most of the sailors are drunk and the winds a little
too boisterous, so he hath some reason to be afraid, whose
all depends on the fate of a country, made up of people so
slenderly tied to that country, and to one another ; for I
must insist on it, that no tie but the tie of conscience can
afford sufficient security in times of such temptation to
treachery, and of so great and general danger as the pre-
sent. Religion is the great band of society, and when that
hath lost its hold of most people, particularly of those
whose fidelity is of the greatest importance to their country,
the honesty of the religious few is not sufficient to cement
the rest ; and therefore, there is hardly any other commu-
nity left than that of living near one another, which nothing
but necessity could make any man prefer to absolute soli-
tude. If we consult the nature of things, we shall find that
civil dissolution and ruin must follow, as the unavoidable
consequence of a general departure from the principles of
honesty and integrity, which are no other than those of re-
ligion, for no man is honest but he who is religious. And
if we consult ourselves, whether we have generally fallen
away from these principles or not, I am much afraid we
shall find ourselves too far gone, to have more than a very
precarious dependence on one another. We are a wealthy,
we are a numerous, and have hitherto been esteemed a
brave people ; what will our wealth and numbers now
avail us, if we are capable of being turned into traitors,
and enemies to one another? Our own weight will only
serve to throw us down, and dash us to pieces in the fall.

If we have little reason to trust in ourselves, 1 am afraid
we have as little to hope for an extraordinary interposition
of Providence in our favour. How many and how signal
have been the deliverances wrought for us by the imme-
diate and visible arm of God, when nothing but that arm,
could have saved us ! not to recur to the providential dis-
appointments of our enemies' schemes in former times,
which are now forgotten, or only remembered as obsolete

THE CHEVALIER'S HOPES.

321

blessings, I shall just take notice of one, which, although
it happened as it were but the other day, is however al-
ready cancelled by its own antiquity : Ml things were ready
about this time last year at Dunkirk for a dangerous inva-
sion on England, which would have thrown these three
kingdoms into convulsions. Our fleets were not prepared
to guard us against the blow, we had no force at home suf-
ficient to repel it, and the French fleet put to sea ; but be-
fore they could make the short passage intended, a most
outragious storm fell upon them from the west, blew them
back upon their own shores, and those of Flanders, and for
that time defeated their design. Was it the boasted power
of England that parried this dangerous thrust? No, we
ascribed it to chance and the winds, and so went on in our
wickedness : whereas nothing could be more manifest, than
that it was a new and gracious act of divine goodness, scatter-
ing our enemies, and wooing us to gratitude and repentance.

How can we tell now after so long a contest between
gross and shameful ingratitude on our part, and mercy on
the part of God, in which it is hard to say whether his love
or our unworthiness was most amazing, how can we tell,
whether his compassion for us is not at an end ? If we are
to draw our conjectures either from the present disposition
of our own minds towards God, which are far enough from
affording any hopes of a hearty return to him, or from the
unexpected and signal defeat of our army in the first en-
gagement with the present invader, we have little reason
to conclude that God is any longer on our side : we are
not, it seems, to be overcome by goodness : what then is
to be expected ? We must feel the rod, for he who governs
the world will never suffer us to continue as we are. Such
a permission would be as inconsistent with his mercy, as
it is with his wisdom and justice; for we should only in-
crease in impiety and wickedness, and entail both on a
wretched posterity.

On this consideration the pretender founds, or ought to
found his chief hopes, that though his cause should not be
approved of by God, and much less the means made use of
to support it, yet as the measure of our sins seems to be
filled up, he hopes God will desert us, and give us over into
his hands.

vol. v. Y

322

the chevalier's HOPES.

How then are we to render this hope of his vain, and
our own fears needless ? There is but one way, to repent
and return to God with all our hearts, and with all our
strength, to renounce our inGdelity and coldness towards
our infinite benefactor, to put away from before his all-
seeing eyes, the manifold and monstrous provocations,
which our bad principles have tempted us to insult
him with, to throw ourselves with unfeigned sorrow and
deep humility before him, and in the anguish of souls
more concerned for their sins than their temporal dangers,
to cry mightily to him for pity and pardon ; ' for who can
tell, if God will turn and repent, and turn away from his
fierce anger that we perish not :' although the present dis-
turber of our peace, should be only sent to correct and to
try us a little, and when that is done, should be driven out,
yet, have we nothing afterward to fear? Is there no other
instrument in the hand of divine vengeance to chastise a
hardened people, whom neither corrections can awaken,
nor mercies win ? Yes, even we can be our own destroyers ;
and I know no judgment more severe, than to leave such a
people to themselves.

If we would not have that liberty taken from us, which
we have miserably abused, and turned into a shameless li-
centiousness ; if we would not have our candlestick re-
moved, and the light of the gospel, which hath shone so
long and so gloriously among us, extinguished ; if we
would not have those riches, in which we have wantoned
at so wild a rate, rent away by a band of robbers and
cut-throats ; if we would not have that peace and se-
curity, in which we have corrupted ourselves, and set-
tled upon the lees of national and habitual vices, totally
subverted by a lasting war, and the most miserable confu-
sion, and put under an impossibility of being ever restor-
ed, but by absolute slavery, let us, in the name of God, re-
pent, and let our king, our nobility, our bishops, our gentry
and clergy lead the way. Their example will work power-
fully on the lower ranks of men, provided it shines with due
lustre in their conversations, in their actions, in the church,
and at the altar. So shall we once again become such a
people, as God may delight to bless and dwell with. Then
shall the Lord of hosts, and the God of battles go out with

THE CHEVALIERS HOPES.

323

our armies, and give us new Cressys, Agincourts, and
Blenheims. Then shall the winds and the storms make
new alliances with our fleets, to ruin those of our invaders.
No enemy shall be able to disturb us at home, nor resist us
abroad ; and the many blessings we have long enjoyed, and
had almost forfeited by our ingratitude, shall be entailed
on us and our posterity, until we cease to ensure them to
ourselves, by our piety and virtue.

I know there are few people who care to be troubled
with such thoughts as these ; and of those few who will bear
with me thus far, some will be offended and others will
make a jest of what T have said ; but I speak in the cause
of God and my country, and as I know every good man
must think and speak as I have done, so I shall little re-
gard either the scoffs of atheistical fools, or the rage of over-
weening and malicious men.

Y 2

THE NECESSITY

TILLAGE AND GRANARIES :

A LETTER

TO

A MEMBER OF PARLIAMENT.

LIVING IN THE COUNTY OF—

In qua terra culturam agri docuerunt pastores progeniem suam, qui condiderunt ur-
bem : ibi contra progenies eorum, propter avaritiam, contra leges, ex segctibus
fecit prata, ignorantes non idem esse agriculturam et pastionern.

Varro de Re Rustica. lib. 2.

Sir,

Your entreaties are no longer to be resisted. I will now
send you, in writing, the substance of what past between
us some years ago on the subject of tillage. This I shall
do the more willingly, because the distress of two dear
years, added to those I then argued from, will probably
procure what I shall say a favourable hearing. Besides,
I have reason to think, that as the nation is now become
more sensible of the necessity of tillage, and as a bill, I
hear, is preparing in favour of it, you and your friends,
may, by the help of such reasonings, as I shall lay before
you, be induced to second a design, on which I hope to
shew, that both the increase of your own private fortune,
and the welfare of your country depend. On the first of
those points I shall speak to you as the professor of a large
estate in land ; and on the second, as a representative and
guardian of your country.

I believe your estate including both your rents, and the

THE NECESSITY OF TILLAGE, &C. 325

profits of such grounds, as you hold in your own hands,
yields you about 2000/. yearly. The whole, excepting some
very inconsiderable patches, is grazed by black cattle,
mostly barren, and sheep.

If I can shew you, sir, that the same estate, under til-
lage, might produce you, and your tenants at the rate of
three and a half to one, more than it does at present under
pasturage, I hope what I shall say, will neither seem tedious
nor disagreeable to you. Though people are generally pre-
judiced in favour of such methods as they have grown up,
and prospered tolerably in, yet if other methods can be
shewn to be attended with a much greater profit, no preju-
dice is strong enough to hinder a rational man from quit-
ting his old ones and going over to the new.

Let us, if you please, sir, suppose thirty-six acres of
your rich and strong ground to be employed in grazing for
five years, and let us see what would be the neat profit,
which would arise out of the said ground during the time
mentioned.

There are three kinds of grazing usually practised in this
kingdom, that of milch cattle, that of dry cows and bullocks,
and that of sheep.

As to the first ; twenty-seven acres Irish measure will
graze twenty-one cows, and the remaining nine acres will
furnish them with hay. These twenty-one cows will pro-
duce twenty-one calves in the year, value . . 12 12 0

They will likewise produce besides suckling
their calves, twenty-one hundred of butter which
at 1/. 2s. per hundred come to 23 2 0

The buttermilk of the twenty-one cows, will
be worth in the year 19 16 0

55 10 0

As some of the cows may happen to cast their calves,
others miss bulling, and be liable to several other accidents
that may occasion a diminution of the milk, we may allow
in lieu thereof the winter's milk.

The profits of one year being 55/. 10s. the
profits of the five years will be 277 10 0

Out of the above sum of 277/. 10s. we must deduct
for the maintenance of a family to manage the dairy

326

THE NECESSITY OF

19/. 12s. 5c?. yearly, which in five years come to 981. 2s. Id.
The remaining neat profits will be 179/. 7s. 11c?.

The second kind of grazing, namely of dry cows and bul-
locks.

Thirty-six cows bought at May, and sold at All Saints
for 1?. per cow profit 36 0 0

Out of which, if we deduct for buying, sell-
ing, and herding, the sum of 1 12 6

The remainder will be 34 7 6

The clear profits for five years will be . . 171 17 6
The expenses and profits in respect to bullocks, need
not be computed, being nearly the same with those in the
case of dry cows, only as the profits arising from bullocks
are generally thought to be a small matter less than from
dry cows, I have therefore chosen to rest in the latter.

It will here be observed that I have allowed nothing for
the winter's grass. In this I have acted by the opinion of
the most experienced drovers, who think they rather gain
than lose by not trampling those pastures in the wet sea-
sons, nor grazing them in the spring, on which they intend
to fatten cattle the following summer. If we should allow
a fifth penny of the rent for the winter's grass ; in this case,
the grounds being grazed and trodden in the winter, will not
be able to fatten at the rate of a cow per acre the next sum-
mer ; and so twice as much will be lost in summer, as gained
in the winter.

As to the last kind of grazing, to wit, of sheep, it is very
difficult to form a regular computation of the profits arising
from thence. After having consulted with many persons
skilled in that kind of cattle, and finding they differed widely
in their sentiments, as to the removal of them from one kind
of ground to another, as to the cost occasioned by disorders,
as to the haying and wintering them, and as to the uncer-
tainty of the price which wool bears in different years, I
resolved to put the matter upon another footing. You know
the profits of sheep as well as most men. I have therefore
the less occasion to be particular in this letter on that arti-
cle. I shall take a shorter and a surer way.

Strong and rank grounds are not quite so fit for sheep-
walks, as those that are a degree lighter, and produce finer

TILLAGE AND GRANARIES.

327

grass. Now it is for the tillage of strong grounds, chiefly,
that I contend. And as to wet grounds, which usually throw
up a harsh and sour sort of herbage, they are very unfit for
sheep. But were they drained and cultivated, they would
often produce the richest crops of any kind of soil. Sheep
and tillage ought not therefore greatly to interfere.

But supposing the ground to be equally fit for tillage,
and grazing of all kinds; the profits arising from sheep could
not be much higher than those from black cattle ; because
were they considerably higher, every one would stock his
grounds with sheep, provided they were in the least fit for
the purpose. A great advantage, were there such, would
soon be perceived and generally pursued. But as on dif-
ferent parcels of the same ground, we frequently see droves
of black cattle and flocks of sheep, and those too often be-
longing to persons equally well skilled in both, and some-
times to the same man, we may be sure the profits on both
sides are nearly upon a par.

In the county of Louth, and great part of the county of
Meath, those grounds, which were formerly stocked with
sheep are now converted to tillage. This the inhabitants of
those counties learned from their neighbours in the North.
They know by this time, whether they have reason to re-
pent or rejoice in what they have done. But this every one
knows, that they go on ploughing, and producing such crops
as hinder them from ever thinking of returning to pasturage.
The counties of Dublin and Kildare are taking the useful
hint from Louth and Meath. I hope it will go farther.

But though from the above way of reasoning, in which
we can scarcely be mistaken, it follows that the profits of
black cattle and sheep are nearly equal, yet to cut matters
short I will allow those of sheep to exceed so much, that
the thirty-six acres above-mentioned shall produce yearly
21. more under sheep than they can under black cattle. Now
the highest profit in black cattle being 179/. 7s. lid. the
highest in sheep will be 189?. 7s. lid. This allowance I
make to prevent all objections, and cavils, which I am sure
it will do among the candid and skilful.

The whole profits then of thirty-six acres, Irish measure,
of good and strong ground under sheep for five years will
be 1891. 7s. lid.

328

THE NECESSITY OF

Having done more than justice to pasturage, I come now
in like manner to lay before you the expenses and profits of
the same thirty-six acres of strong and rich ground under
tillage for five years.

Your lands would very well bear to be ploughed at the
rate of once in two years. In the county of Down, where
the soil is generally but shallow and poor, the farmer usually
ploughs two thirds of his land. Surely then such land as
yours may very well bear to be ploughed at the rate of one
half. But supposing one third only to be kept always under
tillage, and the course of tillage to run for five years, the
cultivated third will produce as follows.

Expenses for five years in the tillage of twelve acres Irish
measure of good and rich ground in the North.
First year for a crop of wheat. £. s. d.

For three ploughings and two harrowings, at
15s. per acre 9/. Or if a fourth ploughing is
necessary 31. more to be added. For seed
wheat twelve barrels at 15s. per barrel 9/. For

reaping 3/. In all 24 0 0

Third year for a crop of oats.
For ploughing and harrowing 41. 16s. For seed
oats twenty-seven barrels at 4s. 8d. per barrel
61. 6s. For reaping 21. 8s. In all ... 13 10 0

Fourth year for ditto 13 10 0

Fifth year for a crop of flax.
For two ploughings and harrowing 71. 4s.
For flax-seed twelve barrels at 11. 8s. per bar-
rel 161. 16s. In all 24 4 0

Total of expenses 75 4 0

Profits arising from the above twelve acres in five years
under tillage.
Second year a crop of wheat.
For ninety-six barrels of wheat at 15s. per barrel 72 0 0

Third year a crop of oats.
For two hundred and fifty-two barrels at 4s. 8d.

per barrel 58 16 0

Fourth year ditto 58 16 0

TILLAGE AND GRANARIES. 329

Fifth year a crop of flax. £. s. d.

For flax sold on the foot at 71. 10s. per acre . 90 0 0

Total of profits 279 12 0

Out of which if we deduct the expenses amount-
ing to 75 4 0

The remaining profits of tillage will be. . . 204 8 0
Farther if the tithe of the grain be deducted,
viz 18 19 2

The neat profit will be 185 8 10

Thus it appears, sir, that the twelve acres in tillage will

yield within 3/. 19a. Id. as much as the whole thirty-six
acres under pasturage, so that all the profits arising out
of the twenty-four acres under pasturage is clear gains to
the husbandman over and above what the drover could
possibly make out of the whole thirty-six acres.

You are to note here, sir, that I suppose all the labour
of men and horses, required in the above scheme of tillage,
to be hired in, and have charged it against the husband-
man's profits accordingly.

It is usually objected to those who argue for tillage, by
the gentlemenwhose estates are grazed, that though a much
greater produce maybe raised out of the ground by tillage
than by grazing, yet as the tillage of even a small farm
cannot be carried on without a family, the maintenance of
such family will run away with the overplus profit, and so
the landlord will be never the richer.

In answer to this I will now shew, sir, that the mainte-
nance of the family is not taken out of the produce in til-
lage, but is obtained another way.

The maintenance of a farmer's family consisting of six per-
sons, four of whom are able to work during one year. And
first for their food.

To forty bushels of shelling, each bushel of which
will yield forty-five pounds in clean meal, and
equal to five pounds in seeds for flummery,
which altogether would bake into sixty pounds
of bread. This at 3s. per bushel amounts to > 6 0 0

To fifty-two bushels of potatoes at Is. per bushel 2 12 0

330

THE NECESSITY OF

To six quarts a-day of buttermilk or skim- £. s. d.

milk at a penny each day 1 10 5

To one hundred of skim-milk cheese ... .084
To one hundred of butter and do. of salt ..148

To an ordinary carcass of beef 10 0

To firing and hearth-money 1 10 0

To two roods of grou nd, digging, sowing, planting,

weeding, and seeds, for a garden .... 0 12 0

14 17 5

Note here, that good part of the above is yearly saved
by pottage made of whey, by lenten pottage, by slink, or
unthriving calves, by sheep likely to rot, by fowl and pigs
fed with whey and scattered corn.

Their clothing is as follows.
To seventeen half yards of country cloth or
frize at Is. per yard, which will make suits
for two men, to trimming and making . . 1 10 0

To eight pair of brogues, and four pair of stock-
ings for two men by the year 0 13 0

To thirteen yards of linen at 8d. per yard for
four shirts, and to making, and to two hats
for the two men in the year 0 12 0

As an ordinary gown and petticoat is cheaper
than a man's suit, and lasts much longer, and
as farmers' wives seldom wear any shoes or
stockings at home, and as the clothes of the
children are usually made up of old things,
we may allow for the clothing of the women
and children the same as for that of the men 2 15 0

Total for food and clothing 20 7 5

People in high life may think the above diet too poor
or scanty ; yet to such people as I have been speaking of
it is a sort of luxury. That it is however sufficient
appears by this, that every where in the north the journey-
men weavers are dieted at 18, 20, or 21 pence per week, as
is well known; and those who diet them would not do it
unless they gained by it.

To make it farther appear how sufficient the above al-

TILLAGE AXD GRANARIES.

331

lowance in diet is, let it be considered that a farmer, who
has eight cows gains at the calving of every cow eight milk-
ings of beestings, which boiled will make near a month's
food in the year for the family. This with eggs, the pro-
duce of the garden, &c. will make up a plenty which such
people seldom allow themselves.

And as to the allowance for clothes, it will likewise ap-
pear sufficient from this, that servants are clothed decently
on seven or eight shillings wages per quarter, and often save
so much as to keep themselves some months out of service.

On the other side, let us now see how the farmer can
enjoy such a plenty without living on the crop or at the
landlord's expense.

It is known that flax of our own produce sells £. s. d.
at about a groat a pound, and foreign flax at
about sixpence. A woman will spin about a
dozen of three dozen yarn in the day. The two
women then will spin two dozens in the day,
which will sell for 11 pence, out of which if
we take 3 pence for the flax, the remaining
8 pence make 4 shillings per week which in
the year is 10 8 0

We may allow the two men., who are able to
work, that sum which we allowed for plough-
ing and harrowing for the first year of tillage 9 0 0

This labour will be finished in about four
months.

As these men have their victuals from home, let
them be allowed to labour abroad during the
other eight months at 6frf. per day, which is
\\d. per day less than is allowed for labour in
the former account; or if they can't find
labour, let them turn their hands to some ma-
nufacture, that will bring them in so much,
which will amount to 11 5 4

Total profit arising from the work of the

family 30 13 4

Out of which sum if we deduct the expenses of

maintaining such a family 20 7 5

The family will then, besides maintaining them-

selves, have earned the clear sum ol ... 10 5 11

332

THE NECESSITY OF

Which will be sufficient for buying a plough, and
plough-tackle, little household furniture, and paying for
the feeding of the horses during the four months they are
employed in the labour of the farm. As to their feeding
during the rest of the year, if they are hired out they will
earn more than will feed them the whole year round.

It may be here objected, that both the men and women,
will of necessity, be sometimes called off to other work,
such as child-bearing, nursing, milking, churning, pulling
and handling flax, and that the men's work, as mentioned
above, does not continue through the whole year.

As to child-bearing and nursing, it is allowed some loss
of time must be suffered on those accounts ; yet this will not
be considerable. Such women are so inured to cold and
labour, that in lying in they won't lose near a fortnight,
especially as their work is mostly within doors. A new
born child sleeps most of the first three months, and it is
the practice of their mothers to hold the child on the right
knee, while they spin with their left hand. This such women
would not do for a mistress ; but the industrious always do
it for themselves. But if the women go to other kinds of
work, their labour must be as gainful as spinning, other-
wise they would not quit the wheel for it. For instance, if
they go to foot or win turf, their firing then, instead of
standing them in 1/. 10s. costs them no more than bog-rent.
If they pull and handle flax, and the men plough and har-
row the ground for it, then the flax stands them only in the
ground-rent and seed. So that what yarn soever is by these
works left unspun, more than an equal value is gained in
the turf, flax, and other work. As to the men's wanting
work in winter, and as to their hiring in work in harvest-
time, though they are not ploughing nor reaping, yet they
have their corn to thresh out, they may have marl to raise,
sand and dung to draw, drains to cut, and ditches to make.
Now these things will keep them pretty busy, and will in-
crease the produce of the ground greatly above the value of
their labour. For instance, if by laying on of marl, sand, or
dung, that field is made to produce a crop of barley, which
otherwise would have produced only oats, will not the dif-
ference of the crop more than double pay for their labour?
Or should ditches be made, will they not save herding,

TILLAGE AND GRANARIES.

333

drain the ground, make shelter for the corn and cattle, and
raise timber trees for the benefit of the landlord, as well as
for the ornament of his estate? Or if more hands than the
two men are wanting to cut down the corn, they will rarely
need to hire others, because their own women will do as
well, and will then change their spinning at 4rf. per day for
reaping at Id. It is true the farmer will probably take his
shelling, butter, potatoes, milk, &c. out of his own farm ;
but if he does, will not his labour and his wife's and daugh-
ter's yarn raise as much money for the landlord, as if those
things were sold to another, and the money laid out for ne-
cessaries ? Either way it is alike to the landlord. Should
the family be fewer than six, more labour must be hired
from abroad, but the family will live upon proportionably
less. If the family be more than six, their labour will pro-
duce more than their maintenance ; it certainly will ; how
otherwise could farmers in the north sit down upon thirty
or forty acres of middling land at nine or ten shillings an
acre, pay their rent well, make public roads, and perhaps
cut and draw their landlords' corn and turf, and after all
afford to live much better than the above allowance, wear
decent and comfortable clothes, make feasts now and then,
and give little portions to .their children of 5, 10, 15, or 20
pounds each ?

It may likewise be objected, that I have here made no
allowance for the ground taken up by a farm house and
offices, the open space round such houses, and the ditches,
nor for carrying home the grain, threshing, winnowing, and
carrying to market. As to the spaces of ground lost by
the ditches, &c. they will go near to pay for themselves.

The timber they will produce, the shelter they will afford
to the corn against winds, and to the cattle in bad weather,
will make up to the husbandman what he loses by them in
the measure of his ground. But the garden if tolerably
managed, will fully pay for all the ground taken up by the
houses and ditches. And as to the above expenses in
threshing, &c. they are very small. The after-grass, and
the straw, which he may afford to sell, after thatching his
houses, will trebly pay such expenses. Besides, though I
have allowed the tithes, and all other demands, on ac-
count against the husbandman, I have charged the dealers

334

THE NECESSITY OF

in cattle with nothing for milches, for the tenth fleece, nor
in short for any ecclesiastical demand or modus.

You may observe, sir, that in the above calculation, I
have given all imaginable advantages to the dealers in cat-
tle ; whereas, in respect to tillage I have supposed the
farm to be possessed and managed by a poor family, who,
though in a year or two they may grow rich, and afford to
live much better than by the foregoing allowance, and to
give their ground more labour, and manure, yet at first they
can do little more, than manage in the manner mentioned.
I have therefore supposed them to proceed as the poor, ig-
norant Irish farmers do in the north, by a cheap and un-
skilful scheme of tillage to a low and moderate profit. Yet
low as it is, twelve acres of ground under such a sort of
tillage produce a neat and clear profit equal to that of thirty-
six acres of the same ground under the most profitable kind
of pasturage, managed with the greatest skill. It is a plea-
sure to me to be supported in this by the calculation, which
the ingenious Arthur Dobbs, Esq. published some years
ago, and in which he makes the profits of tillage to those
of pasturage as three to one.

But I will now proceed to shew you, sir, that if we
suppose a skilful and substantial farmer, to possess the
above thirty-six acres of good ground, he will be able by
better management, and even with less expense and la-
bour, to raise a much greater produce in tillage.

The expenses and profits of thirty-six acres, Irish mea-
sure, of rich and strong ground, twelve of which are always
under tillage.

The expenses.
First year for a crop of flax.
To ploughing and harrowing one acre 8s. 6d.
to seed for the same six bushels at 7s. per bushel
21. 2s. twenty women for pulling the flax, 10s.
for beating out the seed, 6s. for watering and
spreading on the grass 2s. for breaking and
buffing 4/. 13s. 4<7. in all for one acre 8/. Is. lOrf.

for twelve acres 97 2 0

First year for a crop of wheat.
For fallowing the twelves acres by three
ploughings and two harrnwings ?>/. for seed

TILLAGE AND GRANARIES.

335

twelve barrels at 15s. per barrel, 9/. tor reaping £. s. d.

31. in all 24 0 0

Third year for a crop of potatoes.

The expense at 6d. per perch in the old way
for dang, seed and labour would amount to 1/.
12s. But I will suppose the potatoes set with
the plough as follows.

To the first two ploughings of one acre 10s.
to the harrowing Is. 6d. to ten men and two
horses for the setting and third ploughing 6s.
to three other ploughings 6s. to seed twelve
bushels 12s. to dung 11. 10s. for carrying out
the dung 4s. in all for one acre 31. 9s. 6d. for

the whole twelve acres 41 14 0

Fourth year for a crop of barley.

To ploughing and harrowing 3/. 12s. twelve
barrels of seed at 6s. per barrel 31. 12s. to reap-
ing 21. 8s. in all 9 12 0

Fifth year for a crop of oats.

To ploughing and harrowing 41. 16s. seed
twenty- seven barrels at 4s. 8eZ. per barrel 6/. 6s.
to reaping 21. 8s. in all 13 10 0

Total of expenses , 185 18 0

The produce.

First year's flax sold in the market after
breaking and buffing at seventy stone per acre,
and at 5s per stone, comes in all to . . . . 210 0 0

For twelve bushels of flax-seed at 5s. per
bushel, 31. per acre, in the whole 12/ 36 0 0

Total produce of flax - . . 246 0 0

Second year.

For ninety-six barrels of wheat at 15s. per

barrel 72 0 0

Third year.

If the potatoes of the whole twelve acres,
in the old way by digging, were sold at Is. per
perch, each perch being two yards in width ;
they would bring 224?. Now I will only charge
them at the same rate, though potatoes set by

33C

THE NECESSITY OF

the plough are allowed to yield a fourth or fifth, £. s. d.

more than by the spade 224 0 0

Fourth year.
For two hundred and sixteen barrels of bar-
ley at 6s. per barrel 64 1G 0

Fifth year.

For two hundred and fifty-two barrels of
oats at 4s. 8d. per barrel 58 16 0

Total profits 665 12 0

The flax paying only 6d. in lieu of tithe,
and the tithe of potatoes being every where
disputed, in few places recovered by law, and
where they are recovered, so difficult to be se-
cured, I have allowed nothing for the same ;
but have charged the full tenth of what the grain
is sold for in the market, which is more than the

person can demand at the time of sowing. . . 19 11 0

To this if we add the expenses of the til-
lage : . . 185 18 0

The whole will be 205 9 0

Which being substracted from the above
sum of 665/. 12s

there remains 460 3 0

As the whole thirty-six acres under a dairy
produced the sum of 277/- 10s. in five years, we
must here add two thirds of said sum to the pro-
fits arising from the tillage of the twelve acres. 185 0 0

The neat produce then of the whole thirty-
six acres, twelve of which are always under
tillage, and the other twenty-four grazed, will

be 645 3 0

If we deduct the sum of 189?. 7s. lid. . . 189 7 11

Which was the highest profit in pasturage
from the 645Z. 3s. the highest produce in tillage,
the balance on the side of tillage will be . . 455 15 1
The produce now in tillage compared with that of grazing,
is nearly as 21 to 6, which is 3{ to 1.

TILLAGE AND GRAX ARIES.

337

You may observe, sir, that I have made the profits of
the twenty-four acres, which the husbandman may keep lay
for the grazing his milk and plough cattle, to be equal to
those of the same number grazed for a dairy : which they
certainly will be, provided that along with the last crop,
which is oats, he sows a sufficient quantity of common grass
seed, and lays down his ground judiciously. The longer
ground lies lay, the closer and stiffer it grows, the grass be-
comes finer and shorter, and in meadows particularly that
have not been broken up of a long time, the grass is op-
pressed with moss. For this I know no other remedy but
tillage, after which a most rank and luxurious crop of grass
may be obtained even the first year, if to supply the want
of grass-roots, grass-seed be timely sown . The fields of an
unskilful husbandman appearing, after a course of tillage,
almost quite uncovered with grass, it is imagined by many
that the ground is so run out of heart that it cannot bear
grass, but this is a most gross mistake. The ground is
much fitter for the purpose, than before it was broken up,
only the roots of the grass being all destroyed, it is impos-
sible for it to produce that, of which it has neither root nor
seed.

There are other courses of tillage, sir, besides the for-
mer, for the husbandman to change to, according as his
ground, or the seasons may require ; and those no less pro-
fitable. Besides, were the art of tillage a little better known
among us, a still greater produce might be obtained from
our fruitful grounds, than that which I have mentioned. In
England they know so much more of this matter than we
do, that they frequently raise as profitable a crop out of a
shallow, as out of a deep soil : a stiff clay is compelled to
yield as fruitful a produce as the finest mould : I had almost
said that by their management a barren soil is as beneficial
as a fruitful. They have proper instruments of tillage for all
sorts of grounds, nor are they less careful to adapt the seed
to the soil. By these means their work goes on much easier,
and their crops come with greater certainty and plenty.

But I need not go quite so far for instances of this kind.
In the county of Meath, and some parts of Louth, though
through the unifonnness of the soil they have little occasion
for variety of methods in tillage, yet they manage so well,
vol. v. z

338

THE NECESSITY OF

that of the same parcel of ground, they have always one
third under winter grain, another under spring grain, and
the other third under fallows. They set apart a small par-
cel of their worst grounds for grazing their milch and plough
cattle, and all the rest is, from year to year, without any
intermission, treated in the above manner. No length of
time exhausts the vigour of their ground. They pay gene-
rally speaking, twenty shillings an acre for it, good and bad,
and therefore cannot afford to let it be idle, and take crops
of grass from it, in lieu of wheat and barley.

You will be pleased to observe, sir, that all the labour
of men and horses is, by the above calculation, supposed to
be hired in at the dearest rates ; whereas a husbandman,
who can maintain servants and horses of his own, will save
a good deal in that article. Besides, if the ploughing were
performed with bullocks, the whole labour of horses would
be clearly saved, because the bullocks, after ploughing for
two or three years, will sell for more than their keeping
came to.

Upon the whole, as the above calculation is the result
of much considering and debating among persons ex-
tremely well skilled in both pasturage and tillage, whom I
consulted with on this occasion, I am confident it is pre-
pared to stand the severest examination, provided it be a
candid one. However, I do not desire you should depend
on me alone in this ; lay my computation before skilful per-
sons, and desire them candidly to give you their opinion of
it. Such persons will not disdain to descend to the mean
particulars, which I have been obliged to dwell on ; be-
cause they know the merits of this, as well as of all other
points, depend on, and must be traced to their first simple
principles, which are no other than the expenses and gains
of the farmer.

It is farther worth observing, that as vast quantities of
the best ground in the kingdom, and a good deal of yours,
pay no tithe of grain, and as in many places grass and hay
are actually tithed, and if some old laws could be put in
force, would be tithed every where, so the charge in my
computation against the farmer for tithes, ought in many
places to be relaxed in respect to him and his landlord,
and those of the hay and srass, or at least, the moduses for

TILLAGE AND GR AX ARIES.

339

milches, hay, &c. ought to be charged against the grazier.
Though this is a very material consideration in favour of
tillage, yet I have left it, and many other such advantages,
out of my comparison, partly because they could not be
easily computed, and partly because I had advantages
enough without them.

It is commonly objected to tillage that abundance of
grain is lost, one year with another, by mildews, winds,
lodging, the cutworm, vermin, &c. But more stress is laid
on this objection than reason will allow of. Even in the
north, where the weather is more severe, where they have
more rain and wind, and where the harvest, coming in later,
is thrown into a more uncertain season, the careful hus-
bandman, who cultivates a good piece of ground, can com-
munibus annis produce such crops as are mentioned above.
In your country, sir, the middle grounds having more
strength in them than the best in the north, will not only
produce larger crops, but will give them a strength more
sufficient to resist the injuries of the weather. Besides, as
you lie two degrees nearer to the sun, and enjoy more early
and certain seasons, there is far less reason in your case
for stumbling at such objections. As, however, there is a
loss sustained this way, which merits consideration, I am
sure so does that which the dealer in cattle suffers by rots,
murrains, and numberless other disorders incident to all
kinds of cattle. In bad hay years (that is, generally once
in four or five years) the expense of wintering cattle is
greatly advanced. These losses may very well balance
those of tillage.

Unless about considerable towns, your lands are set
mostly under ten shillings an acre. Even in the Golden
Vale, they did not set for so much, till of late. Yet as your
grounds are near twice as good as those in Meath and
Louth, so they ought to set for twice as much. Those in
Meath setting for twenty, yours ought to set for forty, and
yet, to your mortification, they set but for ten, that is, for
little more than a fourth part of their value.

The lands in the north are no way comparable to those
in Meath, and much less still to yours. Notwithstanding
this they generally set higher than yours.

No doubt but the linen trade, and other manufactures
z 2

340

THE NECESSITY OF

contribute greatly to this. But then tillage is the source of
all ; for manufactures follow tillage, have always done so,
and can never take place effectually where bread corn is not
provided at cheap and easy rates.

Forty acres of very indifferent ground, in the northern
end of the kingdom, maintain a family in plenty, and pay
the landlord fourteen, fifteen, or perhaps twenty pounds
yearly in rent ; whereas in the southern end of the king-
dom, where the soil is infinitely better, the same extent of
ground feeds not a human creature ; and yields its owner
scarcely one-third of its value. This, I think, sir, is a most
shameful comparison.

But that which may be made between the lower inha-
bitants of the north and south, to whose different disposi-
tions, the wide difference in the value of lands is owing, is
I think, still more odious.

I have seen, in the north of Ireland, a sturdy fellow, of
British descent, who wore good clothes, rode a good horse
to church and market, dwelt in a warm stone house, main-
tained a wife and four or five children, or rather made them
help to maintain him ; and all out of a little farm of thirty
or forty acres of sorry ground, at a very high rent. Nay, I
have seen the same person portion off his children, and
settle them, each in as good a way as himself. But then
I own neither he nor his family eat the bread of idleness.
They lived well, and they wrought for it. I have seen them
burning lime or clay, drawing dung, marl, or sand, gather-
ing the dirt off the highways, raking the slutch out of
ditches, and carrying the soil up, from deep bottoms, to
bare and shallow hills, from whence it had been washed, as
if they intended to repair their little portion of the world,
and restore the very decays of nature.

Turn your eyes now, sir, from these useful and worthy
creatures, upon a poor cabin built of sods, sorely decayed
in walls and roof, with half a dozen wretches within it, who
are so far from being able to repair it, that if a single crown
were sufficient to keep it from crushing them into the earth,
they could not command it. They are clothed with rags,
and half eaten up with vermin; and being too lazy and as
often too proud to work, are nevertheless not ashamed to
steal. Your bullocks indeed look well, but these slaves

TILLAGE AND GRANARIES.

341

and attendants of theirs wear the livery of such a service,
and look as if they had brutes indeed for their masters.

Pray, now, whether would you rather receive three
thousand pounds a year from the former, or take two thou-
sand that came by the assistance of the latter ? Whether
would you choose, a third more from a country well
peopled with such stout, and able-bodied men, who would
enrich you in peace, and defend you in war, or a third less,
from a sort of desert grazed by a race of sheep, bullocks,
and beggars, the latter of whom would infallibly cut your
throat, and burn your house, were they encouraged to it by
the least disturbance in the country ?

We hear it often objected that many persons have made
considerable fortunes by grazing, but none by tillage ; and
that those gentlemen who have attempted tillage in very
large farms, in hopes of enriching themselves that way,
have been disappointed.

This whole objection, sir, I grant; but it concludes
nothing a gainst tillage in the way I have been recommend-
ing; nor has it any. thing to do with gentlemen of estates,
whose fortunes are already made.

Those who take large stock-farms from you, at a very
moderate rent, and hold the like in other estates near you,
may possibly find a more certain profit in grazing those
grounds with dry cattle, which may be attended by two or
three herds, than by setting them in very small parcels to
idle and unskilful cotters, who will break in arrears, and
leave the houses out of repair, and the land out of heart.
In the latter case they are to share in the profits of a very
bungling sort of tillage, with perhaps a hundred families,
but in the former, though the profits be less, they have them
all to themselves. By this means, I own, the lessees I am
speaking of may grow rich ; but be assured it is at the ex-
pense of their landlords, who might by tillage raise their
rents a third, I might justly say, in many cases one half,
and at the same time afford a comfortable support to crowds
of human creatures, who are now lost to their country by
idleness, banishment, or death. The profits of pasturage,
though small, arising from a great extent of land, rated very
low, may enrich a drover. But pray what is that to you,
sir, who might have a great deal more for your land ?

342

THE NECESSITY OF

It is your business, as I take it, to consider how you
may better your estate, not how this poor grazier, or that
needy butcher may raise a fortune off your lands. As you
are now about to set a large parcel of your lands, and have
done me the honour to consult with me on the occasion,
I would advise you to set them in such a manner, as to
have industrious men, rather than unprofitable cattle, to
occupy your ground, and to suffer no overgrown lessee to
come between you and those who work that ground, and
intercept the greater part of the profit. There is no greater
enemy to the landed gentlemen, than your takers of great
leases, who either huckster out those lands they hold at a
low rent, to needy wretches who give them whatever they
ask, or else graze them ; and so in both cases, the ground
being occupied by beggars or black cattle, is for ever un-
improved. The landlord gets but a sorry rent, and his
estate is a perfect desert. The extravagance of our gen-
tlemen is the original cause of this. They want money; so
they must either sell, or which is little better, fine down
their lands to a perfect quit-rent. By this means their
estates are almost lost to their families. Little more than
the name is left ; and their lands which, by another manage-
ment, might have paid their debts, given them more in five
or six years, than their fines came to, and been doubled to
them and their heirs for ever, are swallowed up, either by
drovers, who put cattle on them, or by retailers of land,
who people them with thieves and beggars.

In a pamphlet published some years ago, in which
there are many things on the subject of tillage, that deserve
your consideration, there is one gross mistake, which you
and every landed gentleman should beware of being misled
by. We are there told that, in the respect to tillage and
pasturage, the public interest of the nation, and the private
interest are against each other, that though tillage be highly
profitable to the public, pasturage is more so to private
persons ; and that therefore the legislature ought to add
such advantages on the side of tillage, as might raise its
profit above those of pasturage, to private persons. The
calculations I have sent you, demonstrate the very reverse
in respect to private gain. They shew that the landlord
and the husbandman would have between them three and a

TILLAGE AND GRANARIES.

343

half to one more by tillage than by grazing. Who then
reaps the private gain in pasturage ? Are not the landlords
and the husbandmen private persons ? And is not their gain
a private one ? The gentleman can mean no other by private
persons, than those who hold such leases as I spoke of
above. But surely they are too thin a class to denominate
the private interest in contradistinction to the public. If
one should say that paying the legal duties of commodities,
and dealing fairly is for the public interest ; but that run-
ning of goods, and dealing in contraband wares is more
gainful to private persons, would it not sound oddly ? Are
not the gains of fair dealers as much private gains, as those
of the smuggling merchant? But his parliamentary remedy
is as impossible, as the disorder he would apply it to is ima-
ginary. If there be a considerable gain in pasturage more
than in tillage, by what premiums or other expedients can
the legislature ever make up an equivalent for it, or rather
more than an equivalent ; for people will not quit an old
method for a new, till the new is made considerably more
beneficial? If pasturage were but a tenth part more pro-
fitable than tillage, before the legislature could convert the
nation from grazing to tillage, they must make the latter at
least two or three tenths more gainful than the former.
How could they find a fund sufficient to do this over the
whole nation ? Twice the whole revenues of the kingdom
would not be equal to the design.

As to those gentlemen who attempted tillage in large
farms, it is not to be wondered at that they were disap-
pointed. For first, they had not that diligence and anxious
attention to the business that is necessary to such affairs.*
They hunted one day, drank another, visited on a third, and
it may be on the fourth, spent some hours in attending the
labour of their farms. This will never do, we may expect
as little from labourers who have not their master to over-
see them, as from soldiers who are to fight without a com-
mander. Columella charges ' the miscarriages in farming,
which the Romans complained of in his time, on their
committing the business to the vilest and worst of ser-
vants, as if agriculture were a crime which they would

* See old Hesiod on the subject of diligence and idleness.

344

THE NECESSITY OF

not stoop to punish themselves, but committed to the
hangman.'*

Again, those gentlemen wanted skill in farming. They
were so weak as to think any body might be a husband-
man. Hence not knowing how to manage the business
they were about, they both took wrong measures, and be-
sides were imposed on by those whose advice and care they
trusted to. These men might as well have, all at once, set
up for physicians or lawyers. Did they consult Varro, he
would tell them that agriculture is not only an art, but also
a necessary and important art.f And if they would consult
Columella, ' they would find that judicious husbandman
expressing his astonishment, that while his countrymen
employed a master or professor in every other artj or
science, nay, even in music, dancing, cooking, pickling, and
cutting hair, he nevertheless could hear of neither masters
nor scholars in agriculture, an art next akin to wisdom, and
without which human life cannot be supported.'

Again, our gentlemen, being buoyed up with hopes of
vast gain, undertook farms too large for five or six diligent
men to oversee. These large tracts of ground were indeed
ploughed, harrowed, sowed, and reaped ; and the corn was
threshed out, cleaned and sold.

But how could the owner see that all this was done with
diligence, skill, and honesty ? The old Romans assigned to
every one no more than seven acres of ground. Even a
senator was liable to a prosecution at law, who held more
than fifty. Now this was not so much that every one might
have a share, because the case was the same, after the ac-
quisition of whole nations by conquest, as that the ground
might be managed to the greater advantage, and that its
occupier might be forced to make the most of it.§

* Rem Rusticam pessimo cuique servorura, velut cornifici noxia? dedimus.
Coluiu. dere rust. lib. U

t Agricultura non raodo est ars, sed etiarn, necessaria et magna. Varro de re
rust. lib. 1.

$ Sola res rustica, qua? sine dubitatione, proxima, et consanguineasapientias est,
tara discentibus egeat, quara magistris. Adhuc enim scholas rhetorum, et, ut dixi,
geometrarum, rausicorumque, vel, quod magis mirandum est, contemptissimorum
vitiorum officinas, gulosius condiendi cibos, et luxuriosius fercula struendi, capi-
tumque et capillorum concinnatores non solum esse audivi, sed et ipse vidi. Agri-
colationis, neque doctores qui se profiterentm, neque discipulos cognovi, &c. Co-
luru. de re rust. lib. 1.

$ For this see Varro and Columella de re rustica.

TILLAGE AND GRANARIES.

345

Columella quotes ' Laudato ingentia rura, exiguum colito,'
as a good authority for a small farm ; and to make that au-
thority still the stronger, he says Virgil copied that sentence
from an old Phenician or Carthaginian maxim ; the farm
ought to be weaker than the husbandman ; because as the
husbandman is to strive with his farm, if the latter is too
strong for him, it will crush him. He says farther, that
there is no doubt but a wide farm ill cultivated, yields a
less crop than a narrow one well laboured.*

But if gentlemen find it so hard to make a considerable
profit by tillage, the case would be worse in respect to
pasturage, should they be obliged to take stock-farms at
such a rent as husbandmen always give for their lands all
over the tilling countries. I have heard many dealers in
cattle say, that were they to take farms now at the present
improvement of rents, they could never live by the business.
Is not this the same as to say, they make their fortunes out
of the landed gentlemen's pockets, and is it not giving up
the point in question, whether the tiller or the grazier can
afford to bid highest for your land ?

It is, I know", objected by some, that if tillage be so
much more gainful than grazing, how comes it to pass that
the English, who know the difference very well, run much
into grazing, though we may perceive by the low price at
which our Irish wool and hides sell there, that the produce
of pasturage is not very highly rated among them.

In answer to this I must deny the first point taken for
granted. The English do not run much into grazing, I
mean, they keep no great quantity of ground untilled for
the sake of sheep and oxen. They take a wiser method, of
which we might have the advantage as well as they. Their
lands after tillage are so well laid down with grass-seed,
clover-seed, &c. and they sow such prodigious fields of tur-
nips, that their ground can feed more cattle of all sorts,
than if it lay continually under pasture. Then their tillage
being carried on mostly with oxen, which are fed with hay,
grass, chopped straw, and weak corn, the production of beef
and grain among them is obtained by the same method, at

* Iiubeciliorem agrura quam Agricolam debere, quoniam quum sit
euro eo, si fundus prevaleat, allidi domiuum. Nec dubium quin raiD'"
acer, non recte cultus, quaro angustus eximie.

346

THE NECESSITY OF

tbe same time, and on the same ground. The one is so far
from hindering the other, that did they feed fewer oxen,
they could not plough nor sow so much, and did they
plough and sow less, they could not have so much grass,
hay, straw, and corn to feed their cattle. How would Irish
ignorance and slothfulness stare at such a paradox as this?
Their sheep feed on turnips, and the grass of fields lately
ploughed.

Some of their young cattle are fed on coarse grounds,
others are driven from Scotland and Wales, and get the last
fattening from grounds from which heavy crops of grain
were reaped the very year before. Besides, they have ad-
vantages in grazing which we have not. Beef and mutton
are sold in London for twice as much as in Dublin. This
greatly helps to enhance the profits of pasturage in England.
And as to our wool, hides, and tallow, selling at a low rate
there, though it be true that they do, yet they are in fact a
good deal dearer in England than here. This will best ap-
pear by an instance.

Suppose an Irish merchant to pay twenty crowns for
twenty stone of wool in Ireland, and likewise to pay four
crowns more for custom-house fees'and freightage. If the
English manufacturer buys the said wool at twenty-six
crowns in England he pays no more for it, than for so much
English wool : consequently the English wool sells in the
country where it is produced, as high as ours after the ex-
pense of exportation is taken out of it. The same may be
said of hides and tallow carried from hence to England. As
to the merchant's profits, they arise by the advanced value of
money in Ireland. It appears now that though flesh, wool,
hides, tallow, butter, &c. are dearer in England than here, and
the corn of all sorts is for the most part cheaper, yet the Eng-
lish generally prefer tillage, and use Ireland as a stock-farm
to furnish beef and butter for their shipping. The English
gain considerably more by cattle, and less by tillage than
we, and yet such is the balance on the side of tillage even
there, that they till almost all their grounds that are fit for
tillage.

But though these reasonings carry with them a light,
which common sense can hardly be blind to, yet a wretched
slavery to old habits and prejudices hinders their good

TILLAGE AND GRANARIES.

347

effects. Many who have been all their days accustomed
to the cringes of two or three herds, more fearful than their
sheep, and more obsequious than their dogs, are afraid of
a thriving yeomanry, who being able to pay their rent at the
day, would expect to be treated upon a footing of freedom.
But one who loves freedom in himself, should desire to
cherish it in others. For my own part, I should be much
better pleased to hear an honest rough fellow of this stamp,
call me by my plain name, than have a supple knave of yours
dignify me with your honour, and your majesty, and such
other goodly titles, with which a herald in sheep is wont
to soothe the vanity of some masters. But methinks a land-
lord should be well pleased to see his estate under such
hands. Are they sturdy for any other reason, but because
they are full of bread, and beholding to nothing on earth,
but their own industrious hands, for what they enjoy, be-
cause in short they can hold their own with their landlord
and the world? Is not all this roughness, howsoever
awkward it may be in itself, entirely on the side of the land-
lord ? He surely of all men, has no reason to complain, that
his tenants do not fear him. Would not you, sir, be better
pleased to have two or three hundred such as these, to
stand up for you on all occasions, particularly to vote for
you, or your son, at an election, than nurse up an overgrown
drover, with lands at third part value, till he is able to carry
the county ,or your own borough against you. I beg, sir, you
may think of this last hint, and think of it in time ; you know

well enough what I mean. I am told — keeps the estate

of unset since the expiration of the leases, with a

design to plant it with farmers, and linen weavers from the
north, and that he has an agent just now employed in that
business. In four years, or thereabout, I believe almost the

whole estate of will be out of lease, and you know

he has been declaring any time this ten years, that he will
give effectual encouragement to tillage and the linen manu-
facture. I instance these gentlemen in particular, only be-
cause their interest and yours are likely to interfere. But
you know the design of enclosing lands, building houses,
and planting husbandmen, and tradesmen on their estates,
is becoming general all over Munster and Conaught: so
that those gentlemen, whose lands are already set to drovers

348

THE NECESSITY OF

for long terms of years yet to come, or who through igno-
rance of their interest, or want of a small purse to prepare
their lands for the execution of the same design, are forced
to postpone it, will in some years have the mortification
to see themselves sink into so many ciphers in their re-
spective counties.

I hope, sir, no more need be said to prove to you that
an estate divided into moderate farms, and possessed by
good husbandmen, becomes thrice as valuable as the same
estate grazed by any kind of cattle ; that the grazier enjoys
only the very surface of the ground ; but that the husband-
man like a miner, goes deeper, and turns up a much richer
treasure. The conclusion from this is plain and necessary,
namely, that if you could set your estate in moderate farms
to skilful and laborious husbandmen from the north or
Great Britain, you would make a new purchase in your
own lands, you would have at least a third more to yourself,
than you at present get out of it, and leave another third to
your tenants, which in its uncultivated state, does not arise
out of it at all.

This it is true cannot be effected without some expense
to you, as I shall notice presently ; but you would be will-
ing to buy land at twenty years' purchase, and reversions
at the usual rate in respect to the time that the purchase-
money is to lie dead. Now as in this kind of purchase, the
gain would very quickly accrue, so I can scarce call it a
reversion. But supposing it to be such, and that the re-
turn will not be made you in less than five, ten, or fifteen
years, yet that return will be so great, that you may very
well reckon you have thrice the legal interest of your ex-
penses, from the time of laying out your money.

You will be apt to ask now how such a tenantry can be
obtained, and to recollect how often the encouraging colo-
nies of husbandmen to settle in the southern and western
parts of the kingdom has been attempted without success.

There were several causes of these miscarriages, which
I hope in future attempts of the like nature may be pre-
vented.

In the first place, the husbandmen were not duly encou-
raged. Farmers who have already good holdings, and live
well in their own country and among their relations, will

TILLAGE AND GRANARIES.

349

not without greater encouragement than you can afford to
give them, remove to a distant country.

For this reason you cannot hope to have such ; nor were
such ever brought southward upon our present scheme.
Those, who went to Munster and Conaught to take farms,
were generally people in but low circumstances, and with
so narrow stocks, that by the time they had enclosed their
grounds, built, &c. they had nothing left to carry on the in-
tended tillage. By these means they soon broke, to the
great discouragement of others, who were disposed to fol-
low them, and so the gentlemen, who invited them, having
their lands wasted and thrown upon their hands with the
loss of some arrears, grew as sick of the business, as those
poor men who were undone by it.

But to execute the design effectually, the farm-houses
ought to be built, and the ground enclosed at the expense
of the landlords, which the advance in their rents would
soon repay them. Were this done I myself know hundreds,
who would in half a year's time, sit down on your estate,
and in the course of a few years, would turn it into a per-
fect garden.

Another great discouragement to these tilling and trading
colonies, arises from the ill treatment such people, who are
mostly Protestants, have usually received among the Popish
inhabitants of your country. Their cattle have been houghed
and stolen, their stack-yards, and sometimes their very
houses burnt, and a combination entered into by all their
Popish neighbours to carry all points in business or law
against them, and on all occasions to oppose and frighten
them.

This difficulty might now be easily got over. Your coun-
try has already more Protestants in it than in the times we
have been speaking of. The natives are more amenable to
the laws, have less hope of assistance from abroad, or a
revolution in their favour. Besides, many of them would,
as they have done in the north, and in the counties of Louth
and East-Meath, learn of their new neighbours to cultivate
the ground, and choose by that means to enrich themselves,
and become useful to their country, rather than tempt the
resentment of the landed gentlemen, of the government, and
of an armed force.

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THE NECESSITY OF

If some pains were taken with the native Irish, I believe
they might be reclaimed from much of that mistaken ran-
cour they shew on such occasions, as I have been just now
speaking of. They might by reason and in a good-natured
way be won to industry, which would produce wealth, and
wealth contentment. The sight of Protestants, thriving
among them by tillage and trade, would in time make them
ashamed of their sloth and beggary.

But lest in some places they should happen to fall to
their old foolish practices upon their neighbour's corn and
cattle, it would not be amiss that the houses of the new far-
mers should stand pretty near each other, and form a sort
of scattered villages, that they should be built of stone and
lime, and if possible slated, that the master of the family
should keep a gun and some other arms in his house, and
that he should let loose a large and fierce mastiff to range
about all night after having been chained all day. These
expedients were practised in the north with very good effect,
and were found necessary, till the country became tho-
roughly enclosed and civilized.

No design of this nature can be accomplished without
some pains and perseverance. A plantation, like those I
have been speaking of, must be nursed in its infancy by
those who have sway and interest in the country. The gen-
tlemen of estates in the north have executed the scheme I
am recommending under much greater difficulties than you
have to struggle with, by doing little more than setting their
lands at moderate rents, for short terms ; at the expiration
of which, they found so many people to bid for their farms,
that the rent was every where doubled, and in some places,
where they had encouraged towns to be built, they got three,
four, or five times their first rent. Is it not a shame now
that after this work has been begun, and carried on in the
teeth of much greater obstacles, in the cold barren end
of the kingdom, you cannot bring it forward to your own,
where it would be so much easier to make it succeed. Do
you think those crowds, who, for want of room in the north,
go every year to America, would not rather stay in their
own country and climate, and take a short journey by land,
than a long and dangerous voyage by sea, did you provide
a tolerable reception for them on your estate ?

TILLAGE AND GRANARIES.

351

You lose more by letting those people go out of the
kingdom than is generally imagined. Lands are not riches;
but good inhabitants, who bring the necessaries and com-
forts of life out of the ground, are real wealth. This appears
beyond all contradiction from the state of Ulster immedi-
ately after the wars. Lands then set in the north for no
more than three or four shillings an acre. And why? Be-
cause their value was not in proportion to any intrinsic
worth of their own, but to the numbers that wanted them.
Now they set from seven to nine in the country, and about
towns from fifteen to twenty, or even as high as thirty in
some places. In the towns themselves, that ground, which
before the town, that now stands on it, was built, was
thought dear of four shillings an acre, is now set for twenty,
thirty, or forty pounds. In short the grounds at greatest
distance from towns frequently pay more rent to the land-
lord, than the best husbandman in the world could possibly
raise out of them. For this trade, the offspring of industry
in general, but more especially of agriculture, is to be
thanked.

This, sir, is the same with what I said to you on the
subject of tillage some years ago. I now repeat it at your
own request, and out of an unfeigned friendship to you,
whose interest I wish it were in my power to promote by
expedients fitting for me to propose, and you to execute.
I shall now address myself to you as a member of the ho-
nourable house of commons, and guardian to your country,
which as it is also mine, I am by duty and affection bound
to consult its welfare to the uttermost of my little abi-
lities.

I believe I need not take up much time to convince
you, that your country is in a distressed, and almost des-
perate condition. The late famine and pestilence, that
have lain so long and heavily on us, recur, no doubt to a
mind like yours, too strongly to need a verbal representa-
tion of what exceeds all description. Plagues and wars
are reckoned the most terrible calamities, because they de-
stroy great numbers in one place and at the same time ;
but what we have suffered was every whit as destructive,
and therefore to a considering person ought to seem as ter-
rible. It is computed by some, and perhaps not without

352

THE NECESSITY OF

reason, that as many people have died of want, and disor-
ders occasioned by want, within these two years past, as
fell by the sword in the massacre and rebellion of forty-one.
Whole parishes have in some places been almost desolated ;
and the dead have been eaten in the fields by dogs, for
want of people to bury them. Whole thousands in a ba-
rony have perished, some of hunger, and others of disor-
ders occasioned by unnatural, unwholesome, and putrid
diet. Now, sir, you know this is no new thing with us.
We saw the same in twenty-eight, and twenty-nine, and
since that have once or twice felt it in a lower degree.
Had not the gentry, clergy, and corporate towns given
liberally to the relief of the poor, at those calamitous sea-
sons, those who perished must have been followed by as
many more. But daubing and patching up evils of this
kind with late, and ineffectual alms, is a poor, desperate,
necessitous expedient. Are we never to think of prevent-
ing them? Are not the lives of so many people worth
saving ? Are they not our countrymen, our tenants, our
flesh and blood ? Shall we idly wish a remedy for such
general calamities only while they continue to afflict or
frighten us, but as soon as ever they abate, never once
think of providing against them for the future ?

You, gentlemen, who represent the nation, are the only
persons, that can remedy this ruinous calamity. Though
tillage brings a much greater premium with it, than the
parliament can give ; yet, so it is, that a small sum confer-
red as an honorary reward, and considered by the receiver
as an advance in the price of his grain, would probably
weigh more with a person, not yet satisfied about the great
profits of tillage, than all that can be said to him by those
who are experimentally acquainted with those profits. I
submit it to your better judgment, whether it would not
therefore be wisely done of the parliament, to increase the
premium allowed to the exporter, and give it to the farmer,
till convinced by the ample profits arising from tillage itself
he begin to pursue it for its own sake, and to consider it as
its own reward. After this, when we begin to produce
more grain than the kingdom can consume, the same pre-
mium may be restored to the exporter, and continued to
him till the sweets of exportation have been a little tasted

TILLAGE AND Git AXARIES.

353

by him, and then they alone will be a sufficient encourage-
ment.

But a very small premium to either the vender or the
exporter, will leave the matter just where it found it ; and
a premium given when grain is sunk to such a price, that
both that and the premium would not pay the expenses of
tillage, is no premium at all. Such is the case in the pre-
mium act made in Queen Anne's reign.

You can likewise find out more effectual means than
have been yet thought of, to oblige those who have not
sense nor goodness enough to do it of themselves, to throw
a large portion of their grounds into tillage. Five acres in
the hundred will never relieve the necessities of the nation ,
much less will they afford any thing for exportation. Be-
sides, the law to enforce even that, is so wholly contemned,
that it has not even prevailed on our people to make an
experiment in five acres, which had they been forced to
make, their profits by this time would have led them to the
tillage of the whole hundred. Laws made for a purpose so
absolutely necessary as this, should be enforced by very
severe penalties, and not such penalties as no body will
care, or dare to inflict. If twenty acres in the hundred of
all arable grounds were by law obliged to be ploughed, on
pain of forfeiting to the landlord the sum of twenty shillings
for every acre of said number that should be unploughed,
such a law would have strength to execute itself.

There can be no hardship in compelling those who hold
great parcels of land at low rents, to let off at the rate of
sixty acres in the hundred, that twenty may be ploughed,
to such improving tenants as their landlords can procure
for them. These husbandmen working for themselves, and
not as mere overseers to others, will soon convince the
greater lessees that it is their interest to tenant all their
leases in the same manner ; and then they will do that in
hopes of gain, which at first they were obliged to do for
fear of punishment. As to those who hold small farms,
they cannot afford to graze them ; so no penalties need be
inflicted on them.

It has been a long and just complaint, that the price of
grain is ever rising and falling to extremes in this unhappy
country. One year it is so low, that the farmer can get no-
vol. v. 2 a

354

THE NECESSITY OF

thing for his crop, and is not able to pay his rent; the next
year it is so excessively high, that the poor are starved, and
die by thousands of disorders occasioned by famine. A
plentiful harvest brings down the price of' grain so far,
that the farmer does not think it worth his while to follow
the plough for the next year. By this means next year is
a year of dearth and distress. Thus we go on without look-
ing before us farther than to the next year, and so once or
twice in seven years are visited with such mortalities, as
other countries, not even the most barren, do not feel twice
in a century. We have not much to spare in a good year;
and a bad one brings us to the brink of ruin. When we
have any grain to spare, which happens so seldom that we
never think of carrying it abroad, a parcel of forestallers
snap it up, and for the next year, have the whole country
at their mercy, till the farther ends of the earth send us relief.

Our soil is good, and exceeds that of most countries in
fertility, but rather than trust to it, we commit our neces-
sary subsistence to the casualties of the sea. Instead of
sowing our kindly grounds, and reaping a plentiful and
certain crop, we choose to sow the wind, and reap the
whirlwind.

Our condition is exactly the same with that of the Ro-
mans, in the reign of Claudius. 'As that emperor/ says
Tacitus, ' was hearing causes in the forum, the people be-
set him with tumultuary clamours, and having driven him
into the extreme part of the forum, were going to lay vio-
lent hands upon him, when his guards forced a passage for
him through the crowd. At this time there were but fifteen
days provisions in the city, and it was relieved in its extre-
mity by the mere bounty of Providence, and the mildness
of the winter. The historian remarks on this occasion,
that in former times, provisions were carried from Italy to
the remotest provinces of the empire, and yet though the
soil of Italy was as fruitful as ever, his countrymen wisely
chose to cultivate Africa and Egypt, and trust their lives
to their ships and fortune.'*

* Qaindecim dierum alimenta urbi, non amplius supcrfuisse constitit. Magnaque
Deum benignitate, et modestia hyemis rebus ex'-einis subventum. At hercule olira
ex Italia? regionibus longinquas in provincias commeatus portabant. Nec nunc in
fecunditate Jaboratur, sed Africara potius et vEgyptum excercemus, navibusque et
casibus vita populi Romani permissa est. — Coin, taciti Annalium, lib. xii. cap. 43.

TILLAGE AND GRANARIES.

355

This is now most exactly our case. We neglect the til-
lage of our own lands, which would produce us a plentiful,
and certain crop, and put our lives on the chance of the
winds and seas ; and so frequently die by thousands before
victuals can be had from the American plantations, whose
soil is perfectly barren, if compared to ours, or from the
Dutch, who huckster to us what they purchased perhaps
several years ago from more industrious countries.

After suffering so long, and so wofully, by our own
folly and slothfulness, it is now high time, sir, to provide
for ourselves by tillage and granaries of our own. If our
rich grounds were brought under tillage, we should then
always have enough for our own consumption, and vast
quantities to send abroad. Our granaries in that case
would help to keep our markets even. They would raise
the price of corn in plentiful years, and when the demand
from abroad did not happen to be brisk enough, by buying
up great quantities of our grain. And they would lower
it again in dear years, or when we should happen to over-
sell our last crop, by exposing it in the several market
towns at a moderate price. By this means the farmer
would always get a good price for his grain, and the poor
would never be distressed.

If, however, tillage is even yet to be neglected, granaries
then become still more absolutely necessary, and they
must, for the most part, be supplied from abroad. It is
dreadful to think of facing such another season as the last.
If we be not so wise as to provide the grand necessary of
life within ourselves, surely we cannot be so mad as to neg-
lect bringing it in time, from other countries.

It is not enough, however, to establish granaries ; it is
also requisite they should be put on such a footing, as
may promise a remedy of our present dangers and dis-
tresses, without involving us in other or greater mischiefs.

Such funds as are necessary for the building, filling, and
keeping granaries in repair, are not to be hoped for, either
out of the public revenues, or from private subscriptions.
Besides, if such funds could be raised by either of those
means, yet the whole benefit intended, would be jobbed
away into private hands, and the poor or the public would
be never the better for it. Granaries are therefore not to
2 a 2

356

THE NECESSITY OF

be erected, but by those who hope to make a profit by
them, and at the same time preserve their estates from de-
solation, and their fellow creatures from the last distress.
As every mortal is now crying out for an increase of tillage,
so great numbers of gentlemen are going fast into the scheme
of granaries. No time can be so fit for filling them, as
the present, when the nation is glutted by a great harvest,
and by unusual quantities of imported grain. If incorpo-
rate towns would now retrench their various expenses, and
apply such sums as they could raise off their lands, or
otherwise ; if monied men would venture a few hundreds,
though it were only to try how the matter would succeed;
and if others would unite into companies, and buy up
during this winter, good quantities of sound grain, and
store it on strong floors, where it might be kept dry, and
often turned, I make no doubt but the profit, which would
accrue to them, would be very considerable, and then they
would have the pleasure of saving many thousands of
their fellow-creatures from intolerable calamities, and
death itself.

His grace the primate, who is always among the fore-
most of those who bring relief to the distressed, has pro-
mised to assist the corporation of .Armagh in building a
large market-house, the upper story of which is to be a
granary. Arthur Dobbs, esq. has some thoughts, I am
told, of converting the fine stables at Portmore, in the
county of Antrim, into a granary. There is a small store-
house for corn intended at Ballycastle, near the colliery,
in the same county. Another larger near Newry. The cities
of Dublin and Kilkenny are also, as I am informed, inclin-
able to erect considerable granaries out of their funds.

I hope, sir, we shall soon see so wise and useful a de-
sign become more general, aud gather spirit from both the
public and private benefit that may be expected from it.
However, as the proprietors of such granaries may in time
turn the most oppressive forestallers, so care must be
taken to keep their conduct within some bounds. This is
the business of the parliament, who can easily settle by law
the advance which shall be allowed in the price of corn
during the dear seasons, by a proportion to its middle price
between All Saints and Christmas. For this purpose

TILLAGE AXD GRANARIES.

357

sworn returns may be made to the government from every
county, and then the advanced price adjusted, and sent
down to the granaries and market towns, by way of pro-
clamation. The advance must be pretty high, or else no
body will lay out his money for such a purpose. But may
it not be very high, and yet greatly short of the price at
which our forestalled sell their grain and meal in the dear
seasons ?

Here I must observe to you, sir, that no one need be
afraid of engaging in granaries from an apprehension that
their grain will lie long on their hands. We are not yet in
any danger of being overstocked with corn. But if we
should, are there not foreign markets open, nay gaping for
what we shall spare ? And may not our granaries have the
same advantage in exportation that every common mer-
chant may enjoy.

If tillage should take place in Munster and Connaught,
it would employ all those idle hands in those counties,
which now do little more than carry the fruits of other
people's labours to their mouths. As for the women and
children, they are wholly useless everywhere, excepting in
the north. It is amazing that a kingdom can at all subsist,
in which the few industrious people have such crowds of
idlers to maintain, who hang like a dead weight upon all
kinds of industry and trade. But were those countries
tilled, as every one in a farmer's family would find some-
thing to do, instead of begging food from others they would
earn it for themselves. Theft and beggary are the offsprings
of want, and want, of idleness and pasturage. No nation
ever so infamously swarmed with thieves and beggars as
this wretched island.

But were the country well inhabited and enclosed,
these idle fellows, who from shepherds and cowherds turn
sheep-stealers and cow-stealers, would find it very difficult
to drive cattle from one country to another, as they do at
present?

But we shall never want thieves, while we have stroll-
ing beggars. The high road is the nursery and academy
of thieves, who are but one degree worse than those who
train them up. Of all nuisances and grievances incident
to poor I reland, strolling beggars are the worst. I have

358

THE NECESSITY OF

heard some people compute, that we have always above
fifty thousand of them rambling from place to place, and
that what they consume in the year is equal to a sixth part
of the national taxes.

But be that as it will, these wretches are at first set a
going by real want of bread, in bad seasons, during which
time, idleness, rambling, and impudence become so habitual
to them, and they grow so expert in the art of begging, that
they never think of returning to a settled place of abode,
and to industry. But tillage and granaries would prevent
those famines, that always break so many poor families,
and turn them out to the road. Besides as this evil will
make a law necessary to correct it, I do not know that a
more effectual expedient could be found out by the legis-
lature than to empower any body, who has farming work,
flax dressing, or any such labour a doing, to seize on all
young and lusty beggars, whom they shall find sauntering
about their houses, and compel them with the horsewhip
and cudgel to work for meat, without wages. If this were
the case, the farmers and others would not fail to put a law
in execution that gave them a sturdy labourer without
wages, and so in a little time the strollers would fairly quit
the trade, and the nation be relieved of a burden which it is
not able to bear.

For want of tillage at home, that is, for want both of
food and work, vast numbers of our labourers go every year
to England ; and as these are people who are willing to
work, the loss of them is never enough to be regretted.
The colonies to America, and those huge drains of useful
hands to England, carry out the real wealth of the nation.
Nor can I say it is at all their fault, but rather their misfor-
tune, who are exiled from their native country, and their
relations, and exposed to unheard of hardships, to make
room for bullocks and sheep on those grounds, which they
might, if employed, render so much more valuable to their
infatuated owners.

I know it is objected to all schemes for tillage, that it
would occasion a decay of the beef trade, by which we
bring so much gold into the nation from Spain, Portugal,
France, Holland, and America. But those who make this
objection are not aware'; that if our grounds were ploughed

TILLAGE AND GRANARIES.

359

"with oxen, we should have no great decrease of beef.
The coarse and mountainy grounds would feed prodigious
numbers of dry cattle for the two or three first years, after
which, if they were brought into the rich pastures of clover,
&c. which would follow the last year of tillage, they might
be made to overpay in labour, all that was given for them
at first, and laid out in keeping them; so that their carcase,
hide, tallow, &c. would be all clear gain to their owners.
I am convinced, that by this sort of management, we might
fatten as many bullocks, and export as much beef as we
do at present, and that without costing us any thing. We
should in short have all the bullock beef both for home
consumption, and exportation for nothing. If the grass
and hay, produced in the above way, would not be suffi-
cient to feed as many bullocks and dry cows, as are fat-
tened by our lands untilled, I am confident with the assis-
ance of the straw, and weak corn, they would. It is thus
beef is produced all over England. But supposing we
should have somewhat less beef to export, would it not sell
the higher? Those who get beef from us for victualling
their ships, must have it, cost what it will, as they have
scarcely any other market to go to ; for as to the English,
having a prodigious number of ships to victual, they can-
not spare much to foreign nations. It appears then that as
we should have the foreign beef markets in a good measure
to ourselves, four tubs of beef might sell for as much as six
do at present.

However, where is the great benefit of bringing in gold
for our beef, if we are obliged to send it out again for bread
corn, unless it be to increase the trouble and expense of
perpetually carrying in and out for nothing ? We every
year send out of the kingdom above 100,000/. for grain of
one sort or other, and flour, and more than a fourth of that
sum, for malt liquors. Had we sufficient tillage of our own,
all this might be saved, and five times as much gained by
the exportation of our superfluous grain. Foreign coun-
tries want bread corn as well as beef, especially those that
abound most with gold. Corn is the chief necessary of life,
and can never fail of a market somewhere or other, can
never fail to bring money into a country that can afford to
export it. We sec by the English trade in corn, what ours

360

l UL NECESSITY OF

might be. They always fiud a market and ready money
for all they can spare. We might do the same, and should
gain more by that trade than they ; because our lands are
set at lower rents than theirs, and in the southern parts in-
comparably more fertile. Our taxes too are nothing to
theirs. The security of gaining greatly by a corn trade
appears still more evident, from the trade which the Dutch
drive in corn. All the world knows their country produces
but little fit for foreign sale. What they send abroad they
import from other countries, and store it up for times of
scarcity in the neighbouring countries. Now they can gain
considerably by dealing in this commodity, though they are
at the expense of importing, storing, and exporting. What
then should hinder us from gaining still more considerably,
who are to be at no other expense, but that of exportation
to countries, from whence our merchants may return with
profitable cargoes of foreign goods ? In a report made by
the commissioners for putting in execution an act for stat-
ing the public accounts, Charles Davenant, LL. D. having
first shewn what quantities of corn had been entered for
exportation to Holland, proceeds, * What part of this com-
modity is for their own consumption, and what part they
re-export to other countries, does not appear to me; but
so far is certain, when corn bears a high price in foreign
markets, they send large cargoes of it to the places where
it finds good vent; and it has been known, that in years of
scarcity, they bring us back our own wheat, because of the
premium we give upon exportation, and which they are
enabled to do, by having large granaries almost in every
town, wherein they store large quantities in cheap years to

answer the demands of other countries. As the case now

stands, the Dutch have too great a share in a plentiful year
of corn here. Whereas, if like them, we had public gra-
naries, the superfluity of some years would sell better in
foreign markets, and support our own poor in times of
want. And to me it seems, that nothing would more con-
tribute to put the general balance of trade always on the
side of England, than by good economy in the public, to
keep corn constantly at such, a rate, as that the price of la-
bour and manufacture may at no time be over high.'

Thus it appears, sir, that the English out of a worse soil,

TILLAGE AND GRANARIES.

361

and under much heavier taxes and rents than ours, gain
prodigiously by tillage. It appears also, that the English,
for want of granaries, have not the full profit of their own
corn ; and that the Dutch after buying it up at the English
price, and defraying all the expenses of importing, storing,
and exporting, come in for a great profit besides. What
is it now that makes us blind to so glaring an interest?
Surely there is not under the sun so unthinking a people as
we are !

I cannot dismiss this point concerning the public inte-
rest in tillage, without putting you in mind, that all the ex-
pense in labour, which was deducted out of the private in-
terest of the farmer in my calculation, is here to be added
to the public gain of the nation in exporting grain. You
know, sir^that it is the consumer who pays for all expenses
on any commodity. Consequently the Spanish, Portuguese,
or French, who shall buy our grain, must pay the hire of all
our labourers, horses, and oxen employed in tillage. Now
were all our arable grounds brought under the plough, the
nation would gain by labour only, 32?. lis. 4d. in every five
years tillage of twelve acres Irish measure. This over
the whole kingdom would amount to a prodigious sum,
and as it would arise from men and oxen that are now
almost wholly idle, would be so much clear gain to the
public.

I think it may be laid down as a maxim, that whatso-
ever commodity brings in the greatest sum of money to the
nation from whence it is exported, must be the most gainful
to the public, let the private gains to particular dealers be
ever so small, provided the hands are not taken off from a
more profitable employment. Agreeably to this, if the
lands in Munster and Connaught at present yield and ex-
port as much beef, tallow, butter, hides, wool, &c. as bring
in 500,000?. per annum, and if one fifth part is to be de-
ducted for the private expenses in buying, selling, herding,
slaughtering, sheep-shearing, buttermaking, salting of beef
and hides, the remaining private profit will be 400,000/.
Yet if a quantity of grain to the value of 900,000?. were an-
nually exported, or which amounts to the same thing, if
200,000?. worth of it were used at home, and the other
700,000?. worth exported, and if likewise the private ex-

362

THE NECESSITY OF

pense and labour laid out in the production of this grain
amounted to 000,000/. in this case though the private far-
mers or dealers would gain but 300,000/. which is a fourth
less than the private gain in pasturage, yet the public
would gain by tillage near twice as much as by pasturage,
the public profits of tillage would be to those of pasturage
as nine to five. But when the private as well as the public
gain are both so greatly on the side of tillage, what can
make both the public, and private persons so blind to their
own interest?

Again, if tillage were properly encouraged, it would fill
the kingdom with inhabitants, in which consists the true
wealth and strength of a nation. It is a downright absur-
dity to consult a map for the greatness of a kingdom, which
is to be numbered and not measured. The natives would,
in time, fall into agriculture, and would acquire possessions
in houses, lands, goods, and grain, which being permanent
things, would be a security for their loyalty and good beha
viour. But as the tillage would run chiefly through the
hands of Protestants, the whole kingdom would, in a few
years, be planted with such a sturdy yeomanry, as would ef-
fectually secure the estates of you landed gentlemen to your
families. Men of that kind make the best soldiers in the
world. What is the sword in a hand accustomed to wield
the spade and the plough. Such men are hardy and patient
of labour. A campaign would be only a relaxation to them.
Besides, though of all men they are the fittest for war, yet
as old Cato observes, they are at the same time the quiet-
est, and farthest from a disposition to tumults and insur-
rections* How quickly for want of such, were the Pro-
testant gentlemen in Munster, Leinster, and Connaught,
forced from their estates in the beginning of the late war ?
But in the north the brave husbandmen ran from the spade
and plough, and valiantly defended their liberties and re-
ligion against a powerful invader, supported both by a fo-
reign and domestic force. How would you wish, sir, to
be surrounded with such neighbours at the beginning of an

* Ex agricolis, et viri fortisshui, ct milites strenuissimi gignuntur, tnaximeque pins
qua^stus, stabilissiniusque consequitur, luinhneque iuviciiosus ; nojninieqtie male cogi-
lantes sunt, qui in eo studio occupati sunt.— 3/. Cutouts Prisci, ad lib. de re rttstua irt-
troductio.

TILLAGE AND GRANARIES.

363

invasion or a civil war ? and not by such as having nothing
to lose, are ever intent on changes, and would look on all
your possessions as lawful spoil.

Of all the many advantages arising from tillage, the
introduction of manufactures is the greatest. In order to
establish manufactures in any couQtry, victuals must be
provided at easy rates, or those manufactures must bear a
very high price in foreign countries. For some time the
latter may support a manufacture ; but it will not be long
ere other nations will perceive the advantage, and put in
for a share of it. But that country, which can afford its
manufactures at the lowest rates, is always sure of the
trade. Now though being expert and ready at any article
of manufacture, is a great help to lower its price, yet the
cheapness of provisions contributes no less to the cheapness
of the manafacture. If meal, for instance, which is the chief
article of victualling, is brought from foreign countries, the
expense of bringing, and the merchants' profits, must make
it come so much the dearer to the consumer. The greater
price the manufacturer pays for his necessaries, the higher
he must hold his wares. For this reason, lest at any time,
through a succession of bad harvests, or too great a drain
by exportation, a scarcity should make it impossible for a
tradesman to sell his wares at a price low enough for ex-
portation, and at the same time victual his family, such
stores should be provided in all considerable towns, as with
prudent and honest management, might keep down the
corn-markets.

It is true, a scarcity in this country has hitherto pro-
duced an increase of manufactures, and lowered the price
of them. But that proceeds from the idle disposition of our
people, who do not care to bestir themselves, till want and
necessity forces them, at which times they are obliged to
work at a low er gain, and double their diligence, in pain of
starving. This howev er is such an evil, as, if it be not re-
formed, we can never hope to grow rich. Tillage, which
affords an encouraging prospect of wealth, w ill be found to
be the best remedy for it ; because our idleness is iu a great
measure owing to despair of ever getting above the world,
from whence proceeds a sort of contentment in poverty,

364

THE NECESSITY OF

provided we have present necessaries, and an utter inatten-
tion to future provision.

But as without curing our people of this desperate sort
of sloth, all hopes of public wealth are vain, I therefore
argue upon a supposition of its being cured, and insist that
if such manufactures, as are prepared for foreign markets,
are not sold by those who make them, at low rates, no trade
can be founded on them ; because if the prime cost is a
high one, before they can be brought to a foreign market,
the expense of carrying, and the profit expected by the ex-
porter, will raise them above the prices at which the same
kind of goods are sold in the same market by other nations.
Now, it is plain, sir, that if the manuf acturer is obliged to
pay a high price for his victuals, he must hold his wares
the higher, or he cannot live ; and it is as plain, that if his
victuals come to him from Sicily or America, he must pay
more for them, than if they were brought only from the next
field. And for the same reason, as tradesmen usually crowd
about towns for the benefit of buying their provisions near
their shops, and to avoid running from their work to a dis-
tant market, to purchase victuals, so it would be of infinite
use to them, to have public granaries in such towns, rather
than the sacks of forestalled and extortioners, to resort to.
Thus I think it is plain from this way of reasoning, that
without tillage or granaries, manufacture cannot long or
greatly thrive.

But tillage does not only prepare a reception for ma-
nufactures, but actually introduces them. A family, used
to industry, knows not how to be idle. ' Once men,' as Sir
William Temple observes, ' have through necessity, been
inured to labour, they cannot leave it, being grown a cus-
tom necessary to their health, and to their very entertain-
ment. Nor perhaps is the change harder, from ease to la-
bour, than from constant labour to ease.'

Accordingly, the family of an industrious farmer, having
finished their summer's work in the fields, having got in their
harvest, and put their winter grain into the ground, fall to
some kind of industry within doors, at which in some time,
they become handy, and it grows to a kind of trade. The
women especially, employ themselves in knitting, spinning

TILLAGE AND GRANARIES.

365

and the like, by the profits of which, whole families are of-
ten maintained. It was thus the linen trade crept into the
north of Ireland. The inhabitants holding small farms,
which did not furnish them with labour through the winter,
nor with necessaries through the year, set their women to
spin, and their young lads to weave, when they could be
spared from other work. By these means, an ordinary sort
of cloth began to be made ; but it yielded a profit, and being-
farther improved by practice, and the example of the French
settled at Lisburn, it became the support of the nation.

Thus the women, who in Leinster, Munster, and Con-
naught, are scarce of any other use, than to bear beggar
children, in the north, give birth to all the wealth of the
kingdom, and besides, bear a race of brave and able bo-
died men, to defend that wealth from all invaders.

But again, tillage brings in manufactures another way.
A husbandman, who took a farm, perhaps thirty years ago,
consisting of seventy or eighty acres of land, has during that
time supported himself very comfortably on it. Yet fore-
seeing that he must divide it among three or four children,
and that each of them will not have ground enough to sup-
port a new, and it may be, a numerous family, he breeds
one of his sons to one trade, and a second to another ; and
those men, with each of them, perhaps but a fourth part of
their father's farm, and usually with the rent advanced upon
them, become richer and live better than ever their father
did. Many persons bred up this way, make great fortunes,
employ crowds of people under them, and become a credit
and support to their country.

Besides all this, the husbandman employs several trades
in building and making utensils, such as masons, smiths,
carpenters : and in making clothes for himself and family,
such as weavers, taylors, tanners, curriers, shoemakers,
&c. This now brings that chief article of wealth, I mean
industrious people, into a country. But in yours, sir, it
would turn the idlers, who are now burdensome to others,
into laborious and useful men. If your natives saw a mix-
ture of industrious tradesmen among them, though it were
but here one, and there another, living comfortably, eating
and drinking well, and wearing good clothes, it would cer-
tainly tempt them to quit their laziness, and learn trades,

366

THE NECESSITY OF

in order to get rid of their rags and hunger. This would
be an infinte advantage to the nation ; because by this
means great suras would be gained, instead of much greater
that are now lost, in maintaining above a million and a half
of free-booters, who consume the labours of others, and are
without doubt, the chief reason, why our manufactures of
all kinds, are not cheaper.

Besides the reasons already mentioned against pastu-
rage, there are some others, arising from the peculiar cir-
cumstances of this kingdom, that deserve to be well con-
sidered. The English have for some ages, supplied their
neighbours with woollen manufactures, out of which they
have derived great profit. But upon the great increase of
sheep in Ireland, the English became jealous of our hurting
them in that main article of their trade, and this jealousy
produced an act of parliament, to prohibit the exportation
of woollen manufactures from this kingdom, and even of
wool itself, and woollen yarn, excepting to England. Con-
cerning the policy or justice of this act, it is not to my pre-
sent purpose to inquire ; but it is certainly the business of
this nation, since they are cramped in that branch of trade,
to turn their lands to some other sort of profit, on which no
embargo has been laid. We depend, sir, on England, with-
out whose protection, we should infallibly become the de-
spicable vassals of a civil and religious tyranny. We
should therefore consider every rival of the English trade,
as our enemy. But the clandestine supplies of wool, by
which we enable the Dutch and French to wrest the profits
of that trade out of the hands of England, are little better,
in effect, than impoverishing ourselves by a misapplication
of our lands, in order to undermine the English, Avho are our
friends, and enrich the French, who deserve scarcely any
other name from us than that of our enemies. We know
the English can ruin us if they please ; but that instead of
so doing, they give all possible encouragement to our linen
trade, and in other things might be still kinder to us, did
we not foolishly affect a separate interest from them, and
endeavour to play away their trade, and our own lands, into
the hands of our common enemies.

We are not quite so cramped in respect to the trade on
the produce of black cattle. Yet by a piece of our own ill

TILLAGE AJfD GRANARIES.

367

management, a mischief arises, much resembling the effects
of the law just now mentioned. As we have not leave to
export our manufactured wool, so for want of bark, we can-
not tan the hides of the cattle we slaughter, and so lose one
of the chief profits arising from black cattle. Our prodi-
gals have, every where, destroyed our woods ; our drovers
with their sheep and oxen, keep the country clear of ditches
and consequently of timber. By these means, vast sums
go every year out of the kingdom for bad fir from Norway,
and worse oak from America, and we have no bark to make
leather, even for own use. This is making the most of an
evil, and contriving matters so cunningly, that the one folly
plays into the hand of the other. If an enemy had schemed
this system of foily for us, it could not have been more skil-
fully put together.

Now, sir, if tillage were duly encouraged, we should
soon be crowded with inhabitants, manufactures would
thrive apace ; out of which, in a little time, great revenues
would arise : and these revenues would help greatly to bear
the expenses of the three nations, considered as making one
body. Ireland would then be rich in itself, and become a
military nursery to support the glory of the English arms,
while all things would be kept quiet and safe at home.

But on the contrary, should gracing prevail, and spread
itself into those parts where tillage is now practised, and
manufactures begin to flourish, the island would become a
desert ; man must give way and make room for brutes. A
few wretches, indeed, would stay to wait on the tails of cows
and sheep, and so the whole kingdom would in a little
while, become a pretty green spot, a grass farm for its
neighbours. Now and then perhaps a collector, instead of
a lord-lieutenant, might be sent over from France or Eng-
land, according as the farm might happen to change its land-
lord, to take the tributary fleeces, in time of sheep-shearing.
The neighbouring nations, in their histories, would say, that
Ireland was one peopled ; but it was with fools, for whom
their cattle proving too politic and powerful, drove them
out of the island.

I am afraid, sir, I have already trespassed too far upon
your patience ; and shall not therefore stay to be particular
in telling you, what care the ancients took in all well-regu-

368

THE NECESSITY OF

lated states, to have the lands tilled, and grain produced in
abundance! how among the Assyrians and Persians, the
governor of a well cultivated province, was rewarded, and
that in which tillage was neglected, brought punishment
and disgrace on its satrap ; how the Indians set apart a
whole tribe for tillage, that the art might be the more effec-
tually improved ; how the Greeks and Romans made many
and wise laws to encourage and enforce agriculture, and
appointed rewards and punishments for that purpose ; nei-
ther shall I trouble you with the names of above fifty emi-
nent Greek writers, who laboured in this important subject,
and whom you may see reckoned up by Varro. Several of
the most learned and judicious among the Romans, though
a people so naturally turned to war, such as Cato, Varro,
and Columella, handled it with great skill and accuracy.
The greatest geniuses in poetry, such as Hesiod, Mene-
crates and Virgil, adorned it with the most excellent em-
bellishments of their art. Even kings and princes, for in-
stance, Hiero of Syracuse, Attalus of Pergamus, Archelaus
of Cappadocia, and Mago the Carthaginian general, em-
ployed their pens on tillage, a subject of infinite conse-
quence to their people. Some perhaps may think it strange,
that men so highly dignified by genius or employment,
should stoop to such a subject. But we should consider,
that nothing so absolutely necessary to the lives of men,
and the welfare of a country, can be mean, or below the
care of a wise or a great man. ,

Besides, such men only can make improvements in any
art. Uneducated people are ignorant and slow of thought.
The husbandman, in particular, is always taken up with
doing, rather than considering what ought to be done. Men
of understanding and fortune are the only persons, who
have sense, substance, and leisure to make experiments,
and invent instruments for the improvement of husbandry.
They should therefore set themselves diligently to the busi-
ness, that they might become useful teachers to their te-
nants. They should read, travel, and make experiments
for this purpose. If they set apart a portion of their de-
mesnes for tillage, that piece of ground would answer the
end of a little experimental academy, where agriculture
might be learned, and the visible success would recommend

TILLAGE AND GKANARIES.

369

the theory. Out of such a spot of ground they would de-
rive amusement and health, and would render husbandry
fashionable among their tenants and neighbours.

The English have demonstrated a wise and close at-
tention .to agriculture, as may appear from the several laws
made for its encouragement in the reigns of their wisest
princes. The earth hath been grateful for their care ; it has
produced immense riches and men invincible in war.

But, to our shame be it spoken, we have little considered
this matter, till of late, that some persons, somewhat more
awake to our interest, than the rest, have began to rouse
the nation to some concern about it.

The ingenious Arthur Dobbs, esq. employed great
care, and a good understanding in this cause about fifteen
years ago.

The Querist, whose understanding in the interest of the
nation, and every thing else, is beyond all encomiums,
among a great variety of useful hints, has furnished the pub-
lic with some most judicious ones on the subject of tillage.

The author of the book entitled, Considerations and
Resolutions, &c. has done prodigious service by that per-
formance, not only to the design of ploughing our grounds,
but to many other schemes for the public interest. But
his premiums, proposed in his letter to the Dublin Society,
to which he put his hand, as well as his pen, have given
some motion and life to a spirit of husbandry, which be-
fore that was only wished for.

Several members of the Dublin Society, have touched
very judiciously, and instructively on some branches of
agriculture : in 1738, a very good pamphlet was published,
entitled A Treatise on Tillage, and inscribed to the parlia-
ment. It is well worth your reading ; but the computation
concerning the comparative profits of tillage and grazing,
happening to be defective, has led the author into the ca-
pital mistake, mentioned already, of allowing the private
advantage to be on the side of pasturage, at the same time
that he asserts the public interest lies in tillage.

A very useful paper was published this last summer,
called, A proposal for lowering the price of bread-corn ; in
which the sense of the English, in former times, is shewn
vol. v. 2 B

370

THE NECESSITY OF

by several well-chosen quotations, and a short but sensi-
ble account of the granaries in Switzerland is communi-
cated to the public.

Some years ago an act was made to enforce the tillage
of five acres in the hundred, which had it been regarded,
even as a piece of good advice, not to say, revered as a
law, the experiments, made here and there in consequence
of it, would have quite determined the controversy about
tillage before this time.

This affair was also recommended from the throne to
the farther care of both houses of parliament, at the begin-
ning, if I mistake not, of the last session.

And now again, at the opening of this session, his grace
the lord-lieutenant has pressed it anew, and the honourable
House of Commons have promised a warm and vigorous
attention to it.

Tillage, in short, has been the constant cry, for a good
many years past, of all the wise and compassionate part
of the nation. But our late famines and mortalities, I
hope, have now raised this cry to such a loudness, as no
ear can be deaf to, and no heart insensible of.

It is high time, sir, to remove the infamous reproach
of idleness, stupidity, and beggary, so justly thrown on us
by all our neighbouring nations, to enjoy the fertility of our
own lands, and to find a profitable employment for a poor
unhappy people, hitherto useless, distressed and starved.
We have great numbers of people, but they do nothing ;
and a most fruitful soil, but it bears only grass. Our people
die by thousands for mere want of bread, on one of the
richest soils in the world. This is a shameful paradox.
Tell it not in England, publish it not in Holland.

Were an Hollander inquiring about our country, told
that Ireland, lying in a temperate climate, has generally
speaking, a most fertile soil, in many places navigable
rivers, on all sides convenient harbours, a prodigious
abundance of both fresh and salt water fish, firing for little
or nothing, and many other articles of natural wealth, which
most countries are destitute of ; and besides all, has en-
joyed an uninterrupted peace for upwards of fifty-three
years, he would immediately conclude, that Ireland must

TILLAGE AND GRANARIES.

371

be one of the most populous and wealthy countries in the
world.

But should he be told, that, instead of being populous,
one half of it can hardly be said to be inhabited, and yet
that its inhabitants have little or nothing to do, and are
starving for want of bread ; that it is oftener visited with
famine, than any other country under heaven, and every
famine attended as a natural and necessary consequence,
with a pestilence that sweeps away its inhabitants in pro-
digious numbers; who also crowd out to America, and else-
where, so fast, that it is in clanger of being unpeopled in a
little time ; that as to its wealth, it is one of the poorest
countries in the world ; were he told all this, he would then
ask, from whence proceeded a distress so unaccountable?

If we told him the infamous truth, that as to trade, ex-
cepting in the one branch of the linen manufacture, it is
wholly neglected ; that we set apart all our worst grounds,
our northern and mountainous lands, for tillage, and keep
our rich plains for grazing either bullocks, because we have
not bark to tan our hides, or sheep, because we are forbid
to export our wool manufactured ; that we are satisfied to
take claret, currants, raisins, olives, and French laces for
our beef ; that we think it nearer to go to England or even
to America for corn, than to the ground we tread on; that
our gentlemen of estates would rather set their lands to
bullocks and sheep at 7s. per acre, than to men at fifteen,
or twenty; that instead of spending their money at home,
and endeavouring to improve their estates, where they
might be almost adored, they lavish it away about the Eng-
lish court, where they are laughed at as a poor brainless
sort of people, and treated with insufferable contempt ; that
in consequence of our idleness and want of provisions,
the industrious few are forced to maintain, at least, four
times their number of people, who do nothing at all, of
whom about fifty thousand go constantly a begging, and
are very careful to breed up their children to thievery ;
were he told all this, his wonder at our poverty would
quickly cease, or rather would be changed into surprise
that any people could possibly be so sottish, and so infa-
tuated. He might probably ask, if a remedy for such evils
was ever thought of : and if we should tell him that always
2 b 2

372

THE NECESSITY OF

in lime of scarcity and pestilence, every one cries out for
tillage and granaries ; but as soon as ever the winds, on
which we depend for bread have brought relief, not a soul
ever thinks of tillage or granaries again ; if this were told
him how would he be astonished !

Just as I was going to conclude this tedious letter, a
friend, who is well acquainted with trade, both as itrespects
the private dealer and the nation, and from whom I had
several very judicious hints, particularly the computation
of the expenses and labour of a farmer's family, entered
my room with a paper in his hand; which, upon perusal,
I found contained a thought so extremely agreeable in
itself, and so proper to illustrate and enforce all I have
been saying, that I could not help inserting it.

I shall suppose, says my friend, that two landed gentle-
men, one from the north, and the other from the south of
Ireland, do discover somewhere to the west of this king-
dom, two islands, and take possession as sovereigns and
proprietors of said islands. The soil of both is the same,
and they differ not in any other respect, save that the island,
seized by the southern gentleman, contains three thousand
acres, the other but two thousand. Each of these proprie-
tors, to make the most of his island, sets it off to tenants, the
southern gentleman, to three graziers, those being the most
solvent sort of tenants in his native country, and the northern
gentleman to forty husbandmen at fifty acres to a farm.

Now as graziers cannot make more than 20s. per acre
out of middling ground, and as such tenants, as are able to
stock one thousand acres of land, will not take land at so
high a rent, as poorer men would, the southern proprietor is
obliged to set his land to the three graziers at 10s. per acre,
and for twenty years.

On the other hand, the northern proprietor, though he
knows that such tenants as take small farms, in order to
tillage, can be had in great numbers to cant for his land,
and that an acre of ground in oats only, at 4s. 8d. per bar-
rel will produce above 41. yet being willing to give some
encouragement to industrious people from the neighbouring
countries, to come and settle in his island, he sets his small
farms at 10s. by the acre, and for the term of twenty years.

Let us suppose that each of these proprietors reserves

TILLAGE AND GRANARIES.

373

to himself a spot of ground, lying convenient to some creek
or bay, sufficient to build a little town on, where boats may
come in with necessaries, and take off the superfluous com-
modities, subject to some custom or duty.

The island of pasture, yielding yearly the sum of 3000/.
gives its proprietor 1500/. and each of the three graziers
500/. its whole produce, for twenty years, will amount to
60,000/.

If only one half of the corn island is tilled, and sowed
with oats, its annual produce will be 4000/. ; out of which
the landlord receiving 1000/., each of the forty farmers has
75/. for his own share. The whole produce of the culti-
vated half only, for twenty years, will amount to 80,000/.;
the other half that is grazed by milch and plough cattle,
producing only 1000/. a year, yields in twenty years
20,000/., which being shared entirely among the forty te-
nants, will go near to defray all their expenses in living, so
that each may save almost his whole 75/. yearly.

Thus it appears how graziers come to make so great
fortunes, and at whose expense ; and how farming comes
to be despised, because nobody makes an overgrown for-
tune by it in a few years.

But let us return to our islands, says my friend, and let
us see in what condition they are now, at the expiration of
the twenty years.

The island of pasture is no worse.

But the island of corn is a great deal better. Many
houses are built, ditches made, orchards, and hedge-rows
planted, lands drained, coarse grounds reclaimed, and some
artisans brought in, housewifery at the same time and ma-
nufactures are begun.

The island of pasture has better hunting, better fowling,
and is less disturbed with noise and bustle, than the corn
island. Its inhabitants are also double the number they
were at first.

The food of the poor in the island of corn, is bread,
beef, butter, milk, pottage, flummery, &c.

The food of the poor in the island of pasture, is butter-
milk, curds, sorrel, nettles, watergrass, and by way of deli-
cacy, in the bleeding and slaughtering seasons, boiled blood.

374

THE NECESSITY OF

The one sort of people are free, and full of heart, the
other are cowardly slaves. The posterity of the one is bred
to labour, that of the other to idleness. These make useful
members of society, those make thieves and beggars. These
boldly defend their property, those have no property, and
durst not defend it if they had.

But let us now suppose both islands to be set again.

The island of pasture, admitting of no improvement,
is just as it was at first. The graziers' families however,
being doubled, they must live more poorly than they did ;
and the families of their herds being also doubled, and con-
sequently there being employment only for one half of them,
the other half must either beg, steal, and starve at home, or
else must go over to the corn island for work and victuals.
As the graziers may have saved money, they will be under
the less necessity of taking their land at an advanced rent.
And as for their herds, as they could save nothing, so
they have no stock, and consequently can propose for no
land. The proprietor therefore must be satisfied with his
old rent.

In the island of corn great improvements having been
made, its land being better laboured by the increase of the
inhabitants, and the accession of hands from the other
island, and consequently its crops being much better, its
farms having convenient houses, and other accommoda-
tions for tenants, its manufactures beginning to bring in to
the farmers near as much as the produce of their ground,
and merchants growing rich by the exportation of such grain
and manufactures as can be spared, and trade having pro-
duced a town where tenements set for twenty times the rent
of other lands, the proprietor can scarce fail of getting 20*.
an acre, one with another, for his ground. Thus his rent
will amount to 2000/. yearly, and the duties on exports,
which foreigners always pay, will arise to a considerable sum
besides. The timber also, which the ditches will produce,
will now begin to bring him in some profit ; so that we may
fairly allow him to receive out of his little island, during
the term of the second leases, the yearly sum of 2500/.

As to the inhabitants of his island, as they are now in-
creased to eighty families of farmers, besides artisans, they

TILLAGE AXD GRANARIES.

375

will certainly cant up his lands to a high value ; so that he
may be secure of such a rent as I have allowed him. And
as to themselves, they will have great abundance of wealth,
though divided among many hands. We cannot suppose
all the hands of the island to be altogether, and always em-
ployed in labouring the land. One fifth part of them will
be sufficient for that purpose, and the rest, as they came
from the north of Ireland, and brought the knowledge of
the linen trade with them, will certainly fall to the flaxen
manufacture. In this kind of business every eight pounds
of flax which at 6d. per lb. costs only 4s. will sellout again,
in twenty yards of linen, for 1 /., 21., or 3/. Other manufac-
tures for exportation will also be made, so that the wealth
brought in by corn, will be but small in comparison of that
which will accrue from wares, and merchandise of one kind
or another. Thus, by the expiration of the second twenty
years, the wealth of the two islands will bear no proportion
to each other. The manufactures will produce twice the
profits of the tillage, and the whole wealth arising out of,
and acquired by, the inhabitants of the little island, besides
paying the proprietor his rent and taxes, will in twenty
years, from the commencement of the new leases, amount
to between 2 and 300,000/.

All this time the island of pasture is at a stand. Its in-
habitants, as they increased, removed to the little island,
and are lost for ever tc their native country. And its beef,
wool, &c. have been carried out to foreign countries by the
shipping of the little island, which by that means have run
away with a large share of the profits arising out of those
commodities, when carried to foreign markets.

In process of time the inhabitants of the little island
having learned the art of war, as necessary for the defence
of their possessions, and their sovereign growing ambitious,
upon some dispute arising between him, and his neighbour-
ing proprietor of the large island, he will make war upon
him, and with great ease take his island from him.

See here, sir, in this just and fair parallel drawn up by
my friend, the different effects of grazing and tillage, so
demonstrably proving, and so agreeably illustrating the
whole tenor of this letter.

37G

THE NECESSITY Of, &C.

Having heartily tired you, sir, and myself on this very
important topic, I shall now take leave of it, wishing that I
could either put you into a method of improving your for-
tune, or defending your country from the terrible calamities
of famine and pestilence, and assuring you that I am, sir,
with all imaginable respect,

Your most obedient humble servant,

TRIPTOLEMUS.

A DREAM,

IN THE YEAR 1770.

After having tired mankind with my waking thoughts iri
several large volumes, let them take a sample of my, dreams.
It is the saying of a very old philosopher, that while we
arc awake we all live in one common world, but when we
go to sleep every one retires to a world of his own. The
natural philosophers have always, whether awake or asleep,
been great world-makers, and the moral as remarkable for
world-mending.

For my own part, I never attempted to make a world,
but take this as I find it, for better, for worse, and leave the
sun and stars to stand still or go round, just as He pleases
who made them. If I can breathe the air, guide myself by
the light, and subsistest on the fruits of the earth, it is of
little moment with me, whether our atmosphere is five or
fifty miles high ; whether the light is instantaneous or pro-
gressive ; and whether my food is digested by attrition, by
animal heat, by the salival menstruum, or by fermentation.
In the day time I think of these things as every peasant does,
and at night, dream only of what employed my thoughts
when my senses and affections were engaged in the scenes
around me. My imagination indeed takes upon her to
build up, pull down, and transpose as she thinks fit. If
any thing very new or surprising hath lately struck me, she
seldom fails when reason is asleep, to give it a rehearsal
and to model it in a way of her own. I have not been in
town for a long time. If therefore I appear like a creature
of another world, the present inhabitants of this city seem
no less strange to me. I fancy myself transported to some
distant part of the solar system, if not into a region far be-
yond its utmost bounds. Like a new arrived traveller, I
beheld hardly any thing 1 ever saw before. With difficulty

378

A DREAM.

I find out some faces formerly known to me, but soon per-
ceive they do not belong to the persons I was acquainted
with. Filled with these reflections at a late assembly,
where curiosity had engaged me, I went home, and to bed
at my usual hour of rising.

I was but a few minutes at rest when I found myself
landing from a vessel at the mouth of a river, and on the
shore of a country wholly unknown to me. I should have
been at a loss where to go or what to do, had I not just
then luckily met with an old woman, with whom I had been
formerly a little acquainted. Her aspect though deeply
furrowed by the plough of time, had in it somewhat vener-
able, rather than forbidding, with an eye that penetrated
the soul of him she looked at. Her air was rather mascu-
line than delicate. Her garments, simple as they appeared
to be, and really were, had in them that which was most con-
venient and graceful in the dress of every nation through
w hich I had travelled. She held in her hand a staff, not so
much for support, as for some extraordinary virtues, which,
I afterward perceived, were enclosed in it. You have seen
me sometimes, said she. Yes, I replied with a blush ; your
name is, Experience. It is, answered she, and as I have
always, though too often unsuccessfully, endeavoured to
direct your steps, I now again offer my service in a place
where you may have other guides, it is true, but few so
safely to be trusted. Having received her overture with
a sort of submission approaching to fear more than thank-
fulness, I put myself under her direction, and began with
asking her the name of the river which lay before us. That
river, said she, is the most remarkable river in the world
for its fountain, which after the search of all mankind is
yet discovered by few or none ; for the length of its course,
which also is yet undiscovered by geographers; for the
extraordinary property of its waters sought after but found
out by as few, by none indeed, but an old man and woman,
who were instructed in their nature by myself; and for the
extensive countries it divides. Its name is Competency.
I have often heard its name, said I, but never saw it before.
In vain have I asked for directions to it, though every body
pretended to know where and what it was. The guess

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379

which seemed to come nearest the matter, was that of a
poor countryman, who defined it to be a little more than
one has. In so saying, replied my guide, he intended ra-
ther to ridicule the folly of mankind, than to clear up the
nature of the thing. This river, continued she, arises from
the purest of all fountains, called Wisdom, which I myself
could not find till I was above a thousand years old, when
I arrived at it, after having examined every other spot of
the globe, and discovered its situation among certain moun-
tains, almost inaccessible, and as high as the heavens, from
whence immediately and not from this turbid air we breathe,
they receive the waters of the river before you, in etherial
dews. As to the course of this river, I can only say, that
it extends to all the inhabited parts of the globe ; or at least
may be derived in drills to every habitation on earth, yet is
scarcely found at any, the generality of mankind preferring
to it the troubled waters they draw from fountains of their
own digging, or such as they purchase from watermen who
supply them from the next pool. The qualities neverthe-
less wherewith the waters of this river are impregnated,
ought to give it a preference to all others. There is no
liquor so wholesome, so pleasant, or so refreshing as this;
could you take but one good draught of it, you need hardly
ever after suffer the uneasy sensation of thirst. Could !
interrupted I, could ! why, I will drink, till I can hold no
more. I will drink at it, I will swim and swill in it. Hold,
said she; the quantity is not the thing. Many who drink
large draughts of this water, find themselves but the more
thirsty ; and some who drink sparingly are satisfied. Be-
sides, you cannot so much as obtain a taste of it, unless you
approach it on the right. You see how flat the bank is on
that side ; how steep and rocky on the other.

But let us take a walk through the countries, between
which it runs. Then she led me from the shore, and said,
This is the land of Nature. Here you see a fine country,
but thinly inhabited, and only so far cultivated as mere ne-
cessity requires. Those rocks, you see, seem ready to fall
on your head. The rivers pour down in cataracts, rather
than cascades ; and the plains are overgrown with thorns
and brambles, rather than trees. The people are alike ig-
norant of civility and luxury. Here are no merchants, no

380

A DREAM.

divines, no lawyers, or physicians. You will nowhere find
so high instances of kindness or cruelty, as here. You see
how that man fights till he faints, at the door of his hut, to
defend his guest who is within ; and you see how slowly
and how barbarously that other tortures his prisoner to
death, and enjoys his agonies. They are the most hospi-
table of all the human race ; yet are ever engaged in bloody
wars among themselves about that you will call trifles ;
but to them they are necessaries. They have hardly any
principles, but of common honesty and common humanity,
which do not hinder them from acting, on many occasions,
with a degree of treachery and cruelty, the most horrible
that can be conceived. You see they go almost naked, but
with a modesty and chastity, unknown in other nations,
pampered by luxury. They never eat but when they are
hungry; nor drink, but when they are thirsty. They sleep
only by night, and lie no longer than while they are asleep.
I am an utter stranger to them, though often among them,
for they have no letters, no records of past transactions ;
and indeed no memory but of two things, a benefit and an in-
jury, which they will requite in kind, sometimes to the third
generation. They never drink the waters of the river,
though so safely approached on their side, because, al-
though thirst arises to an endemic disease among them,
they are satisfied with the momentary refreshment afforded
by other waters, and never once think of assuaging this
troublesome appetite, for more than the present hour or
day. Were you, sir, to reside here for years, you could
learn no more of the naturalists than you have already ga-
thered from my words, and your own observation.

Having said this, she lifted up her staff, and pointing
towards the river, added, You see that island in the midst
of the stream. It is called the island of Contentment, not
so much because all its inhabitants are satisfied with their
condition, as because they may be if they please. Having
said this, a single motion of her staff brought a boat to the
bank, which took us in, and while we were passing, I ex-
pressed my wonder, that the vessel could float on water so
shallow ; and was still more astonished at her answer ; This
water where least in depth, is sufficient to float a first rate,
if I am on board, and where deepest, if I am absent, will

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381

strand a cock-boat. That instant we landed on themost
delicious spot my eyes had ever beheld. This, said the
guide, is my favourite piece of ground, and by some is call-
ed the garden of Experience. Here you see not an inch,
that is not improved to the uttermost. Here is nothing
wanting, nothing superfluous. Though I have laid out no-
thing here merely for ornament, yet the useful is here ren-
dered simply ornamental. Observe the architecture and
disposition of those houses, how neat, how conveniently si-
tuated in regard to the adjacent grounds, where the fields
for corn and pasturage strike the eye with a landscape, far
superior in beauty to the gardens of Versailles. Behold
the fruit-trees in blossom, intermixed with others, already
bending under the weight of their golden load. Step in hi-
ther ; see how conveniently this house, whichJ shew you
but as a sample of the rest, is contrived. Can any thing
be prettier than its furniture? yet its whole furniture, you
may perceive, consists of utensils so finished and so dis-
posed, as to affect the eye with more pleasure, than the
superb and costly ornaments of any palace you have seen.
I assented, and she went on. You see nobody idle here ;
every one is employed, and (you see by their looks) delight-
ed with their employment. They want no cards, nor dice
to parry a tedious hour. At their assemblies which are
once a week, and sometimes oftencr, they enjoy the sweets
of society in perfection. Love reigns universally among
them, and conversation turns on the genius of the river, on
the mountains from whence it runs ; on the fruits of their
industry ; on the best methods of improving every thing ;
on acts of kindness, exhibited upon affecting occasions ;
on observations made in the heavens with telescopes, and
among the minuter works of creation, with microscopes ;
on the history of past times, with all its striking characters,
and interesting transactions. It would delight you more
than you can conceive, to hear with what force of judgment
and with what a delicate vein of wit, they entertain one
another, on these and the like subjects. There is a just
mixture of solidity and gaiety, which, at once dignifies and
brightens their whole intercourse. In their dress, which is
plain, there is, you see, somewhat so well fancied, and so
nearly approaching to elegant, as exposes to contempt, on

382

A DREAM.

the comparison, the frippery and foppery of those nations,
who style themselves the most refined. At their tables
there is cleanliness and plenty, but no more. They eat
and drink only to live, and therefore live more agreeably,
and to a much greater age, than other nations. Observe
that youth, what agility there is in his motions, what come-
liness in his countenance, what fire in his eye. Take my
word for it, he was born a hundred years ago. That he is
now so young when he is old, is owing to his having been
old when he was young, that is, to his having been pecu-
liarly my pupil. Take particular notice of that cottage on
the very brink of the river. There live the old man and
woman, whom i mentioned to you before. The inhabitants
of that village, next to their house, send them every day as
much victuals as they want, and every year the clothing
requisite, until the next revolution of the sun hath been
finished. They are happier than all the rest of the islanders,
for they drink every eay of the river, and never once so
much as wish for more than that which is allowed them.
How can that be, said I, since they subsist on charity, and
are dependent ?. You speak like a young man, she replied.
There is no man independent. All depend on others, and
on the great Provider. The old people know, these re-
sources cannot faii them, and therefore are in no sort of pain
about to-morrow. The rest of the islanders, who mix the
waters of the river in too small quantities with their other
drink, are but half contented with their condition, as you
may perceive by their continual industry to better it. There
is not one of them who could imitate the old couple in that
which I saw them do yesterday. As they were walking
hand in hand on the bank, they found a large bag of gold,
coin, and jewels. Ha ! said the old man, these are the
toys which the people in the land of Fashion are so fond
of, and with that he jerked- them all away, one after ano-
ther, on the surface of the river, for the amusement of his
wife, who laughed at the sport with a sneer of contempt
for the fools who set a value on such gewgaws. When the
people of the island go into the land of Nature, they are
considered as fops ; when they make an excursion into the
land of Fashion, which sometimes they do, they pass for
clowns, as you did an hour ago, at the assembly.

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383

With this she waved her staff, and the boat attended.
We were no sooner seated, than she shewed me by a
plumb-line, that the water was, on this side towards the
land of Fashion, of a prodigious depth. Unfathomable as
the stream is here, said she, it never strikes the Fashionists
above the ankles. The truth is, they rarely descend to the
brink of this river, hindered by those immense rocks, which
run all along on the hither bank. They are formidably
high, said I, and seem impassable. These, said the guide,
are the rocks of vanity, which consist not of solid stone,
but of clouds. So saying, she moved her staff, and a large
gap was made in the ridge, through which, after landing
opposite to it, we passed as on level ground. Behold,
said my guide, that palace on the top of the rock. Did you
ever see a building so magnificent ? Yet you see no gar-
dens, no fields near it. All is barren rock. The owner placed
it in that situation, purely for the benefit of a most extended
view, and hath called it, Prospect, after his own name.
Here he comes, and you shall see to how poor a thing I
can reduce his boasted fabric. Is that your house, Lord
Prospect? said she. My house! answered he. My pa-
lace, if you please, madam. Did you ever see any thing of
the kind half so superb ? It was finished but two months
ago by the greatest architect of the age. How ! what have
you done? By that motion of your magical staff you have
turned it into a pitiful cottage. Yes, said she, but I have
left you all your prospects. And, alas ! those alone, re-
plied his lordship, for I had expended my whole estate on
the work.

From hence we passed forward into the country, which
presented a scene wholly different from that in the laud of
Nature, so wild and uncultivated ; whereas here every thing
is artificial. The fields are all square. The rivers run in
right lines. Not only the hedges, but the trees, are clip-
ped into a thousand fantastical figures. I discovered an
elm in the shape of a cock, and an oak in that of a dog.
The horses are all taught to pace, the dogs to leap over a
stick, and the birds to sing by note.

Extremely disgusted with the awkwardness of every
thing I observed, what a force, said I, is put on nature here !
What sort of people are the inhabitants of this country ?

384

A DREAM.

You shall see, said my guide, and so led me forward to-
wards the capital, and the palace of queen Fashion. Ob-
serving a woman just before me in very high dress, is not
that her majesty ? said I. Her majesty, replied my guide !
no, that is only one of her kitchen wenches. With this she
waved her staff, and the whole palace became transparent
like glass. High on a gorgeous throne sat the queen, at first
look resembling a girl of fifteen, but, on a more careful in-
spection, discovering ten thousand wrinkles, and every im-
pair of time. There is no describing her dress, which varied
every moment, from colour to colour, and from figure to
figure. Her deportment was no less fantastical. New airs,
new grimaces, new distortions, turned her in less than an
hour, into ten thousand different monsters. Every change
in her dress and manner was instantly conformed with by
the whole court, next by the city, and, as soon as possible,
by all her subjects, to the most distant part of her empire.
Observe, said my guide, the queen's prime minister, stand-
ing at her right hand ; his name is Art, and at her left, his
son, Artifice. The father invents all the new dresses, and
the son of all the airs, looks and gestures. See how they
shave away the men's beards, and turn the youths into old
women ! See how they cut off the finest heads of hair, and
replace them with tufts, taken perhaps from the head of a
distempered harlot ! See how, at one time, the largest man
is not allowed enough to touch his neck, nor to cover a fifth
part of his head ! And how, at another, the least man is
so loaded with hair, that you can scarcely discover his face
in the bush which surrounds it! See, how sometimes those
tufts of hair are frizzled on the cheeks of the wearer, like
that of the manticora ! How they are sometimes plaistered
on the crown with powder and pomatum ! and how they are
often twisted behind into tails like those of rats ! See how
suddenly all the rest of their dress is altered, without the
least regard to their natural make ! How their pockets are
now placed almost immediately under their arms, and now
again as low as their knees ! How their shoes are now ex-
alted into buskins, and then depressed into slippers ! Ob-
serve what new cocks of the hat, what new bows, what new
cringes, are brought continually into vogue. Do but take
notice of those two coxcombs, sent into the field by her

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385

majesty, to butcher each other for the omission of a cere-
mony in point of behaviour, but a few days ago published
by her prime minister. There is no fashion she hath longer
kept up, than this genteel species of murder ; and none
which proves her power so absolute, as you may perceive
by the miserable paleness and terrors of the combatants,
which they labour in vain to mitigate and conceal under an
awkward sort of swagger, the sure indication of extreme
timidity. The drams they have taken are not sufficient to
alleviate their dread of death ; but they are still more afraid
of the queen, and therefore are going to offer up to her, as
their supreme goddess, the costly victims not only of two
human bodies, but of two immortal souls.

The women suffer rather more by this tyranny than even
the men. Their beauty, whereon they lay the stress of all
their hopes and joys, is wholly destroyed by it. Those
things you see for faces, are but pictures, unskilfully daubed.
The queen, at her discretion, lengthens or shortens the
waists of all the ladies, as if a rib, or a joint in the back-
bone were added or substracted in order to a conformity
with the fashion. When long waists are in, you will fre-
quently see a little damsel splintered so far down upon her
hips, that she cannot make a step of more than three inches.
When nakedness is prescribed from above, you may see
the splinters lowered at the chest, and the petticoats, so
shortened, as to excite an apprehension that the whole
dress will be reduced to a mere girdle, or nothing. But still
you are to take all this for fashion only, and consider it as
perfectly consistent with modesty. In this state of the mode
it is diverting enough to see the broad exposure of a maho-
gany complexion in the brunettes, and of wrinkles in the
aged. See how their hair is concealed, as a deformity under
a cap, of no analogy to the shape of either face or head ;
or frizzed up, like the tresses of a fury, to so great an ele-
vation, as brings the countenance of a low woman very near
to the bottom of her bust. Mandeville saw a whole nation
of these, who had their faces in their breasts. It is not long
since the younger women, had their waists drawn in to the
thickness of their arms, the cause of many frightful disor-
ders, and their hips enlarged to a circumference of five or
six yards. The body of her majesty is extremely warped

vol. v. 2 c

380

A DREAM.

and its apparent straightness is owing solely to a parcel of
splinters, taken from the mouth of a whale, wherewith she
is so tightly braced, that she can hardly breathe. In imita-
tion of her majesty, all the otherwomen,as ifbroken backed,
are splintered too, and cased like lobsters to a hardness
on the outside, which comports but little with the internal
tenderness of the sex. It is, you see, a fundamental article
of faith and practice among this people, that the author of
nature knew not at all how to give the human body either
a right colour or figure.

It is a fixed principle with them also, that he knew as
little how to feed it. Their food is entirely artificial. It is
a sort of a crime to eat or drink any thing, which hath not
been brought, at a great expense, from some very distant
country. Food easily had; and produced at home, sinks the
feeder to a despicable vulgarity. To keep up this refine-
ment, an immense trade is carried on throughout all the pro-
vinces of this extensive empire, and pushed from thence to
the most distant corners of the world. Articles of luxury
are perpetually brought in, and new fashions carried out.
This enables a fashionist to set a hundred different dishes
on his table at one entertainment; and herein consists the
pomp of life, and his superiority over him who can have but
ninety. Things the most disagreeable to nature, such as
garlic and assafcetida, are introduced as sauces and sea-
sonings. It is just now under consideration to give a vogue
to ram mutton, and to set it above ortolans and venison.
It requires a species of profound learning to dress their din-
ners and suppers, and almost as much to carve and eat
them. Hence spleen, gravel, gout, palsies, apoplexies,
and an innumerable train of other horrible disorders, all
aggravated by their inaction, for you see hardly any of
them, who hath not lost the use of his limbs, and is not
therefore carried by beasts or men, from one place of ren-
dezvous to another. These people have no laws ; all is go-
verned by precedents, which are taken wholly from the will
of the queen, and the practice of the court. To know how
to demean yourself in this country, you must be perpetually
in company, where nothing is talked of but these precedents,
and nothing done but in conformity to them. Here you may
learn how you are to carry to all sorts of persons, and on

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387

all occasions ; how you are to receive, and how to be re-
ceived. Besides, there are professors, here, who undertake
to instruct you in the deep mysteries of standing, walking,
sitting, eating and drinking, according to form. In this nation
all religions are tolerated, for the queen, the court, and the
grandees, are of none. The lower classes of people, having
no precedents prescribed them in this particular, choose for
themselves, but still rather by vogue and fashion than by
reason, for, generally speaking, they follow after a multi-
tude. They are all bigots, though to a thousand different
species of superstition. Some worship a stick, some a stone,
some a dog, some a cat, and no dog or cat can snarl, spit
fire, bark, bite or scratch, more furiously with one another,
than their devotees do for them. But as often as one sort
of superstition grows stale, and cools on the minds of its
professors, the prime minister invents and propagates a new
one. This, like fire among gunpowder, sets all in a flame,
which however does not deflagrate for many years, perhaps
for some ages. In these religious or rather irreligious wars,
force is not all that is employed. The prime minister's son
hath a great stroke in the management of such bickerings,
and generally turns the scale of victory which way he
pleases. Such a master of canting, grimace, hypocrisy,
insinuation, persecution, and scurrility, can work the minds
of a giddy multitude to every extravagance, under the mask
of piety and devotion. You see those bales before him.
They contain nothing but new fashions. See, he hath just
opened one, wherein you may observe an endless variety
of particulars, new poisons and stilettos for the Italians,
the pattern of a new pocket flap for the French, and a
sketch of a new religion for the English.

The fashionists are so trained by their queen, that they
faint at the stink of roses, lavender, and jessamin, in the
country; but breathe in raptures the fume of sinks and dung-
hills in town. Air at second hand, though from a perspiring
porter, or a poisoned strumpet, or a corpulent alderman in
the rage of a fever, is the element the finest ladies rejoice
to pant in. A love speech is nothing if not whispered in
this sort of air. In the capital cities of several provinces,
all the people of rank, as well the one sex as the other, dose
themselves largely with garlic, as preparative for every
2 c 2

388

A DREAM.

public assembly, possibly as requisite to master a set of
more disagreeable scents, so that they no sooner begin to
dance, than the room is filled with the stench of this plant,
made still more nauseous and horrible by its digestion in
the human body, and its excrementious emission through
every pore, great and small.

As she finished these words, I said, Pray be so good as
to tell me, who, or what that figure is, which I see bustling
in the crowd with so much eagerness to approach the throne.
Her head and breast are set off in the highest pink of the
mode, and surely, at a vast expense in lace, in jewels, &c.
but, downward, her clothes look mean and tarnished, her
stockings are coarse and worn to pieces, and her feet are
bare. JNever did beauty (for I confess she is extremely
pretty) make so grotesque a figure. Her name, said my
guide, is, Ireland. Did you never see her before? Yes, I
replied, I now recollect I was once a little acquainted with
her, but never saw her look so very like a mixture of fool
and pageant.

My curiosity was but half allayed on this subject, when
I cast my eyes on a sort of country dance, wherein I ob-
served none but persons of the first figure were engaged.
A parson acted as dancing-master, married the partners,
divorced, and married them anew to the partners of others,
as they changed hands in dancing down. What, madam,
is this? cried I, in the deepest amazement. This, she an-
swered, is the newest dance, lately invented at court, and
soon to be practised throughout the empire, down to the
lowest ranks of people. It is called the dance of duchesses.
As it is directly contrary to all the religions of the country,
the great ones have been forced to give it a sanction by
some special acts of the national council.

Life here, continued she, is nothing but a masquerade,
conducted by the prime minister's son. All is disguise, you
see no real person, no real face ; nor do you hear one syl-
lable of truth. Here is infinite civility, but no sincerity;
much profession, but no performance.

It is my opinion, said I, that these people are far from
being happy. You are not mistaken, she replied. They
aim, as all do, at happiness, but a course, so wide of na-
ture and reason, can never lead to it, can only end in its

A DREAM.

389

reverse. The reigning maxim of every individual fashionist
is to figure as high, and to be as much a man of pleasure,
as he who depends on a larger fortune. Pomp therefore
and poverty, go here, hand in hand, and pleasure soon loses
itself in distress, made more keen by the remembrance of
past enjoyments. There are not above four or five of those
fine people you see, of either sex, who are able to pay their
servants' wages, or who are not hunted every moment by
duns, for the very clothes on their backs. To remedy this
by a short method, they have recourse to gaming and
sharping ; but the numerous associations of gamblers, who
lie in wait for them, being much greater adepts in this spe-
cies of villany, and carrying on the trade in concert, fre-
quently turn their dependence on chance into absolute
ruin. Is gaming a fashion too ? said I. O yes, said she,
and one of the queen's most favourite passions. Family
is another. She hath established it as a rule, that nobody
in her dominions shall be truly a person of fashion, to whom
wealth hath not descended, through at least seven genera-
tions of ancestors, so as that the contemptible son of a
dunghill, who first raised his race out of obscurity, is wholly
forgotten as a nonentity. This prevailing principle de-
taches respect from office, and wonderfully weakens the
power of magistracy. As it requires a length of time to
set up a family, so it does to pull it down again, after ex-
travagance and vice have wasted the estate. You see the
airs of that shabby woman there. She is by birth a person
of distinction, but subsists at present only on the niggardly
bounty of some gentry, which she receives with the haugh-
tiness of one conscious of older blood than that of her be-
nefactors, and will tell you, that they are but upstarts in

comparison of her

As she was saying this, the whole court, city, and country
crowded round an altar, where they where going to make a
sacrifice to the queen, of themselves, their health, fortune,
reputation, life, conscience, soul. Ha ! said my guide, in-
fatuated wretches, what are you about to do 1 The words
were hardly out of her mouth, when a confused medley of
tailors, dukes, milliners, duchesses, Frisseurs, ladies of earls
and shoemakers, dancing-masters, mistresses of boarding-

390

A DREAM.

schools, gamblers, gentlemen ushers, masters of ceremo-
nies, and I know not who else, fell upon her all at once,
spit at her, buffeted her, trampled her under their feet, and
having tied her on the altar, set fire to the fuel under her.
Seeing this, I had but just began to interpose in her defence,
when a volley of spittle was discharged on me too, and lady
U, to shew the fineness of her leg, gave me so violent a
chuck under the chin with her toe, that, shocked at her
impudence, and tortured with my own pain, I instantly
awoke.

HYLEMA.

Several writers, and they not of the first magnitude, have
given the title of Sylva, wood, or forest, to their perform-
ances. This would be too magnificent an appellation for
the following medley. It deserves no better name, than
that of an underwood, copse, or shrubbery ; wherein there
is a mixture, without order, of plants, many of them wild,
some higher, some lower; some of more, and some of less
thickness ; from a tree of middling growth, down to a weed
or flower ; some straight, some crooked, some stunted ;
many medicinal, none poisonous ; briers, brambles, thorns;
all thrown, just as chance, or nature gave them a root-
Here, reader, you are not to expect a beam for the roof of
a palace, nor a top-mast for a first-rate man of war; but
you may be fitted for a walking staff, or switch, to a short
ladder. Here you shall not find a tulip, a ranunculas, or
a carnation. Such do not grow spontaneous in my soil or
climate. But you may pick up, here and there, a daisy,
a primrose, a hyacinth. Here is no quinquina, nor gin-
seng, nor balm of gilead ; but valerian, camomile, and gla-
diolus, grow up and down in plenty. I have no grapes, nor
peaches, nor oranges, nor pine-apples for you : if however
you can be content with nuts, strawberries, and raspber-
ries, you may have them here for pulling. Use your free-
dom. Take what you want. Though all is in confusion,
you can hardly lose yourself, as few of the trees are higher
than your own head. I only recommend it to yon, to defend
your shins from the briers, and your eyes from the thorns.

1. Ignorance, knavery, diffidence, accidents, make bu-
siness a crooked road. All that the most skilful can do
towards expediting his affairs, is to keep the inside of the
course, and turn the corners as short as safety will permit
him.

2. If digestion, when applied to memory and the acqui-
sition of knowledge, is a metaphor, it is certainly one of
the most just and beautiful metaphors ever made use of.
But it seems to be more, and to express the thing intended

392

H VLEMA.

directly and properly as it is in itself. To digest, signifies
to set off and separate the several parts of a compound or
aggregate, into distinct places or receptacles. To digest
our food is to separate the nutritious from the useless part,
to throw out this through the natural orifices of evacuation,
and to send that through the lacteals, into the mass of
blood, and from thence by subsequent strainers or concoc-
tions, into the several parts of the body as new supplies
are wanted. A regular appetite and digestions are neces-
sary to health and strength; and so is wholesome food. A
defect in these is, in proportion, the occasion of sickness
or debility ; an excess, of crudities, obesity, and of still
more violent disorders. It is just in like manner that know-
ledge is brought in by reading, conversation, experience,
reflection ; and the ideas of which it consists, either dis-
carded as useless, or stored in the memory for the farther
purposes of the understanding. Distinction, which is but
another word for digestion, is necessary in this first con-
coction, and afterward to the regular classing of our ideas
in their repository, to their being easily and clearly recol-
lected, and to their being brought without confusion before
the judging faculty, in order to a right formation of propo-
sitions. A strong but regular appetite of knowledge, with a
power of well digesting, and classing our ideas, produce
sound judging, right reasoning, true wisdom, and even vir-
tue, which constitute the health and vigour of the mind, pro-
vided the materials of our knowledge are of a proper and
useful kind. A defect in these occasions ignorance, stu-
pidity, absurdity, errors, and vice itself, wherein consists
the state of a disorderly mind. There is an atrophy of
mind, for want of curiosity and retention, or for want of
that digestion which is necessary to retention. And there
is a pingue ingenium, an obesity of understanding the result
of much reading, and of little or no power or care to dis-
tinguish. Of the two it is better to disgorge our ideas as
soon as received than retain them in huddled assemblages,
which produce nothing but wild imaginations and false rea-
sonings. It is better to be ignorant than to pervert the re-
ligion, philosophy, or politics of mankind, as these bloated
and overgrown scholars hardly ever fail to do. A depraved
appetite does not produce worse effects in the stomach than

HYLEMA.

393

an impertinent curiosity does in the memory. Continual
reading is to,the mind, what gluttony is to the body. No glut-
ton can possibly be long of a comely or wholesome consti-
tution. No eternal reader or plodder was ever remarkable
for good sense, ever thought, spoke, or wrote well. Dis-
tinction and exercise, particularly in conversation, or cool
debate with men of understanding, will soon raise a man of
moderate parts and of moderate reading in well chosen
books, into a considerable degree of eminence as to know-
ledge.

3. I was once acquainted with a lady (reader, did you
ever know such a one ?) who having studied and practised
all those particular airs, accents, gestures, which made her
appear to the greatest advantage, carefully kept herself with-
in her art of being pretty. She had the skill also to add
a sweetness, easiness, modesty, tenderness of heart, which
set in the esteem of her acquaintances considerably above
the generality of her sex. Among others one very agreeable
man made his addresses to her. She did not wholly dis-
courage him. He took occasion however one day, as with-
out design, to speak with esteem, approaching to admira-
tion, of a rival beauty in the neighbourhood. This sud-
denly changed the amiable creature, I am speaking of, into
a sort of monster, with features as harsh, and with a car-
riage as savage, as those of a Hottentot. Her expressions
likewise were too rude to be repeated. Driven by this ac-
cident from all her arts of pleasing, she appeared no longer
the same creature, and her admirer, whether dismissed by
her or himself, eloped from the broken spell of her enchant-
ments.

4. No man can have any rational hope of living fifty
years ; yet should any one be perfectly well assured of his
dying precisely fifty years hence, he would ten to one be
more uneasy than under his former hazard of dying to-mor-
row, or protracting his life to a hundred years ; so far
do our wishes outrun our reason.

5. On meeting with ill treatment from our neighbours,
by far the greatest part of our grievance arises not from
the real harm sustained by the injury, but from our own in-
dignation and resentment. To remove this additional dis-
turbance, the best way will be, to consider that, though the

394

UYLEMA.

ill usage is from men, the affliction is from God, and in-
tended for a correction, so that it is to be received as a be-
nefit at the hand of Providence, rather than as an injury at
that of the doer. If this is the case, how dare we be angry
at it? How dare we retaliate?

6. There is always some love in esteem, and some es-
teem in love ; some hatred in contempt, some contempt in
hatred. These things are pretty plain ; but it is not so ob-
vious, though equally true, that hatred is never without a
greater or less degree of esteem. We should have far less
malice among mankind were every one convinced that his
hatred aggrandizes its object, yet if it did not, how comes
it to cease when we have humbled the man we hate by some
signal act of revenge ?

7. Young Bumphino was bred in a remote part of the
country, and not as a person of much distinction, even
there, till the age of twenty-one, when he came to the
possession of a fine estate by the death of his father, who
had been a noted miser. In this situation he saw nothing
of the polite world, but had contracted all the rusticity of
the homely folks with whom he had lived since his child-
hood. His aunt Citadella, at his first coming to town, was
ever and anon setting him right in this or that point of be-
haviour, and employed a dancing-master to regulate his
carriage and gestures. Bumphino told a country acquaint-
ance whom he met in the street, that he did indeed hope in
coming to town, to see many strange sights and wonders ;
yet that if he had never been told it he could not have been
more amazed than he was, to find it agreed upon by every
body, that he could neither eat nor drink, speak nor look,
sit, stand, or walk, nor, in short, do any one of those com-
mon things, he had been doing all his days. Why, said he,
when I was in the country, I could have eat twice as much,
and twice as fast as another ; aye, and drank too like a
fish : yet here I am to learn the art of eating and drinking,
just as if a morsel or drop had never gone into my head
before. I was never a great sitter, it is true ; but I have
sat a thousand times in our house, the church, and else-
where ; and why must I now be frowned at by my aunt, and
laughed at by the company, only for sitting? As for speak-
ing, I give it up, and am resolved to be as dumb as my

HVLEMA.

395

father's tobacco-box, for I find nobody knows what I say,
nor I, what they say ; so, though talk is cheap, I will hold
my tongue. Although on foot, I have been often in at the
death of a fox, when all my well mounted neighbours were
left behind, yet here, I perceive, I cannot so much as walk,
without a great deal of pains to learn the deep science of
setting one foot before the other. My aunt, two days ago,
told me I no more knew how to look, ay, look ! (cannot I
look?) than she to speak Hebrew, and hath given me a
mouth to practise, which lays a grievous confinement, as
bad as a double bridle, on my under lip.

8. The generality of great engrossers in conversation
have a few topics, on which they have read a little, thought
less, and talked a great deal. Into one or other of these
they endeavour with great art, to draw the chat of every
company they are in, and when they have brought it about
to a subject of their own, instantly turn the company into
an audience, to which they assume the province of dic-
tating, till they have exhausted themselves ; and then the
conversation is suffered to recover its freedom, that enter-
taining and instructing freedom of varying the subject, ere
people are tired with it, which gives every one an oppor-
tunity of contributing his quota to the general fund. I
knew a story-teller, whose artifice, for this purpose was
but clumsy, yet a little comical. In a mixed company, the
prattle running high on somewhat, he affected a sudden
start, and cried out, ha! did you not hear a gun go off?
No, said every one. "Well, quoth he, I thought I did ; but
now, that we are talking of a gun, I will tell you a story of
a gun. The topic of a talker is his garrison; wherein, sen-
sible that his forces are few, he fortifies himself, seldom
venturing into the open field of subjects, touched on by
others, more generally knowing than himself. If you hap-
pen to draw him from his fastness (for he will not sally), he
hath a thousand arts of wheeling and retreating to his hold,
and there engaging you under the cannon of a battery,
which he hath some skill in pointing. All you have to do
in this case, is to let him blow away his ammunition, and
then say, Pray, sir, proceed.

9. The mind of man is a little intellectual monarchy in
itself. Reason is the sovereign ; and the passions, affec-

396

HYLEMA.

tions, imagination, &c. are the subjects. When these re-
gularly execute the dictates, or move by the direction of
reason, there is peace and happiness within. When any
of them turns usurper, and sets up, not only to act of itself,
but to put its fellow-subjects on action, then are felt that
anarchy, and misery, which are the usual effects of insur-
rection. The mind enfeebled, suffers much within, and fails
in its attempts abroad. Sometimes the sovereign acts the
tyrant, as among the stoics, and instead of restraining,
stifles, instead of governing, oppresses her subjects. On
the contrary, among the sceptics, she is treated as a cypher,
or deposed as an idiot. Sometimes she commits great mis-
takes, and shews herself ignorant of the political maxims,
by which she ought to govern. Sometimes she attempts to
quell her rebellious subjects by authority and power, but
often fails for want of a party among them to support her.
Sometimes, like a weak prince, she endeavours to govern
by a premier passion, and soon finds herself the slave of
her own subjects. Sometimes the passions, each assisted
by an outward or foreign ally ; ambition by power, avarice
by wealth, love by pleasure, &c. take their turns to sit at the
helm; or sometimes sit together in a sort of triumvirate,
which soon flames out into a civil war. Ambition cannot
bear the effeminacy of love ; nor love the labours and dan-
gers of ambition ; nor avarice the extravagances of either.
When reason rules, the mind is a monarchy ; when one
passion, it is a tyranny ; when all, an anarchy ; when two or
three, an aristocracy. From this necessity of a monarchy
in the mind, we may infer, at least the utility of that form
of government in a nation, inasmuch as generals should fol-
low the forms of their particulars. In natural bodies every
thing approaches to, and rests in, the figure of its insen-
sible parts, salts in chrystals, probably similar to their own
figure, and fluids in a globular figure, which is certainly
that of their atoms. Agreeably hereunto, we cannot help
observing a tendency in all republican governments to-
wards a monarchical, as their point of rest.

10. As we draw nearer to any object, we discover still
somewhat, which we could not discern at a greater dis-
tance. The mind hath this in common with the eye ; we
know more of one another by acquaintance, than character,

H YLEMA.

397

by intimacy, than by acquaintance, and by friendship, than
intimacy ; new virtues or vices, new passions, inclinations,
aversions, starting up to view, as we draw closer together,
till esteem and contempt, love and hatred, too hastily
formed, mutually take the places of each other. There are
a thousand prudential reasons, why people should not, all
at once, discover their qualities to others. This may be
the principal cause, why, before marriage, men generally
think women, and women men, the better sex, and the
worse after it; for no other reason, I believe, but because
neither are as honest and good, as the mere self-interest of
a man or woman requires they should be. At the distance
of acquaintance, or, nearer still, of courtship, they do all
they can to conceal their faults, and set off their excel-
lences ; but, as soon as they marry, the scenery is removed,
and each is disappointed. Were young people to take my
advice, they would follow the very contrary conduct, be ex-
ceeding open with each other in courtship, and, after mar-
riage, carefully stifle, or at least conceal, every fault, and
set out to view every perfection. A wise and good couple,
on the other hand, are always discovering new virtues, new
graces, new excellences, in each other, and growing every
day in mutual esteem and love. Each of them has a
treasure of good qualities, formerly locked up, from which
they perpetually draw out new amiablenesses, and so are
ever endearingly new to each other.

11. A partial consideration of our condition is very apt
to hurt our quiet. Dwelling too much on a disadvantageous
circumstance frequently gives us a disrelish to the whole.
Phlegon had a post of easy attendance, and considerable
profit, which however obliged him to live in the neighbour-
hood of Crates, with whom he could never agree. He
therefore exchanged it for another of less income, and
more labour, but to his mortification found two or three
Crateses, appendant to his new employment, for he could
not exchange himself. Phlegon was Phlegon still. Every
Phlegon will find a Crates.

12. Reading in youth, when the memory and other fa-
culties, are alive, £nd with due taste and attention, is to
sow the garden of knowledge in the proper season ; but
the seed should be sown, not at random, but separately,

398 HYLEMA.

that they may thrive the better, and that we may know
Avhere to go for what we want.

13. How delightful is the transition from confinement to
liberty, and from pain to pleasure ! but how much more,
from the perturbation of tempestuous passions, to a settled
serenity of mind ! This is peace after war, light after dark-
ness, beauty after deformity, order after confusion, and
happiness after misery. Here conscience, as well as our
feelings, is concerned.

14. The imputation of selfishness falls away on the
pains we take for our bodies, or our worldly affairs ; never
for those we lay out on our souls. The soul then must be
the true self, that self, which to consult and serve, is not a
vice, even in the opinion of him, who is at no pains for his
soul. Besides, the care we have for our souls hurts no-
body, and may benefit many. Mankind therefore are no
way interested to thwart us here ; and so are -willing to
give a better name than that of selfishness, to a species of
sedulity, that does not interfere with their pursuits. The
man who crosses us in our way to riches, or titles, never
thinks of stopping us in our way to heaven. Spirits do not
occupy space, and therefore need not justle.

15. My prosperity having tempted me into sin, God
reversed my condition, and brought me, through affliction,
to a better mind. How have I merited such a mark of pa-
ternal pity ? How merciful is God even in his severities ?
How can such a wretch be an object of love to a Being so
infinitely holy ? And yet, he saith, ' whom the Lord loveth
he chasteneth, and scourgeth every son whom he receiveth.'

10. We have better herbs of our own to help out a
breakfast, than tea ; but they grow in the next field or gar-
den, and therefore are good for nothing. Every leaf and
insect exhibits a glaring proof of divine wisdom and power;
every sunbeam and shower of rain, of his goodness, who
made the world for our accommodation. What occasion
then for recourse to philosophical researches for proof of
these things? What occasion to go to the farther end of a
room for a chair, when there are two or three just at hand?
There is little more than pride and affectation in philoso-
phy, as well as in tea-drinking.

17. When we know not the motives or designs of this

HYLEMA.

399

or that conduct in a man, we find it often extremely difficult
to account for his actions ; yet if we have a good opinion
of his understanding, we do not presently pronounce that
conduct foolish. The different regards he aims at (if he
hath several ends at once in view, especially if he hath his
eye on the past, the present, and the future) make it some-
times exceedingly difficult to guess, what he would be at.
The very thing, his large grasp of thought, which does high
honour to his understanding, gives it all its appearance of
folly or inconsistency in our eyes, which gave us a sight
only of one or two of his views. Though I am a rational
creature, as well as he, yet perhaps I have not force of
thought sufficient to comprehend his schemes, were they
explained to me in the most intelligible manner they admit
of. How then shall I comprehend the schemes of Provi-
dence? There is hardly one thing in nature that hath not
a thousand faces, or respects to other things. While Pro-
vidence is adjusting the endless variety of relations to one
another, and rendering every thing so many ways useful to
other things, and taking into consideration the past, the
present, the future; the shortsighted wretch, fixing his eye
on some single regard, which does not appear to be imme-
diately provided for, objects to a disposal, as unwise or
unjust, for no other reason but because it is, in so many dif-
ferent respects, the highest instance of wisdom and justice.
Yet this very man finds the time of day by his watch, the
machinery of which he so little understands, that nothing
could appear more trifling and impertinent to him, than
some of its parts, when detached from the rest. However,
he gives the workmen credit for the good contrivance of the
whole. He, who gives up to a watchmaker, calls in ques-
tion the wisdom of God. As to the dispensations of Pro-
vidence towards mankind, considered as moral agents,
there is one common article of faith, which, if well under-
stood, and applied, would not only make us content under
all sorts of troubles, but enable us either to account for, or
cheerfully acquiesce in, every thing that befalls us ; which
is, that this life is a state of trial.

18. Hosius hath so many virtues, and carries them all
to so high a degree of perfection, that he could not fail to
be almost universally hated and persecuted, were he not

400

HYLEMA.

subject to such a happy mixture of weaknesses, and some-
times sins, as excuse his virtues, and procure him a tole-
ration.

19. There is hardly any thing in nature from whence a
contemplative mind may not draw either useful admoni-
tions, or apt representations of our condition here. Every
thing acts its proverb, or utters its parable, to a right thinker.
I have now my eye on a fruitful meadow, wherein I see a
picture of human life. All the various vegetables, which
people (if I may be allowed the expression) its whole ex-
tent, though they draw their being and aliment from the
same soil, yet, each following its own nature, how widely
do they differ in size, colour, shape, and other qualities,
not obvious to the eye ! How the strong and the weak, the
upright and the crooked, the tall and the low, the beautiful
and the ugly, the wholesome and the baneful, spring toge-
ther from the earth, and grow promiscuous! How the
lower fret the stems of the higher ! and how the higher drain
the nourishment from the roots of the lower, and with their
tops intercept the sunshine and the dews ! How the ple-
beian grass crowds itself into one appearance, and is not
seen but together ! How the higher plants, for the most
part, weeds, overtop their neighbours with the state and
grandeur of nobles, and assume the appearance of pro-
tecting, while they do but oppress the inferior vegetables
near them ! How those thrive that rose in a proper season !
How they dwindle that made their appearance too soon or
too late, or are situated under the ill influence of overgrown
neighbours ! How such as are up hinder those from rising
that are down ! How the beautiful flowers or wholesome
herbs, are hidden or overborne by the noxious weeds!
While 1 am amused with this meditation, behold! a mower
enters, and with his ruthless scythe cuts down all before
him. Neither the stiffness of the strong, nor the pliancy of
the weak ; neither the uprightness of the straight, nor the
crookedness of the straggling ; neither the stateliness of the
tall, nor the lowliness of the humble ; neither the prettiness
of the beautiful, nor the ugliness of the ungraceful ; neither
the usefulness of the wholesome, nor the noxiousness of the
baneful, can defend them from the fatal stroke of this pro-
miscuous leveller. With impartial cruelty he mows down

HYLEMA.

401

all. Against another season, the lord of the meadow shall
extirpate the useless and noxious plants, shall improve the
soil, and raise again the nutritious and medicinal plants,
with the fragrant and beautiful flowers, to a sun that shall
shine upon them, without night or winter.

20. After the battle of Salamis, every Grecian chief, in
their suffrages for preference, voted himself the most meri-
torious, and Themistocles the second. Each religious sect
votes his own way of worship the best, and the church of
England the next, in soundness and conformity to Scripture.
In these instances, second signifies first. A man, in choosing
a husband for his daughter, says, that personal merit is the
first, and fortune only the second recommendation in a pre-
tender. Another goes into holy orders, and says his pri-
mary view is to serve God, and save souls, and his secon-
dary, to acquire a comfortable maintenance. In these in-
stances, generally speaking, secondary signifies primary,
and primary signifies nothing.

21. Which was Caesar's greatest victory ? fhatofPhar-
salia, in which he conquered Pompey? or that of Munda,
wherein he conquered Pompey 's son? Neither; but his
kind treatment of Catullus, who had lampooned him with a
great deal of wit and severity. In this he conquered the
conqueror of Pompey and Pompey's son.

22. It is true I was educated a Christian ; but what
should hinder me from turning a Deist, or Infidel, as well
as many others, so educated, and some too in holy orders?
If I am by institution prejudiced in favour of Christianity,
have I not as strong passions, affections, and love of moral
liberty, to use a soft expression, as any of them ? And may
not these lay as strong a bias on the one side of my mind,
as education hath laid on the other ? It is by my knowledge
of God and myself, that I regulate my thoughts of religion.
I know there is but one God, and that he is holy, just, and
good. I know that my own nature is corrupt, and ill-dis-
posed, both to virtue, and the necessary nieans of my own
happiness, for without a thorough reformation, I cannot be
happy. Knowing these things, and laying them down as
data to my religious reasonings, I apply myself to Paganism,
and find it smiles upon me with the promise of liberty, to
be as loose and dissolute as its gods. Gods ! there is but

vol. v. 2d

402

HY LEM A.

one God. Dissolute ! I am lost, if I am dissolute. I there-
fore cannot be a Pagan. Next, I apply myself to Maho-
metism, which indulges my inclination to lust, rapine, and
slaughter. These vices, God cannot indulge me in nor
can I hope to be happy, if I do not abhor them, and love
the contrary virtues. I therefore cannot be a Mahometan.
Again, I apply myself to Deism, which bids me be my own
priest and lawgiver, bids me fear nothing, bids me follow
the bent of my own nature in every thing. How soothing !
But here I cannot rest, because I know my own nature is
the worst guide I can choose, and I myself the worst priest
and lawgiver for myself. My nature could not have taught
me a right knowledge of God, no more than it did the Ne-
groes or Labradors ; and teaches me no farther knowledge
of myself, than that I am corrupt and miserable, and unable
either to mend myself or my condition. As sure therefore
as there is a God, and he is good, he must have made a far-
ther provision for my reformation and happiness, and con-
sequently I cannot be a Deist. Again, I apply myself to
Judaism, and by ten thousand irrefragable proofs perceive
it came from God ; but perceive at the same time, that, by
Judaism itself, God forbids me to rest in mere outward or-
dinances, and represents this religion, as only preparatory
to another, more internal, more universal, and therefore more
excellent, whereof Judaism is but the shadow. I therefore
cannot be a Jew, any farther, than in order to somewhat
infinitely more worthy of God, as author of religion, and more
capable of reforming, and making me happy. Lastly, I
apply myself to Christianity, and, instead of smiling upon
me, I find it frowns upon me at first, calls me a sinner,
threatens me with everlasting misery, proposes mysteries
to my faith, which my reason cannot easily digest, and auste-
rities to my passions and affections, which it is still harder
to bring my licentious nature to comply with. But then I
see plainly, it represents God to me, just as he is, and me
to myself, just as I am. I perceive in the sanctions it sets
before me, and the grace it offers me, the most efficacious
means of my own reformation, which if I labour to promote
in myself, it begins to smile upon me, in ravishing hopes of
pardon, through the great atonement, which it provides, of
paternal love from God, in case I do my utmost to be like

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403

him. Its mysteries shew themselves to be necessary
truths, and its austerities necessary medicines for the
disorders of my soul. It teaches me to know my God as
just and merciful, and consequently to fear and love him.
It teaches me to know myself as corrupt and miserable,
and consequently to use my utmost endeavours to become
a better and a happier man. I find no prospect, but of per-
dition, in resting where I am. To Christianity therefore I
fly from this deluge of vice and misery, which overwhelms
the world, as to the only ark of safety.

23. Was there ever in any man so great a stock of ten-
derness, as in Blastus ? He never fishes, fowls, hunts, be-
cause he thinks it cruel to destroy, or even terrify his fellow-
creatures ; horribly cruel to make a sport of their sufferings.
He thinks Nero a good creature to Domitian, on account
of his particular pique to the flies. How happy is he that
day, wherein he hath rescued one of those flutterers from a
spider ! How melancholy, when he meets with the carcase
of a murdered worm or beetle ! It is true, Blastus shews
no mercy to his tenants or servants. He oppresses both
with a cruelty exceeding that of all other tyrants. But then,
they are only men. It is vastly more uncommon and refined
to shew a tenderness for insects. However, I fear, after all
this refinement, could Blastus find his account in squeez
ing, and tormenting flies, he would shew them as little com-
passion, as if they were of his own species.

24. There are some cases, in which the giver obliges the
receiver, and others, wherein the receiver obliges the giver.
Advice is of this latter kind. Margites hath made more
friends by asking their advice, than he could have made by
presents of some value. The ability and willingness to give
advice, make together, a dangerous quality ; but the art of
asking it, is one of the most refined secrets of popularity.
You are envied, if you are able to advise, and hated, if you
do advise. But to be still paying court to the understand-
ing of your acquaintances, by consulting them on this or
that emergency, is, of all others, the most endearing com-
pliment you can make them. Sensible of this, Margites
never sees company, without a difficulty or two to lay before
them. He hath always some instance of his own defect in
point of prudence, ready to gratify the vanity of those, who,

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404 HYLEMA.

while they seize the sweet occasion of triumphing in the
superiority of their own wisdom, secretly conceive an affec-
tion for the man, whom they consider as their admirer,
though he asks their opinion, only because he knows they
cannot give it, without giving their affection with it. To
enhance the gratification, and secure its effect, he easily
leads them, by the nature of the case, or his own address,
to such a piece of advice, as he is previously resolved to
follow, and when he hath carried it into execution, takes
care to let them know, with his warmest thanks, that he
hath done exactly as they had advised him to do. This gen-
tleman, not long ago, did a friend the honour to consult him
on an affair of seeming importance, and in a way of secrecy,
to make the favour as considerable as possible. But his
friend, long accustomed to the artifice, affected great sur-
prise at his inability to manage his own affairs, after the
use, for above twenty years, of all the wisdom his acquaint-
ances were masters of. You are not, Margites, said he, a
secretary of state, you are not a privy-counsellor, nor even
a magistrate ; but in all respects a private gentleman, with
as narrow a circle of business to manage, as any man I
know. How comes it then, that you are ever at so great a
loss, even at this day, to conduct yourself? Advice is but
thrown away upon you, if you really want it ; and if you do
not, what is your asking it, but a banter on the vanity of your
counsellors ? But, added he, if I could be provoked again
to advise one, who confesses his weakness, only from a
motive of conceit, I should advise you never to ask advice
hereafter.

25. Useful knowledge and true good sense, are not to
be obtained by either reading or conversation, but by both.
Reading may furnish us with high and weighty pieces of
knowledge, and with learned terms to express it. One,
thus filled, was talking one day in a very exalted strain to
a mixed company, when a young fellow of much humour,
asked a young lady near him, if she could give him change
for what the gentleman was saying. Conversation alone
can supply a very learned banker with this small, but use-
ful currency. It is not enough that we read and converse,
we should choose our books, and companions, and suit
them to each other. To read nothing but mathematics, and

HYLEMA.

405

converse with nobody but poets, would be like talking to a
friend in Greek, who can speak nothing but English. We
should brew the knowledge of men and books together, by
passing it frequently from the one to the other, till it loses
its original distinctions, and settles into somewhat both
weighty and wieldy. Books, judiciously chosen, will fur-
nish a fund for conversation, and conversation will refine
the ore, dug from the mine of reading, and stamp it for
common use. The great reader, and the ready converser,
are seldom the same man. Hence so many frothy talkers,
and so many pedants. The finished man knows how to
converse with books, and read men, and knows how to mix
the study and drawing-room, without the awkwardness of
a jumble.

26. If gaming proceeds from avarice (and from what
else can it proceed ?) it is plainly an attempt to make chance
transfer the money of another to ourselves. He who is
satisfied to get money on no better title, would, on the same
principle, look on himself as the owner of a purse, dropped
in his sight by accident, or carelessness, for it is chance
only, in either case, that puts him in possession, and gives
him all his right. No, he says, if another found his purse,
and could conceal it, he would never restore it. Suppose
this true, would he like it ? Losing and finding then is,
among this sort of people, the same thing with gaming.
Playing for entertainment is only suspending the irksome-
ness we feel from the stupidity of the company we keep.
I wonder the duellists never call one another into the field
for proposing cards.

27. It is odd, that few are led to reflect on their own
mortality, by the deaths of persons inferior to them in rank
and fortune. This is pride, but of a very extraordinary
kind. Megabysus was surprised and frightened the other
day with the news of Nonaginta's death, and cried out,
poor Nonaginta! Art thou gone? Lord prepare us all for
our departure, for we know not when we are to die. I
must add a codicil to my will, for the disposal of a thou-
sand pounds, acquired since I made it. Oh howl tremble,
when I consider that I might have been called away ere I
had settled this part of my effects, and died unprepared !
Full of these alarming reflections, he stepped over to the

406

HYLEMA.

late Nonaginta's, where he was comforted with an assurance
that the deceased died in his ninetieth year, and worth only
30.000Z. Ha, said Megabysus, this man's death had like to
have startled me ; I took him for a plumb; besides, he was
three years older than me.

28. The happiest state of mind we experience in this
life, is in an absence of all tumultuary passions ; when the
mind is rather calm than indolent, and hath, at the same
time, somewhat of a comfortable nature to employ itself
upon. This composure may be called, the fair weather of
the soul, and this comfort, the delicious fruits, that thrive
under the influence of an indulgent sky, and ripen in a warm
sun. At such times are felt those refined and sedate plea-
sures which arise from contemplation, and gently, but pow-
erfully, stir the soul with the most pure and exquisite
touches. If in this state of inward tranquillity, the good-
ness of God, the beauty of his works, or the recollection of
our own charity towards our fellow-creatures, employ our
contemplations, suppose, in the coolness of a fine morning,
or a still evening, when a serenity and a sedateness of the air
corresponds with those of our spirits, Ave then feel a degree
of happiness never exceeded on this side of heaven. Here
is the celestial harmony of a mind in tune. Here is an as-
semblage, or concert of ideas, the most pleasing, which
seems to be the human part of that hymn which is sung to
their Maker, by the whole intellectual world. Here is a
light and warmth, superior to those of the sun, which play
through the faculties and sensations of the soul, like those
of that luminary on the verdant groves, the fragrant flowers,
the dancing lambkins, the exulting fawns, and the musical
choiristers, of a beautiful landscape.

29. The first struggles of a reformation, from a sensual
to a virtuous life, are sometimes attended with pangs, which
nothing but a very steady resolution can endure. W6 meet
with a farther, and not a less difficulty, when disgusted
with the pleasures of sense, and not yet able to relish those
of the spirit, we pause between, and find nothing in this
absence of engagements, to keep our thoughts in play, but
a dying remorse for past sins, and a just kindling hope of
mercy from God. Fleshly pleasures, and intellectual con-
solations, are of natures so incompatible, as not to be even

HYLEMA.

407

conceived at once. So pure are the latter, that they will
not enter till the former are ejected, by a total forgetful-
ness, or a deep abhorrence, that is, till the mind, by a kind
of quarantine, hath proved itself free from its old infection.
Across the gulf of this vacuity, remorse and hope alone can
throw a bridge. The sharp remembrance of what we suf-
fered in a life of sensuality, may help to push us from it,
and the prospect of what we are to enjoy in a life of piety
and virtue may draw us towards it ; so that, if we suffer
both to work with all their force, they will greatly shorten
the passage, and soon land us on that blissful shore, where
solid happiness springs from a soil, ploughed and harrowed
by repentance, warmed and enlighted by wisdom.

30. Change of condition is a nice point, wherein few
have discretion enough to carry themselves handsomely.
If we sink from wealth to poverty, we are dejected; if we
rise from poverty to wealth, we are elated, in both cases,
always either below or above the degree, which reason
would have us stop at. It is indeed hard to sit unshaken
on a carriage, driven by fortune, over a road that is very
rugged. In the ups we labour, in the downs we are jolted.
Varillo at one and twenty inherited a small estate of 300/.
a year, and was so good an economist, that at thirty-five he
had saved 1000/. and then, by the death of an uncle, was
raised to an estate of 4000/. a year. But now he lived as
if it had been 8000/. and ere he was fifty found himself in
debt and want. On the contrary, Peres, who had an em-
ployment of 1000/. a year, lived so extravagantly at first, as
to contract a large debt, and was glad, after losing his more
lucrative place, to take up with one of about half the in-
come, on which he now manages so well, that if he lives
but ten years more, he will have paid off the debt, and made
a tolerable provision for his family. Hence it appears,
that it is not the number of acres, not the hundreds or thou-
sands a year, that can make a man rich, but the prudent
adjustment of his mind and expenses to his circumstances.

31. It is not unusual to see stoicism and dissolution of
manners, prevail in the same country, and at the same time,
as if precept and practice were opposites, which cannot
rest but in extremes. On the contrary, they should be
brought together. If practice is to be conformed to pre-

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11YLEMA.

cept, precept should so far bend to nature as to be possi-
ble, if not easy, in practice. Stoicism in one man, and dis-
solution of manners in another, though contemporaries,
are compatible things; but in the same man constitute a
moral monster.

32. Will you throw a main, said Grampius to Barcas?
With all my heart, replied the latter, provided you stake
one hundred to one. That is very unequal. True, as to
the money ; but I cannot play without bringing my wife and
children on the table, and I rate them at ninety-nine.

33. Our outward means might give us contentment,
supposing freedom from sickness and pain, were it not for
a fatal perversity in ourselves, by which our opinions of
things are made to run counter to our sensations of them.
We judge of them otherwise than we see, feel, and expe-
rience them. Is not that general sensible of danger, toil,
and wounds, like other men? He is. Why then is his life
laid out on watching, marching, fighting? His opinion of
grandeur and glory, as the highest happiness,sets him above
the consideration of the many evils he is exposed to.
Why does that farmer, who, in his present condition, hath
all the means of health, peace, plenty, and consequently
contentment, wish to be a lord? It is his opinion that a
lord is a much happier man, though both his lordship and
common observation, deny it. It is true, opinion some-
times deceives us into comforts and pleasures against com-
mon sense, and even our actual feelings. We frequently
on the strength of opinion, suffer our happiness, and enjoy
our misery ; but it is so much more difficult to cajole our-
selves into enjoyments, than sufferings, that it were better
for us not to deal at all in opinions, but to build wholly on
facts and feelings ? A rational man will no more build his
happiness on mere notions and imaginations, than his house
on a cloud.

34. Some, after seeing themselves in the unflattering
mirror of holy Scripture, go away and soon forget what
manner of men they are, not caring to recollect a face so
ugly, and a mein so rude. Others can see every one but
themselves in this mirror, for want of candour and self-ex-
amination. It is not any light issuing originally from the
looking-glass that shews us to ourselves, but a light, which

HYLEMA.

409

coming from ourselves to the glass, is thence reflected to
our optics. In this however, the scriptural hath the ad-
vantage of all other mirrors, in that it furnishes both light
and representation, but only to him who can see.

35. It is difficult for a rich man to be humble, but im-
possible for a proud man to be wise.

36. It is enough for the present state of things, that men
act well. Of their motives none but God can judge. Yet
how many do we see, who deify themselves in assuming
this attribute of omniscience, this judicial prerogative of
God, and judging the hearts of others, at the same time that
they know little or nothing of their own ! But in this they
look rather like fiends than gods, for they never do it, but
to accuse their neighbours of those dark and sinister ends,
whereof they are secretly conscious in themselves.

37. Of all men, no one hath so faithful a memory, at
least to its owner, as he who forgets all promises and en-
gagements, and remembers nothing, but that which he con-
siders as advantageous to himself. How happy would he
be, if he could remember this one thing, more advanta-
geous than all the rest, that eternity is before him, and that
God is always about him, and spieth out all his ways!

38. If we keep our sensual desires on the slip in pros-
pect of the pleasing object, we shall render them ungovern-
ably eager, and ourselves continually restless ; if we let
them loose, they will quickly sate themselves, and produce
a disrelish to the object. The happiness then of a rational
creature cannot consist either in that inquietude, nor in this
lassitude, no, nor in the pleasure felt for a moment be-
tween, but in such enjoyments, as whet our desires to a
still greater keenness, and yet are always at hand to be
indulged.

39. In almost every instance, variety implies uniformity,
or it would signify only the same with difference, disso-
nance, or contrariety. Uniformity also implies variety, or
it would signify nothing but sameness. We say, there is
little variety in a tune, which consists of a few notes and
divisions. We may say there is multiplicity, but not uni-
formity, in a long repetition of the same note. This obser-
vation takes place in the styles of authors, in laying out of
gardens, and in landscapes. The works of God seem to

410

HYLEMA.

be planned on this principle, with others respecting utility,
that variety and uniformity should go hand in hand, through-
out the whole ; or, what can hardly ever enter into the
works of men, a variety carried up to contrariety, as in ele-
mental mixtures ; and on a junction of spirit and matter,
of nat ures seemingly incompatible, as in the make of a man,
a thing impossible to all created wisdom and power. In
his works, that, which at first glance, looks like irregularity,
is nothing else but variety, contrariety, and incompatibility
adjusted into harmony and beauty, if well understood.
That which is not well understood (and the greater part
of nature is not, cannot be, so understood by men), should
be believed to be as wisely adapted, one part to another,
and all to the general end, as that, which we can most easi-
ly and clearly account for. Hence the necessity of faith in
God, as a creator, no less than in God as a revealer, the
mysteries of nature being infinitely more in number and in
depth, than those of revelation. From what hath been
here said, if well considered, it follows incontestibly, that
the thorough infidel must be an vUheist, or something worse,
a declared rebel against God.

40. Imagination works with the greatest force, when
we are asleep ; reason, when we are awake ; both in the
dark, because in the dark, the powers of our minds are not
derived through different channels upon variety of objects,
but concentred in the one object of meditation, or chain of
thoughts, which employs it. The internal light is disturb-
ed by the external. This is the reason, that a blind man
usually so far exceeds a seeing man in strength of thought
on such subjects as lie equally open to the inlets and facul-
ties of both. Sir Isaac Newton, sensible of this advantage in
a blind man, studied his most difficult problems in the dark.

41. If change of condition changes the man, it is plain,
he either is not, or was not, what he ought to be, perhaps
neither.

42. It is a nice point to know how to do, but a nicer
still, how to receive a favour with a good grace. A dumb
gratitude, like a dumb love, or grief, is often the strongest.
Passions of all kinds are but moderate, when they can ex-
press themselves.

43. As hypocrisy generally over-does the virtues it al-

HYLEMA.

411

fects, so he that would not be taken for an hypocrite, must
not be a very good man. There is no bearing a faultless
man, and therefore the rest of mankind, when they know of
no ill action done by him, always take it for granted, that
he is no better than themselves, after all, and is guilty of
many secret vices. A considerable mixture of known vices,
to keep envy in play, and bring us to a level with others, is
often requisite to procure toleration for our virtues, and
even towards the establishment of an universally good cha-
racter. We cannot hope to be universally well reported,
if we are not like the reporters, that is, if we are not like
the generality of mankind, who are corrupt and wicked in
a very high degree. Christ therefore said, ' woe be to you,
when all men speak well of you.'

44. In philosophical disquisitions on the general na-
ture of man, we are to judge of all men by what we per-
ceive in ourselves. But as to all other matters, wherein
men resemble, or differ from one another occasionally, the
best way is to judge of ourselves by others. The experi-
ments are more numerous, and our candour greater. It is
usual for us .to say, on a very foolish or bad action being-
done by one of our acquaintances, I would not have done
so ; and we think as we speak. But when we come to be
circumstanced in the same manner with him, we act as he
did. We erred in judging of him by ourselves, and should
have had a better chance to have judged aright, and avoid-
ed the action too, by suspecting ourselves of that weakness
we observed in him. It is always safest for a man to think
himself one of the weakest and worst of men, capable
of all the follies and vices of all mankind, if tempted as they
are. This opinion of himself will make him charitable and
vigilant, as well as humble, and greatly help to make him
one of the best men in the world.

45. The parts of any thing are best examined by going
close to it, and considering each by itself ; the whole, by
standing off, and taking it together. A minute inspection
best helps the former judgment, a comprehensive grasp of
thought, the latter.

46. The natural delicacy of their sex renders women
more religious than men. There may be another reason,
namely, that the preachers are men.

412

HYLEMA.

47. Should a man imagine himself capable of under-
standing those with whom he converses, because he is well
versed in the language made use of, as English or French,
he will find himself greatly mistaken, after a thorough inter-
course with the world. He will find the same words stand
for different things, in different mouths, though the words of
the speakers are intended by them to convey the same
meanings with those in the dictionary. We are not to judge
of a man's meaning, by his words, but of his words by a
knowledge of his principles, temper, way of thinking, party,
&c. Entire strangers to one another, would find them-
selves as incapable of conversation, as so many deaf and
dumb people, were it not for the perfect indifference, or
rather total insignificance to every one of them, of the sub-
jects on which they must speak, as the weather, if in the
country, or the new play, or new gallantry of a duchess, if
in town. But could these strangers be supposed (we have
known instances of it) to have each of them, a drift or de-
sign upon the rest, in his discourse with them, the scene
must be extremely whimsical and diverting. If one should
make tenders of civility and friendship to another, how
could he be understood, in case no vote or interest was to
be solicited? If one was to tell the rest, that the prime-mi-
nister had paid off 5,000,000/. of the national debt, or that
Mr. Wilkes had by a popular subscription, supported five
hundred poor prisoners in the King's Bench prison, all the
time of his confinement, how could they, who should hear
him, guess at his meaning, if they did not know the speaker
to be a ministerial, or patriotic gentleman ? But were the
company, all of them, well acquainted with one another,
the tenders of friendship might easily be interpreted into
mere futility, the 5,000,000/. into 500,000/. and five hun-
dred into five, or none. If one of them should give an ac-
count of a gentleman's rental, unless they knew him to be
a friend of that gentleman, how could they defalk a third,
or add as much, if they did know him to be his enemy?
And how surely must they mistake, if they did neither?
Every man speaks an individual dialect of his own, the
knowledge of which depends on the knowledge of the man.

48. It is not difficult to discover somewhat like different
species among mankind, so widely may they be dislin-

HYLEMA.

413

guished from one another in their mental make or habits.
It is not more difficult to find a variety of individuals in the
same man. We think we know a man by bis face. But
I am acquainted with a face under which I have at times
distinguished a dozen different men. It consists of a long
nose, black eyes, lank cheeks, a forked chin, and is covered
by a fair skin. The first time I saw this mask, it was worn
by a good humoured gentleman, who shewed all the
smoothness of his temper, by the agreeable smiles into
which he curled it, as often as he spoke or was spoken to.
The very next time I met it, I could not have known it but
by the prominent nose, and too-pointed chin, for the
man who then w ore it did so thrust out its lips, distend its
nostrils, knit its brows, as to prove himself too choleric to
be safely conversed with. I found it carried abroad after-
ward by a supple flatterer, a haughty master, an abject
coward, an insolent bravo, and in short, too many differ-
ent persons to be here detailed, but all crowded by an
undistinguishing world into one, whom they call Stilicho.

49. I seldom see a dead corpse without a blush, which
I perceive by an unusual warmth in my face, arising, I be-
lieve, from a consciousness that I must one day make the
same figure, as a criminal, tried, condemned, and executed
for sin. A dead man indeed is the most shameful sight in
the world.

50. Never since I was eight years old, did I go to bed,
or rise from it without offering up my prayers to God, but
one day when at the age of twenty-one, I was taken out of
my bed by three or four of my companions, and hurried out
to a play, called in the north of Ireland, long bullets. On
that very day I received a blow with a three pound ball,
just over my left eye. This flattened the projecting part
of my skull, which, together with the extreme abstinence
and large evacuations, necessary to prevent a fever, greatly
shattered an excellent constitution. Origen, going out one
morning, contrary to his constant custom, without address-
ing himself to God, was seized, carried before a Roman go-
vernor, who was persecuting the Christians at Alexandria,
freely offered his body to the flames, rather than throw in-
cense on an altar, but was prevailed with to do it, by a

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HYLEMA.

menace infinitely more dreadfal than that of death, unfit to
name. This fall made him a very unhappy man for a long
time afterward. You say, how many, for months together,
omit their prayers, and meet with no such mischief? I know
not how many ; but do heartily bless God for the blow I
received, as a proof of his watchfulness over me, and can-
not help expressing some fear, that they who ask not
God's protection, and yet go unchastised, are deserted by
him.

51. It will seem a paradox, if not a falsity, to say, that
drugs, both simple and compound are only so far medicinal
as they are poisonous. But to a healthful body, all the
parts of which duly perform their respective offices, and all
its juices are of a right consistence and properly impreg-
nated, that is, to a constitution well balanced, every medi-
cine must be hurtful, as it is the use of a medicine to restore
this balance when lost, by adding somewhat on the light
or defective side, which if added to an evenly poised state
of the solids and fluids must impair that balance. Emetics,
purgatives, alteratives, relaxers, bracers, coolers, cordials,
acids, alcailes, administered by a skilful physician are ad-
ministered only on the opinion he entertains of ill health in
the patient, arising from impurities in the primae viae, of
peccant humours in the mass of blood, of too tense, or too
flaccid a state of the solids, of an inflammatory or phleg-
matic, of a putrid or acescent preponderancy in the habit.
It is to bring matters even again, that these are thrown in,
that any thing is carried off or added, which to a healthful
body must be pernicious, in the same proportion that they
are sanative to a sick one. Poison is that, which hurts a
man in perfect health. All medicines, properly so called,
would do this ; and if they did not, would be of no use to
the distempered. Some of the strongest poisons, mercurials,
antimonials, opiates, to instance no more, are found to be
medicines of the greatest efficacy in the hands of a true
physician. We hear people every day saying not only in a
medical but in dietetical sense, that such things are whole-
some or unwholesome, without adding to whom, or in what
cases. Nothing can be more absurd. The best kinds of
food are not wholesome, but with respect to the feeder.

HYLEMA.

415

A man may be poisoned by the qualities (to say nothing of
quantity) of beef, mutton, wine, &c. though all of them
sound and good in their kind.

52. One should think every thing well paid that is paid
in kind, a bow with a bow, a smile Avith a smile, a benefit
with a benefit. Charmidas will not accept of this kind of
payment. He expects a solid service for a civil salutation.
It is but a week ago since he broke with two court depend-
ants for not seeming willing to discount with him on these
terms.

53. In point of figuring, the light we are set in is all.
A very little merit more than ordinary may give a man a
sort of splendour in the obscurity of a country life, who
would not be taken notice of on a more conspicuous stage.
Elphenor was a man of eminence at the assizes and ses-
sions of his county ; but, from the time he went to town,
he was never once seen or heard of. A rivulet may ap-
pear considerable when dilated on its own flats, but is lost
the instant it enters the ocean. It is a Nile or Danube
only, that can continue its stream to some distance from
the shore, and be a river even in the sea.

54. Habits of body are subdued by a long course of
medicines or methods, contrary to such habits. Those of
the mind are seldom broken, but by sudden and violent ef-
forts, seconded by a suitable perseverance to splinter it up
to its new posture, and prevent its returning to its old bent.
Here afflictions and fears are often, and grace always ne-
cessary.

55. Some assert the liberty, and some the slavery of
human nature. That they are able on each side, to bring
arguments of very considerable strength, is owing to this
truth, that the elections of almost every man are partly de-
termined by his choice, and partly by influences foreign to
himself. Were reason sufficiently clear and strong, and
were our passions always governable, we should be free.
But since the corruption of our nature, we are prone, through
a weakness of reason and a violence of appetite, to pursue
what we should avoid, and fly from that which we ought to
pursue. This is slavery. Every man sometimes exercises
that freedom, and is sometimes subject to this slavery.
But Christianity, by imparting religious truth, purposes to

416

HYLEMA.

set us at liberty. By this we may know the truth, and the
truth may make us free. Future rewards and punishments,
the grace of God, and a due observance of the divine in-
stitutions, are sufficient to counterbalance the prevalence
of our animal nature and set us upright. A libertine calls
these the sources of slavery, because he places liberty in
licentiousness, its greatest enemy, just as a lawless mob is
to a well constituted government. A creature to be free,
that is, to be free as a creature should wish to be, must
be subject, subject, I mean, through right reason to God,
and his appointed substitutes.

56. There are two things which attach our contempla-
tions to objects at a distance. The first is curiosity, or a
natural fondness for foreign varieties, which, when purely
contemplative, is a truly laudable and noble propensity ;
but becomes vicious and the source of all our miseries,
when it transports us out of ourselves to a love of things
hurtful to us or unattainable. The other is, that pleasure we
find in being wafted by the eye, whether internal or external,
without stirring from the place we are in to distant scenes
of beauty and wonder. How delightful is it to a mind fond
of room to range in, to travel in a right line, and in a mo-
ment from the summit of some exalted mountain, not only
to the cities, lakes, seas, which it would cost us a journey
to reach on any other vehicle, and to the shores of other
countries, which it would be a voyage to go to ; but to
other worlds, which may be viewed in groupe or separately,
as the mind is disposed to employ its contemplations !
We consider the faculty of seeing as enlarged, when the
space to be seen through is extended. We outstrip the swift-
ness of wings, and travel on the rays of light. Here how-
ever we make but a slow progress, in comparison of the
sally, which our thoughts enable us to make from matter
into the world of spirits, the true relations of the soul ; and
pass through objects of inferior excellence if compared to
those angels, archangels, powers, thrones, cherubim, and
seraphim, placed above us in the scale of intellectual
being. Here, what beauty ! what glory ! what felicity ! all
founded on obedience and virtue. To one of these, and
one of them each of us may be hereafter, if we will con-
tend for the high prize of our calling in Christ Jesus, all

HYLEMA.

417

the suns and worlds of the universe are as nothing ; and
these again, to that boundless source of being, of goodness,
of happiness, of glory, of whom are all things, and to whom,
as their centre, the whole world of spirits ought to tend
with all the rapidity, which love, and every faculty of the
soul can lend them.

57. Happiness is to be sought for and planned within
one's self, by reason and religion. There the wise man
seeks for it, and there finds it. Others look for it without
them, I mean in the enjoyment of outward things ; of
whom they make the nearest approach to it, who pursue
it in things nearest to themselves, as more attainable, than
such as lie farther off, perhaps beyond the verge of their
activity and power. Some can be content with the pro-
duce of their own little patch of ground laboured by their
own hands. These are the happiest of all the vulgar.
Others cannot be satisfied without every thing their own
country affords them. Others again, the great vulgar,
multiply and extend theic wants, to the produce of the
whole earth. The diffusive poverty of these is not to be
relieved, but by the possession of things unattainable and
impossible. What a condition would these indigents be
reduced to, should the French refuse them their wines and
silks; the Italians their pictures ; the West Indians their
sugars ; the East Indians their teas ? They must be desti-
tute of meat, drink, and clothes. They could not subsist.
Take away promotion from the ambitious, and riches from
the covetous, and what miserable wretches must they be !
But how far are these, or may they be, beyond their power?
Farther than from east to west, from north to south, from
none of which promotion cometh, for it moves not horizon-
tally along the face of the earth, but perpendicularly from
him, who raiseth up one, and puttcth down another, on mo-
tives and in pursuit of ends, unfathomable to these sort of
men, and generally opposite to theirs.

58. Every system of moral philosophy, considered
merely as such, hath been grounded on a partial attention
to some one particular in human nature, while all the rest
were overlooked. The Stoics considered the ill effects of
our passions, and therefore aimed at nothing, but the total
suppression of them. The Epicureans were attentive to

vol. v. 2 e

418

HYLEMA.

nothing but the pleasure felt in the indulgence of those
passions, and therefore made their philosophy to consist in
sensual pleasure only. The sceptics saw uncertainty in
many things, and therefore asserted it in all. Shaftsbury
and his copyist Hutcheson, taking the fair side of human
nature, have placed all morality in sentiment ; Clarke and
Balguy, as reasoners, in the fitnesses of actions and things;
Hobbes, as a politician, in selfishness ; "Wollaston, as a
refiner, in the truth of actions ; and Smyth, as a fellow-
feeler, in sympathy. All these ingenious men have, each
of them, fixed his mind on one attribute, faculty, propen-
sity of human nature, and made the whole to consist
in that. While you endeavour to draw out the leading
truth of each system, you are in danger of running into this
gross error; that there is no other truth to be sought for, and
of imbibing the pertness and conceit of your favourite au-
thor, with a contempt for all others, and even for revealed
religion, which grounds all morality, where alone it can be
grounded, on faith in a future account. Man, having been
made by the author of this system, finds therein a species
of philosophy, adequate to his whole nature. All the par-
tial systems of human philosophy, so far as there is any
truth in them, converge into this, and neither have, nor can
have, any weight, but as they lead the soul to the tribunal
of God. Yet all their inventors have laboured, to the ut-
termost of their power, to carry off the attention of their
readers from the judicial authority of God, to distinct sys-
tems of independent morality. It is only for a name, that
they are perpetually giving us new standards of morality,
as if morality could have more standards than one, or any
other, but the will of God. The reason why they will nei-
ther borrow from the Scriptures, nor lean on revelation, is,
because they would exclude them from the high honours
of inventors. As long as there are moral professorships in
universities, it will be expected, that the ingenious gentle-
men, chosen into those places, should, each of them, give
the world a book of morality; and a new book, without a
new system, cannot satisfy that expectation, nor bring any
credit to its author. New systems therefore must be perpe-
tually invented, and we must shift our principle of duty and
virtue, perpetually to the new standard and fashion of mo-

H YLEM A.

410

rality, or must be at the endless trouble of debating the me-
rits of a decennial system with its inventor and his admirers.

59. It sometimes happens by mere accident, that a
train of wit or humour, like a train of gunpowder, flies
about and flashes, in a company, consisting of persons,
who were before, and shall be after, as dull as so many al-
dermen.

60. I am very glad, I do not often understand why my
king and his ministers act in this or that manner ; for could
I see into their schemes, I am sure our rivals or enemies
on the continent, must much more easily see into them,
and I should be sorry, the kingdom were trusting to no
better politicians than myself. I am thankful, that their
designs are too deep for my penetration ; nay, I verily be-
lieve, I should not always comprehend them, did they
vouchsafe to explain them to me. This my modesty is
every day shocked with the pamplets, or conversation of
mighty politicians, who know perfectly how to govern the
kingdom, though wholly at a loss to conduct the narrow
affairs of their own families. These men easily penetrate
the most secret councils of kings, dictate plans of adminis-
tration to government, or correct those that have been car-
ried into execution. What polilic, and wise counsels have
taken birth in a coffee-house? Whatan advantageous peace,
or how glorious a war, do we often hear planned behind a
counter ? What heroic exploits performed in a tavern ? What
a loss it is to us, that they are so little known, or regarded !
Religion suffers in the same manner, from the loss of all that
theology, which the divines, of the same class with these
politicians, are perpetually uttering to a few obscure crea-
tures, in a corner, who do not understand it, who do not
mind it. The political and theological pamphleteers do
but half supply our wants, in either article. It is a pity,
that neither the state nor the church, can avail itself of the
wisdom of those who cannot write.

61. Imitation is the child of admiration, indeed its bas-
tard only, when a great disparity between the imitator,
and the person imitated is found in the very thing to be
compared. How stupid is he, who cannot see infinite
meanness in that pride, which puts him on thinking, speak-
ing, dressing, building, drinking, and being attended, like

2 b 2

420

HYLEMA.

one of a fortune greatly superior to his. All the vanity
foppery, extravagance, of the polite, or would-be-polite,
world, is derived from this pride, and make despicable by
this meanness. It is this makes bankrupts and beggars.
This puts those on drinking wine, who can hardly afford
themselves ale. This, clothes the shoemaker's wife in
silks, and gives her tea for her breakfast, while her hus-
band is sweating at a pair of shoes for some plainer wo-
man. This, notwithstanding a constitution as robust, and
a behaviour as rude, as those of a whey woman, gives those
vapours to Abigail, which she had from Mrs. Puny, which
Mrs. Puny had from Sirs. Squeamish, which Mrs. Squeam-
ish had from lady Dainty. The decorum of dress consists
in its proper adjustment to the person, the mien, the cir-
cumstances of the wearer. Could the low unpolished part
of the world, be made sensible of this, they would not en-
deavour to distinguish themselves by such attire, as could
only draw the eyes of others upon their clumsy persons,
and their disdainful reflections upon their scanty means.
Nothing is truly great, which the imitation of inferiors can
set in so ridiculous a light. Why then do people of dis-
tinction ever put themselves to so great expense for those
false appearances of grandeur, which are subject to the
egregious banter of being copied by the vulgar?

62. The power of example is never carried so far as when
two persons do a thing, which each abhors, because each
thinks the other addicted to it. For instance ; you dine with
me, and though you wish to keep yourself sober, as much
as I do, yet I must press you to drink more than either of
us cares for, and press so long, and so peremptorily, as to
convince you, that I shall be unhappy, if you refuse. I knew
an old beggar-man who made his advantage of this piece of
knowledge in human nature, by choosing, when he could
do it, to attack a group of gentlemen together, and if he
could prevail on one to give him somewhat, seldom failed
to levy the contributions of them all, through that shame in
all, to be behind others in an act of charity. A pistol at
their breasts could hardly have proved more cogent.

63. The attempt to become independent by power, on the
first view, seems feasable ; yet, if the matter is well consi-
dered, nothing can be more absurd, or ill-grounded. Power

HYLSEMA.

421

is a chain, whereof the lower links depend on those above,
and all on a pin or fulcrum, the highest as well as the rest;
or it is a building, wherein the higher parts rest on the lower,
give a covering, but borrow a support ; or it is a wheel in
motion, every part of which, circulates by a pull from be-
fore, or a propulsion from behind. All human power is
raised, and like the couplings of a house, which stand on
the walls, and lean on each other, is kept up, by divine or
human aid, or rather by both. This is the origin and band
of civil society, in which every person pays just so much
dependence, as he borrows power. Here whosoever is
powerful, derives his strength from that weakness and in-
ability in himself, and all the other members, to live sepa-
rate and independent. The beggar, who hath the least
power, is most independent, inasmuch as he is beholding
to others for no more than the bare necessaries of nature.
The king, who is vested with the supreme authority, is more
dependent than any of his subjects; and as he is more ab-
solute, is still more dependent ; for is he not more absolute,
merely because his revenues are greater, and his army
stronger, than those of a more limited monarch ? Does he
not therefore depend on larger contributions, and on a greater
number of men ? And may not the former, on the caprice
of his subjects, be refused ; and the latter, on hope of better
pay, rise up against him, in favour of a domestic usurper,
or a foreign invader ?

64. I have learned in affliction to bend like a reed in a
high wind, and to recover my erect posture again, when the
trouble is over. It required a good deal of pains, and took
up much time, in bending backward and forward, to sub-
due the stiffness of my nature, and render me sufficiently
limber, for, originally, I had no small share of the oak in me.
It cost me near as much pains and time to recover the
spring of my mind again, and to restore it to its wonted firm-
ness, after long bending under affliction. It is difficult to
be both supple and strong ; to be at once a reed and an oak.

65. When we put to sea from a shore, diversified with
a prospect of towns, spires, hills, mountains, as the distance
gradually dims and flattens the prospect, so the smaller ob-
jects disappear soonest, and such as are more glaring and
bulky maintain their figure in the eye longest, till at length,

422

HYLEMA.

the houses, the steeples, the hills, the mountains, fade away,
and sink out of sight. So it is with us in regard to the things
of this world, when our thoughts and affections are setting
out for another. Step by step, we withdraw our attention
from every thing we are leaving ; and continue to retain our
esteem and affection longest for those persons and things,
which stand highest in our hearts. Friendships, lawsuits,
riches, resentments, hopes of promotion, fears of affliction,
children, wives, &c. retire from our thoughts, one after an-
other, till the whole medley of human affairs contracts itself
into one confused mass, which still lessens as we withdraw
to a greater distance, till, at last, all vanishes out of the
mind. From this point, the things of another life begin to
shew themselves, and continually rise on the eye of faith in
magnitude and lustre; the mountains of the promised land,
the buildings of the New Jerusalem, all sparkling with pre-
cious stones ; its beautiful inhabitants, arrayed in azure and
purple, all seen in Christ, the light of God, to which the sun
is darkness. Soon after this prospect, we begin to hear with
ravishment, the sound of that universal hymn, mentioned by
St. John; 'Salvation to our God, which sitteth upon the
throne, and unto the Lamb. Amen.' ' Blessing, and glory,
and wisdom, and thanksgiving, and honour, and power, and
might be unto our God, for ever and ever,. Amen.' These
two prospects cannot be seen with the same eye, nor with
any degree of clearness at once. We cannot look back-
ward at this world with a fleshly eye, and forward at the
next with the eye of faith, at the same time. Nor is it pos-
sible to hear the heavenly hymn with bodily ears. The music
of this cannot be perceived, butby that spiritual and harmonic
nerve, wrhich true religion attunes to the concert on high.

66. Truth which should be absolute, is, of all things, the
most thoroughly enslaved. Education, fashion, authority,
pride, party, pleasure, pain, courage, fear, interest, every
thing in short, exercises a tyranny over it. There is not a
family so inconsiderable, wherein the head, be it master or
mistress, does not assume the prerogative of determining
what shall be true or false, right or wrong, within the little
domestic empire, even in such things as have little or no
analogy to economy. Not only his children and domestics
must take the law at his mouth, but his visiters too, must

HYLEMA.

423

receive those dictates for truths, which he founds on his
mastership, and proves by dint of dinner. You shall fre-
quently find a proposition true at this house, erroneous at
that, and neither, at a third, perhaps in the space of one day.
If you are a hackney visiter, beware of being dogmatical.
Be ready to change your sentiments as you change your
house. Be prepared to deny that here, which you affirmed
there, and to hold either side, or no side, as occasion may
require. If you are not a latitudinarian, a universal con-
formist, or one not yet attached to any opinion, you may
lay your account to be excommunicated for a refractory
fool, void of sense and good breeding, who knows not the
lordship of your entertainer over all principles and opinions ;
who is not aware of the heavy penalties he can inflict on
such, as invade his privilege with sentiments, notauthorized,
perhaps proscribed, at his table ; who does not submit to
his right of dictating, as built on his power of entertaining.

67. There are, properly speaking, no phrenetic nor
idiotic brutes. What we call madness in dogs, cats, &c.
is probably but a fever, which soon terminates in a cure or
death. The madness and idiotcy in human nature is both
an effect and a proof of depravity in man, whereby he is
violently thrust out of his natural course, and for the time,
to all intents, degraded from his species.

68. Let no man hope to see heaven and earth at once.
When he cannot see the earth, as at night, he may then see
the heavens. In a moral sense, affliction, whether provi-
dential, or voluntary in acts of self-mortification, gives us
this night, more lucid to the soul, than the glare of day is
to the fleshly eye.

69. Evil ought not to be done, that good may come of
it, because evil is evil, and ought never to be done ; nei-
ther does the guardian of good want its assistance. On
the other hand, to do good that evil may come of it, is to
steal from God, what we mean to bestow on the devil.
In this sense the evil spirit often tempts his servants to
do good.

70. A man intended by his natural make and talents
for solid studies, such as mathematics, or for trade, who
addicts himself to poetry, is in the state of a large draught
horse taught to arable.

424

HYJLEMA.

71. If health or sickness, prosperity or adversity, pleas-
ing or displeasing accidents, can raise or lower the mer-
cury of our spirits, our happiness, and through that, our
virtue, are rendered proportionably precarious. Religion
only, which elevates the soul, can place us on the summit
of that Tenerif, where all is serene. Few can bear the thin
air of this altitude.

72. It is certain, nothing can so effectually contribute
to our content, as seriously to consider how much worse
our condition hath been, or may be, than it now is. If I
deserve and dread two evils, and escape one of them, why
shall I not consider myself rather as a happy, than a mi-
serable man ? I knew a father whose only children were
two sons. The man was assured by his neighbours, that
both were drowned. This he felt with every pang of na-
ture. But, some time after, finding that one of them was
still alive, he seemed to forget that the other was dead.
Joy and gratitude to Providence took up the whole place
of grief in his breast.

73. How much am I indebted to the goodness of God,
who hath made me the object of his bounty, though I have
left myself no title to his mercy?

74. The pride of many hangs on the pin of an opinion in
some, while it treads on that of others, till the fulcrum
oreaking, they sink beneath the contempt of all.

75. There is a due distance from men as well as pic-
tures. The rough colouring of some characters requires to
be seen from afar, or from below; which does better to
mellow it. Others may be known a little nearer. Few
can bear a close inspection. Hence the different classes
of men, out of whom we may furnish ourselves with ac-
quaintances, intimates, and friends. Old friends and new
acquaintances, like old wine and fresh small beer, are best.
Old acquaintances have talked out all their fund, and are
now good for nothing ; but new ones have perhaps some-
what to entertain us with, which we have not heard before.

76. Riddle me this, He that drinks much, drinks little ;
and he that drinks little, drinks much.

77. It is very hard to keep Notonomus at a distance.
He bears in upon your acquaintance, nay, pushes for an
intimacy with you, in spite of that well-bred coolness,

HYLEMA.

425

wherewith you attempt to keep him off. Would you know
how to keep him at the staff's end? I will tell you. Give
him a sound rap with it on the knuckles.

78. I had almost ceased to be a young man, ere I found
out, that I was a fool. In those days I could hardly bear
in my seniors the one half of that privilege in advising or
dictating, which I now assume. Quere, am I not a greater
fool than ever ? Now, that I plainly perceive, my talk is
ascribed to vanity, and contemned by the young ?

79. It is hard to say, whether young people do more want
the experience of the old ; or old people the cheerfulness
and vivacity of the young. Yet, as if strangers to their
own wants, on both sides, they disrelish the company of
each other. How petulant, how noisy, is that young
puppy ! saith the old man. How morose or dull is that
fellow, quoth the young one. He talks away, and lectures,
as if he had been born at the age of sixty. I will engage,
he was as great a fool, and as wild at my age as I am. The
old, therefore, that they may have a vote in the conduct of
the young, and that they may recruit their spirits with the
gaiety of their juniors, should endeavour at a decent de-
gree of festivity in themselves, and softly slide in their wis-
dom now and then, as a pill that cannot go over, without
that gilding.

80. Friends contend in kindnesses, enemies in injuries.
Enemies should be matches, or the enmity will not be last-
ing. Friends should be well paired too, or their kind con-
tentions must soon come to an end. We may talk as finely
as we please about the disinterestedness of true friendship;
but after all, we must own, its very being subsists on good
will, and good will on kind offices, so that gratitude and the
love of others, if well inspected, will discover self-love at
the bottom. Inequality therefore destroys the mutuality of
friendship, because, on one side at least, there is not a suf-
ficient fund of power to oblige.

81. Why, Megacles, in every argument between you and
me, must I encounter with your great estate, your high
place at court, your illustrious ancestors in a body? What
have these to do with innate ideas ? May not the necessity
of revelation be a real necessity, though I maintain it,
who am possessed of but 50J. a year, and own myself

426

HYLEMA.

the son of a farmer ? And may not the mere light of na-
ture be an insufficient guide to virtue and happiness,
though you patronize it, who reckon up a dozen lords in
your line, and 10,000Z. in your rental ? Is it a victory only
you seek for? No, you say it is truth alone. Disband
then your foreign forces. Come down from that eminence.
Let us be on a level in the argument. Let us be distin-
guished by nothing but the strength of our reasons. What!
still a lord ! had you a sceptre in one hand, and a globe in
the other, they could not convince me; they could only si-
lence me. That, indeed, is all you aim at. Go on then.
Harangue as long as you please. I am your lordship's
most humble servant.

82. Are not the works of God distinguished from those
of men by the marks of infinitely greater wisdom and power,
which they discover l A wisdom and power intelligible to
every capacity, and mysterious to every capacity ? The
lowest can perceive, that no human wisdom could stretch
so far, no human power perform such things ; the highest
cannot, in many particulars, discover the reasons, nor com-
prehend the designs of God in his works of creation and
providence. But all, highest and lowest, in point of under-
standing, see and comprehend so much as may thoroughly
satisfy them, that what they do not comprehend is equally
wise and good. Tbey ask, how and why ? If they get a
satisfactory answer, it is well. If they do not, they ac-
quiesce, because it is God who works, and the very limited
intellect of man that judges. Thus all, but the Atheist, read
the book of nature. And thus all, but he, will read the
book of revelation also. All mankind, but the Atheist, who
in Scripture is called the ungodly, sees, or may see, that the
Bible is the word or book of God ; and seeing this, who
shall ask how and why ? If they receive a satisfactory an-
swer, it is well. If they do not, they believe and acquiesce,
as they, who having received a mystery from God, when
he spoke to them through his works, are still more ready
to take a mystery at his hands, when he speaks to them of
himself, who is infinitely the most mysterious and incom-
prehensible of all beings. A man is a system of miracles,
mysteries, and wonders to himself; why then should he
think it strange, that the nature of God should be mysteri-

HYLEJMA.

427

ous to him ? Consider that morsel of bread you are going to
eat. Can you tell us how a grain of wheat germinates in
the ground, how it produces a new plant, how that plant
grows up to its full size, how the new grains are fed, filled,
matured in the husk ; how after bread is made of them,
that bread is digested in your stomach, the finer separated
from the grosser part, turned into chyle, then into blood,
and distributed into muscles, bones, nerves, animal spirits?
Can you tell us, how you bend your finger? No. Why then
shall you make a difficulty of believing in a religious mys-
tery ? Is it because you hate religion, and dread the change
it must make in your course of life, if received, from indul-
gence to self-denial? After all, perhaps you stand in ab-
solute need of that mystery, which seems most unaccount-
able to your understanding, I mean a miracle. Can any
thing short of a miracle educe conviction from a mind so
hardened to religion or virtue, from a heart so dissolved
in vice ?

83. Every one thinks himself a philosopher, some time
or other ; yet none is really so, who is not so always.
Prosperity generally relaxes all those rigid schemes of vir-
tue which we plan in time of adversity, like the plants of a
cooler climate, which wither under the line. On the other
side, adversity kills those we form when all goes well with
us, and they perish like the anana in the open air of Nor-
way. A look from a little girl, or the first glass of good wine,
puts an end to the former sort of philosophy ; and a dose
of opium or a pistol, to the latter. That virtue must have
the root and firmness of an oak, which can subsist, nay
thrive in all climates. True religion only, and the Spirit of
God, can furnish such a root with its native and necessary
soil. Yet oak, though the true philosophy should prove
itself to be, by its stability and duration, it bends to a storm
scatters its leaves, and sometimes suffers the loss of a
branch. True religion is unconquerable in itself, but is
never found, nor can be found, perfect in man, who pos-
sesses this inestimable gift in an earthen vessel. But we
should be careful not to attribute the frailty of that which
contains, to the thing contained. Could a mortal man be
perfectly religious, nothing could shake his resolution, no-
thing disturb his soul.

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HYLEMA.

84. The first onset of joy or sorrow, if in the extreme, is
apt to prove mortal, but the onset of extreme joy more so
than that of sorrow, perhaps because we are less accus-
tomed to excessive joy, or rather because we concur with
joy, and resist sorrow. Be this as it will, the danger in both
cases lies at the entrance, or first attack ; for if that can be
put by, and time afforded, the stream of ideas which passes
perpetually through the mind from business, amusements,
conversation, accidents, all the objects that surround us,
and bear in continually on our senses, but above all, from
religion, and the consideration of infinitely greater joy or
sorrow in expectation, sweeps away somewhat of our too
quick and violent feelings ; and in case there is nothing very
rough or rocky in the channel itself, runs every day smoother,
and smoother, till it rests as on a flat, in a perfect calmness
and composure, wherein we wonder what is become of our
perturbation. In this, as indeed in every thing else, we
ought to admire the wisdom and goodness of our Maker in
the frame of our nature.

85. He is called a miser, who denies himself the com-
forts, nay often the very necessaries of life, that he may
heap up wealth, which he knows he must surrender when
he dies. This man thinks himself much wiser, than him
who gathers what he intends to part with in a month or year,
because he plans possession on probably a longer tenure.
But he is but a fool to that miser, who is resolved never to
give up his riches, but to hoard them for enjoyment beyond
the grave. This is that egregious miser, who builds his
avarice on these words, ' It is more blessed to give, than
to receive;' and on these, ' Lay up for yourselves treasures
in heaven,' where they may be eternally secured on that
bond, ' he that giveth to the poor, lendeth unto the Lord,
and look, what he layeth out it shall be paid him again.'
This for his capital. But he must have interest too, which
is secured to him by this deed ; ' Blessed is the man who
provideth for the sick and needy; the Lord shall deliver
him in the time of trouble.

86. To the natural eye this world is opaque, and shews
only its surface; to the eye of faith, it is transparent, and
may be seen through, so as to afford a view of somewhat
beyond it. All who look at it with a natural eye, are there-

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429

fore but superficially delighted, or tormented. All who
look through it at somewhat of much greater consequence,
rest their prospect in that which is substantial. Every
thing of short duration, or of mere appearance, only, I call
superficial and insignificant; but that which is of eternal
duration, and cannot be mistaken, I call solid and substan-
tial. Let the reader w ho can see with each sort of eye, be
long, or short sighted, which he pleases. All are bound
for one place, but one steers towards the next gathering of
froth and sea grass; another, to the rock or mountain, at a
distance where both wish to land. The eye of faith is akin to
the eye of God, which sees through every thing, and stops
only at an end or purpose, worthy of him who sees with it.

87. The following singular instances of generosity and
gratitude ought not, I think to be forgotten. Let them then
be remembered, as long as these things shall be read.

88. The bishopric of Bristol is one of the lowest in
point of income among the English sees. Hence it was,
that Dr. Smallridge, at his decease, was not able to leave
even a tolerable subsistence to his widow, and two daugh-
ters. In this state of exigence, those ladies were visited
by Mr. Wainright, who had been some years register to
.that diocess, and had by the profits of his place, and
other practice of the law, acquired 3000/. This sum, his
all, he with difficulty prevailed on the widow and her
daughters to accept. The widowr, not long afterward
found means to make queen Caroline acquainted with the
act of Mr. Wainright, and with his character in other re-
spects, of very high eclat among the narrow circle of his
acquaintances. That good hearted queen, though Small-
ridge had been of the Tory party, sent Mr. Wainright over
a Baron of the Irish Exchequer. Here the abilities of Mr.
Wainright shewed themselves equal to the dignity and im-
portance of his new place ; and his integrity, to the noble
act of generosity, whereby he had been made known to the
world. His piety, which made him one of the best judges
that ever adorned a bench, was equal to that of Wilson,
bishop of Sodor and Man. He finished his truly Christian
course in this world by suffering a sort of martyrdom to the
discharge of his duty ; for going circuit, he found a prisoner
at Waterford so ill of the jail fever, that he could not with

430

H VLEMA.

safety be brought out of the dungeon to trial ; and there-
fore, went down into that miserable place, there tried the
prisoner, there caught the infection, of which he soon after-
ward died. The reader may think, he went too far in this
last act of his life ; but surely we ought to suppose his mo-
tives equal to the risk, to which he exposed himself, the
jury, and the witnesses. Howsoever deeply we regret the
loss of so excellent a man, we must do that justice to his
memory, to believe, he might have had some reason, pre-
vious to the trial, for considering the poor prisoner as inno-
cent of the fact charged in his indictment, and as one who
must perish, if left in confinement for the next general jail
delivery. Mr. Wainright acted wisely, for he believed in
God, who, no doubt hath received him into an infinitely
better world, than that out of which he took him.

89. A Scottish gentlewoman, whose name was Mac-
dowel, had, in her days of prosperity, been a kind mistress
to Elspy Campbel ; but, when turned of fifty, fell into ex-
treme poverty by a total loss of her effects, and the death
of all her relations. Elspy, who had been many years re-
moved from Mrs. Macdowel, tracing her out by the melan-
choly news of her distress, went to her, wept over her, and
said, Though I am near as old as you, yet I am a great deal
stronger, and can work, which, through your manner of
life, and growing infirmities, you are unable to do. Come
then with me to my little house. It is a warm one, and
with it, I have half an acre of land, which yields me more
potatoes than we both can destroy. After trying what I
can do for you, or rather, what God will do for us both, you
may leave me, if you can do better, or stay with me if you
cannot. Take heart, mistress ; I am a very sturdy old hag,
and shall find victuals for you, if they are above ground,
and when they are not, will dig for them under it. O Elspy,
said the mistress, I will go with you, and will live and die
with you. I am sure the blessing of God will be where you
are, Elspy. This short, but sweet dialogue ended, they set
out for Elspy 's hermitage, where Mrs. Macdowel found a
very little and a very warm cottage, with a coarse, but
clean bed, on the farther side of a little fire-place, which
was sheltered by a mud wall from the wind of the door.
At the other end of the house there was a small window or

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431

hole for the admission of light, when the wind did not blow
that way ; when it did, this aperture was filled with a bun-
dle of rushes, and Elspy contented herself with the light
from her door and chimney. Soon alter she w as honour-
ed with so respectable a guest, she wove a thin kind of
matting for curtains to the bed, a better defence against
cold, than the most costly damask. In this bed lay Mrs.
Macdowel with her feet in Elspy 's lap, who could never be
prevailed on to lie up beside her mistress, but always at
the foot of the bed, bent like a hoop round Mrs. Mac-
dowel's limbs. To the benefactress, she ever added the
servant in spite of daily invitations to an equality. Such
wras her way of endeavouring to prevent a too keen sense
of her fall in the decayed gentlewoman. Good potatoes, a
little oaten bread, sometimes an egg, and always milk, were
provided in sufficient plenty. The best potatoe, the fresh-
est egg, and the larger portion of the milk were constantly
placed before Mrs. Macdowel. An old Bible, and two or
three half worn books of piety and devotion, gave a zest to
their entertainments, unhappily not known among people
in high life. It may be wondered how Elspy could procure
all this plenty. For the potatoes, which she herself set,
and dug out, I have already accounted. The rest was earn-
ed by Elspy's other labours, particularly spinning, and
reaping corn in harvest time, for which she was better qua-
lified, than younger women, by an involuntary bend in her
back, which brought her eyes and hands much nearer to
the ground than theirs. At times, when provisions rose to
too high a price to be laid in by these means, this admira-
ble woman gathered them from the neighbourhood by beg-
ging. In doing this her method was most efficacious. She
went only to the houses of the most substantial farmers,
and standing within the door, she thus accosted the inha-
bitants : I am come to ask something, not for myself, for I
can live on any thing, but for Mrs. Macdowel, a gentlewo-
man, the daughter of laird such a one, and grand-daugh-
ter of sir James such a one. If they helped her according
to her very moderate expectations, she always said, the
blessing of God, of Mrs. Macdowel, and of Elspy Campbel,
come plentifully on this house, and all that is therein. But
if they refused to give her any thing, her form of speech

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HYLEMA.

was constantly this ; the black curse of God, of Mrs. Mac-
dowel, and of Elspy Campbel, fall suddenly on this house,
and all that is in it. The reader will easily believe, her
success in collecting, not only victuals but also old clothes,
and pence to buy shoes, &c. must have been considerable,
as her ways and means were little short of compulsory,
with such neighbours as hers. Her mistress was a gentle-
woman, and while served by Elspy, must continue a gen-
tlewoman, that is, must never work, or wet her feet. One
day, as this inimitable servant was carrying on her back a
cleeve of manure to her potatoe ground, her mistress stole
out with a pitcher for a little water, and was returning with
it from the well. Elspy spied her, let fall the cleeve, flew
to her, seized the pitcher, spilled the water, went and filled
it again, and as she carried it to the house, cried out to her
mistress, Get in, you daughter of laird such a one, and
grand-daughter of sir Jame^s such a one. You shall draw
no water while I am alive. Having heard these things,
and many more of the same kind, I sent her some money,
and as long as she lived, that was for four or five years af-
ter I heard her story, when I was asked in company for a
toast, always gave Elspy Campbel. The vulgarity of her
name generally occasioned an inquiry about my beauty ;
and my account of her ever began with, Elspy is an old
beggar-woman. — An old beggar-woman ! Yes, but hear me
out. Then followed the substance of the above narrative,
and then a little collection of crowns and half guineas.
These frequently remitted to my toast, gave her occasion
one day, to say to my messenger, God save us ! who is he
this, that is always sending me money, and yet I never saw
him ? The glorious servility of this heroine was no sudden
and evanescent glow of gratitude, but a vigorous fire,
which burnt for upwards of twenty years, in full and equal
strength, till death raked it up under the ashes of her
body, from whence it will blaze out again with superior
lustre in the morning of a day, that is to have no end.

91. There lived about sixty years ago, near the town of
Fintona, my present place of abode, one Donnelly, a native
Irishman, and a very consummate rogue, but of the low
pilfering class. This fellow had a spirit of ambition, and
wished of all things, to see his sons advanced to the more

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433

honourable employment of robbing. To this end he gave
them the most qualifying education in his power. He trained
them carefully to a contemptfor religion, for the laws of their
country, and above all, for the appropriation of private
wealth, such as money, cattle, and the like. Having laid
this foundation, he now and then exercised them in the safer
feats of bravery, and cruelty. One night particularly, to
make an experiment of their capacities, he turned out his
sons John and Peter, fastening in the best manner he could,
both the front and back doors of his house, and giving them
to understand, that there was no admittance, no supper, nor
bed for them, without force. He took the defence of the
front door upon himself, and to his wife assigned that of the
back door, which was the stronger of the two, and had a
better bar. The hopeful young men attacked the house with
great fierceness, and the defence w as made with equal firm-
ness. However, after a vigorous contest, the heroes broke
in. Peter knocked down his father, but John offered
no violence to his mother, after forcing the door upon
her. The father embracing his son Peter with a transport
of affection, loaded him with praises, as a boy of most pro-
mising spirit ; but, as to you, Shane (Shane is Irish for John),
you are, said he, a poor soft-hearted wretch, or you would
either have cut off your mother's nose, or broken her head.
Peter is cut out for a great man, and you for a scrub. How-
ever, it was not long after this, that John as well as Peter,
declared open war against his majesty, his subjects, and all
his forces ; or, in other words, commenced robbers. They
collected money by forcible entries into houses where it was
to be had, and on his majesty's own road ; but the ferocity
of Peter being restrained by the humanity of Shane, no mur-
der was committed, nor any unnecessary violence offered
to the persons of such as liked to sleep in a whole skin.
It was in this period of his life, that John Donnelly became
famous over all Ulster by the name of Shane Bamagh, the
latter signifying, toothless, in Irish ; for, it seems, he never
had any teeth in his under jaw. At this time also the go-
vernors of Ireland had no other shift, than to offer a reward
for the heads of those heroes, by public proclamation.
Shane Barnagh, who was in some measure forced into this
state of hostility with a kingdom by filial duty, and never
vol. v. 2 F

434

HYLEMA.

really liked it, obtained a promise from the going judges of
assize to solicit a pardon for him and his brother, on their
submitting and engaging to take the county of Tyrone under
their keeping and protection. But ere this could be effected,
two or three young Fermanagh men, allured by the reward,
had the two brothers set, and gave them chase on the moun-
tains near this place. Several shots on each side wrere ex-
changed ; and the ammunition of the brothers first running
out, Peter was shot in one of his legs, so thathis agility began
greatly to fail him. In this distress, he said to his brother,
O Shane, surely you will not forsake me. The answer was
worthy of memory ; No, Peter, though I could easily escape,
for our enemies begin to flag in their pursuit, T will live or
die with you. Having said this, he lent an arm to Peter,
and leading him round the skirt of a hill, they got out of
sight of their pursuers, and then lay down in the heath, as
no exertion of Barnagh's strength could carry his brother
farther. The Fermanagh men, now resolving to give up the
pursuit, an Irishman, who lived near the place, and had seen
which way Shane Barnagh fled with his wounded brother,
discovered to Armstrong, one of the tory-hunters, the place,
or near it, where they lay concealed. Thither he went, and
shot Peter through the head, which he had raised a little
to examine, whether any one was in view. On this, Shane
Barnagh started up, and presented his unloaded piece at
Armstrong, who threw it up with his, ran in upon him, stabbed
him with his own dagger, and gave him the coupe-de-grace
in decollation, the end of a delinquent lord. Thus fell the
Alexander of his age, as honest a man as he of Macedon,
nothing near so great a robber ; a robber of necessaries ra-
ther than of superfluities ; more tender of human blood, and
not less brave. Thus he fell, not poorly by excess in drink-
ing, as that conqueror did, but by wrhat the generality of
mankind will call an excess of brotherly love and genero-
sity. Had his education furnished him with better princi-
ples and habits ; and had his fortune set him on a higher
stage of action ; it is probable, his whole life would have
shone out with a lustre, similar to its conclusion, than which,
nothing more noble can be pointed out in the most distin-
guished characters of ancient or modern history.

2. Our principles, opinions, sentiments, are the springs

HYLEMA.

435

of our actions ; our actions, the springs of our happiness and
misery. Too much care therefore cannot be employed in
forming our principles, &c. Yet our principles, &c. are
generally prescribed, almost at random, by prejudice or
passion, as if they were of little or no moment to us. Rea-
son, which should govern the choice of these, hath it im-
posed by blind dictators, and works upon them as axioms.
Thus reason, enslaved to her natural servants, degenerates
into cunning, instead of improving into wisdom ; now cun-
ning is nothing but artificial folly.

93. He who hopes his faults shall be spared for his good
qualities and actions, must be miserably disappointed,
when he finds the world so highly provoked at his virtues,
as to give no quarter to his vices.

94. Cleanthes gave a hundred pounds to the poor re-
lation of Zelotypus. I can never forgive Cleanthes, said
Zelotypus, for doing that which, of all men, I should have
been the first to do. It is often with some difficulty, that
a man prevails on himself to do good, but with more, that
he can get leave from others to do it, and with more still,
that he bears the ill treatment, given him in return, by envy
and ingratitude. But hath not every Christian fair warn-
ing given him of this latter difficulty, in these words ; < all
that will live godly in Christ Jesus' (that is, that will do
good) 'shall suffer persecution/ as Christ and his apostles
did, for doing the greatest good. Dare to be wise, saith
Horace. Dare to be good, would be an excellent maxim
in the mouth of a Christian.

95. The onset or irruption of very extraordinary oc-
currences frequently surprises a wise man into foolish, and
a good man into bad actions. This is a weakness, to which
all are liable, but they least, who by experience are fami-
liarized to great things. Error too frequently assumes so
fair a face of truth, that it would look like stupidity and
obstinacy not to assent to that, which a little after, on better
light, andmaturer thoughts, we blush for having yielded to.
The most knowing are the least apt to be caught in this
snare. Faith in God alone, and vigilance over ourselves,
are the best preservatives against both sorts of surprise.
The mind that is at anchor on well grounded principles,

2 f 2

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IIYLEMA.

may be shook a little, but can neither be sunk in an abyss
of vice, nor carried away by the winds of false doctrine.

96. The chief benefit we derive from the foresight of an
inevitable misfortune, is that we are not surprised at its
arrival, nor carried away into such excesses of grief or
weakness, as must have happened had it seized us una-
wares. Many by anticipation extract almost the whole
bitterness of an approaching evil, and so dilute it, as it
were, with time, that when it comes, they sutler but little
by it. Others through a melancholy turn of mind, so brood
on an evil foreseen, and so magnify it in their imaginations,
which they can in no degree restrain or govern, that, ere
the dreaded event, they are wholly unmanned, and unable
to stand the shock, which others would play with. The
former are much better fitted to consult with a sooth-
sayer than the latter. There is a class as large as both,
already mentioned, perhaps consisting of all mankind, who
so anticipate the joy of a happy event, foreseen, as to re-
duce it on arrival to an occurrence, almost indifferent to
their feelings. These are apt to complain, that the enjoy-
ments of this life are empty things; and so indeed they
must be, if they are previously drained and exhausted by
the pleasure of expectation. The proverb used with chil-
dren, should be given in answer to such complaints, you
cannot eat your bread and have it.

97. Not to be surprised into foolish or wicked actions
by sudden temptations ; not to be hurried into error by
false appearances of truth, but to stay for examination ;
not to sink under unforeseen misfortunes; not to be inde-
cently exalted by unhoped for occasions of comfort or joy;
is true virtue, and constitutes the highest felicity this life
can afford. There is no wise man who will not readily sub-
scribe to this piece of philosophy. What then ? is restraint
(for all this is restraint) more conducive to human happi-
ness than liberty ? Yes, and there is no liberty (strange as
the paradox may seem) without this restraint. No man is
free but he who hath the power of self-government. Most
true. But what is self-government, if not the power of
right reason, exhibited in the exercise of coercion over the
brutal, the exorbitant part of our nature ? Now, not the

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437

happiest natural disposition ; not the utmost force of rea-
son ; not the most vigorous efforts of philosophy ; not even
the longest and most perfect experience, can raise the human
mind to such an exemption from perturbation. Religion
only can give us this power by lifting the eye, through
faith, from the trifles that are seen, to the infinitely impor-
tant things that are not seen, I mean, by any other eye than
that which opens to itself the prospect of futurity. To this
eye, cleared and taught by divine wisdom to see as that
sees, the valleys of worldly poverty are raised, the moun-
tains of worldly wealth and pomp lowered, and every
thing here reduced almost to a plain. It is on this plain
that Christ comes, with all the beauty of holiness, to a be-
lieving soul. Yet total indifference to this world is not
possible, as long as we are surrounded with flesh and blood,
and are still struggling with the passions and frailties of
our present nature. Peter, through fear, denies his Master,
and prevaricates in presence of the judaizing Christians ;
yet Peter dies on the cross for Christ and Christian truth.

98. The ambitious, who climbs the hill of worldly power
and grandeur, feels the storms of passion and fortune grow-
ing more boisterous the higher he ascends ; and at the top
finds but a point to stand on, where if it were calm, the gid-
diness of his head, at such a height would put it out of his
power to balance. How difficult then must it be for him so
to poise himself, and root his feet, as not to be thrown
headlong, when passion and fortune play off their whole
artillery on him with greater fury than ever? Had it not
been better for him to have kept in the valley ? The am-
bitious, who climbs the hill of religion and virtue, feels the
storms of passion and corruption increase upon him only
to a height not at all considerable ; above which, if he can
surmount it, he perceives the air settling, his prospect
widening, and the hill thrusting its head, still higher, into a
region serene and bright, and finds in himself a stronger
tendency upward, than his natural heaviness formerly gave
him downward. Virtue then is higher than power, by all
that elevation, which rises above the region of passion.

99. It is generally easier to speak for truth, than against
it, because the arguments which support a truth are at hand,
are naturally convincing ; whereas error cannot be upheld,

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HYLEMA.

but by far-fetched sophisms, which, detected, expose the
speaker to the imputation of folly or knavery. Yet there
are ingenious and artful speakers, who figure most on the
wrong side of a question. In this case the hearers ascribe
the elocution not to his cause, but to the superiority of the
haranguer's talents. The disputants, or rather orators, of
this class, sensible of the advantage, hardly ever fail to take
the side of error, diligently study what may be said for it,
how the truth may be undermined, and what colours may
be given to the absurdity they would gloss. Truth carries
off the credit of all that is, or can be, said for it; but the
abettor of a falsity runs off with the honour of an ingenuity,
uncommon and surprising, even when it is not perceived
that his cause is a bad one, if he speaks against generally
received opinions. If you have the address (no easy mat-
ter I assure you) to put him on the defence of a known
truth, for such he must sometimes use, as an axiom, though
misapplied, to favour his fallacy; hold him to that truth,
attack it with all your might, harangue, turn it, and all he
says for it, into ridicule ; and you will quickly perceive the
man is out of his element ; baffled, thrown into confusion,
vexed, ashamed. The company will immediately second
you, and aid you with new arguments, at least with a laugh,
which in all such cases is decisive.

100. In matters of pleasure we love variety, for the fit
of pleasure is shorter than the appetite, which, though
sated with the enjoyment of one object, is quickly on the
look out for another. The case is otherwise in regard to
our condition of life, if we like it. In this respect, the pru-
dent wishes, not for a change, but moulds himself to the
state he is in, not so much endeavouring to accommodate
his circumstances to his wishes, as to settle himself to his
situation. True wisdom justifies him in this, only to a
certain length ; for what if his situation and circumstances
should be changed by Providence, accident, or an unex-
pected turn of affairs ? Then the round man will not fit the
square place, he is thrown into ; and ere he can well change
his figure, he may be dodged off to a new one, which shall
require a new cast and turn of mind. Resignation, there-
fore, rather than contentment, in regard to worldly things,
is precisely that point, to which we should labour to bring

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439

our minds. A man should not be perfectly content with
his condition, till it ceases to admit of changes. This is
to second the design of Providence, which sets every thing
here afloat, our passions, appetites, and affections within ;
and our affairs, without, that we may rest in nothing be-
low. These and the different stages of life, from childhood
to old age, perpetually vary the scene upon us, that we
may not attempt to stop upon a road, where we are to tra-
vel, not inhabit, till we come to that abiding place, pre-
pared for our everlasting residence, where there is perma-
nency of condition, and variety of pleasure, perfectly re-
conciled. If to this we shape ourselves by the model of
religion, we shall pass through the world, sometimes amused
with our fellow travellers on the road, or at the inn ; with
the rocks, rivers, towns, we see on either hand ; and not
greatly ruffled, if in some places the ways should be deep and
sloughy, or infested with robbers, who cannot take from us
any thing we highly value, nor stop our journey homeward.

101. Conscience is a perennial stream of pure water.
Bnild by this, and not by the torrent of appetite, so muddy
and so soon running out.

102. There is much of vanity in riches, honours, plea-
sures, power, and even in health and long life, for not one
of them, nor all of them together, can satisfy, or last for
any considerable time. But the vanity of vanities consists
in much learning. More wealth than we can use is super-
fluity and folly ; so too is more knowledge, which is but
the more ridiculous for wearing the garb of wisdom. After
all your researches into human science ; after all your ela-
borate disquisitions, subtle disputations, and travels to the
remoter verges of knowledge ; are you satisfied in every
point? Have you cleared up all your doubts? Are you no
longer liable to error ? Are you a much wiser, and better,
and happier man, than when you were a novice ? O yes,
say you, whatever I am yet ignorant of, I know more than
others. Wretched boast! If all are ignorant, who shall
value himself upon his knowledge ? Can you tell him how
you wink with your eye-lids, or set one foot before the other
in walking ? No. But you know more than many others.
Of what, pray? You do not know better how to make a
pair of shoes, than the shoemaker. In this very useful

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branch then, he knows more than you, or you might go
barefoot. I know one thing, which you do not know, and
which I would not exchange for all your learning, and it is
this, that you know nothing. Well, but you do not repent
of your labours, for you have made considerable advances
in those branches of science, whereby useful arts are in-
vented. Have you then found out the longitude ? Or can
you teach a good farmer to raise twice the quantity of wheat
from an acre of ground, than he is able to bring by his own
skill ? Or have you found out a better system of civil go-
vernment than the Spartan, or the English ? If you have,
publish your invention, that your age and country may-
glory in the production of so great a man. But you have
found out a new demonstration for the being of a God. We
had ten thousand before, to the full as convincing, and more
level to all capacities, than yours. You can prove the
beauty of virtue, and the deformity of vice. Why every
clown can prove that virtue is better than vice, and that a
man feels pleasure in doing good, and pain in doing bad
actions, if he is a good man. You can prove too, I sup-
pose, that the sun shines at mid-day. So can I, who never
studied the point. Here is a professed Atheist; and here
is one who says, he finds more beauty and pleasure in vice
than virtue ; and experimentally proves, he does so by a
most wicked course of life. Convert either of them, and
we shall allow, you have laid out fifty years on books, and
hard study, to some purpose. Socrates was the wisest
man in Greece, when Greece was at its highest improve-
ment in knowledge, and he declared, he had discovered but
one thing, namely, that he himself knew nothing ; a pinnacle
of knowledge which no other philosopher was able to climb
to. Have you turned your penetrating thoughts to the
mysteries of religion ? Yes, you say, to such points as are
called mysteries, and have found them to be no way mys-
tical. Then you are a fool, and it will require ten times as
much study to set your head to rights, as you have hitherto
employed to pervert it.

103. Query, whether we know least of ourselves or
others ? It would require a large volume to answer this. But
it is very easy to see, that every one pretends to know more
of others, than he really knows of himself.

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104. We ought not to take the characters of men from
single actions, even when they are very noble, or very enor-
mous, for if we should, the manner of Otho's death would
set him much higher in our esteem, than David, taken on
his conduct to Uriah. Yet such striking actions, as they
must proceed from an uncommon force of principle, or of
passion, may generally serve to shew the man more per-
fectly, than thousands of a lower nature, and approaching
nearer to indifference, where opinions or dispositions, less
characteristic, may have been the sole prompters. We
may know a lion by his paw, for it is large ; but lesser
beasts cannot be so easily distinguished by theirs, which
are nearly of a size, and of a figure, too minute to exhibit,
on a slight inspection, a very observable difference.

105. The fool hath said in his heart there is no God. I
believe no man ever said it in his head. But in some men
the heart is above the head, and yet viler parts above the
heart. This inversion of the man may produce a moral
madness, and that may end in somewhat, not far from
Atheism.

106. To be determined in our actions by prudence and
principles of true religion, and virtue, is to be virtuous. But
how few are so determined ? We generally act at all ad-
ventures, or as the fortuitous course of outward occurrences
direct or necessitate us ; and therefore how few among us
are either wise or good men ? That the world is not long
ago turned into a Bedlam, or a hell, is owing wholly to
the providence of God, which gives a certain degree of re-
gularity to accident, of wisdom to our folly, and of recti-
tude, at least, in the result, to our wickedness.

107. He who consults the present at the expense of
the future, should resolve not to exist, but for the present.
To layby for happiness is wisdom ; for misery, is madness.
To believe in the immortality of the soul, and yet to pro-
vide for future and endless misery, is that sort of madness
which must be confined in an infernal Bedlam.

108. In this world we are subject to perpetual changes,
whether stationary, or accidental. We are never in so fair
a way to be truly happy, as when we are to the lowest ebb
of worldly misfortune. Afflictions reform our minds, and
by making us incapable of pleasure, make us capable of hap-

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HYLEMA.

piness. Happiness here is always in motion as well as we,
and moves in a circle. He who pursues it by pleasure, riches,
fame, or power, seems ready every moment to seize it ; but
as he moves in the same direction, and with no greater speed,
he never overtakes it. He who sets out for it in sorrow and
trouble, as he leaves it just at his back, and moves the con-
trary way, seems to take a very preposterous course towards
his end ; yet if he perseveres, is almost sure to meet it some-
where in the circle. The good temper, the resignation, the
wisdom, but, above all the piety, of some, contract this to
a circle of very short diameter. The untoward dispositions
and impatience of others, so extend it, as to give it the ap-
pearance of a right line, especially to such as are too
short-sighted to see more of it at once, than a small seg-
ment ; but infidelity throws it off in a tangent. On the
other hand, we are never so near to misery, as when we are
at the very summit of temporal prosperity , either because
our ambition places our happiness in going still higher, and
we can go no higher, or because there is no standing at the
top of a wheel in motion ; the mark too of envy, revenge,
malice, perhaps even Providence, displeased at our pride.
The moon is never eclipsed, but at the full.

109. The Ptolemaic system was a piece of astrono-
mical vanity, whereby its author, and his followers, com-
plimented themselves, and this world, with the central, po-
sition in the universe, making the sun, moon, and stars, to
dance a regular attendance round a little ball of clay, for
no better reason, than their living on it, and seeing it under
a larger angle, than the celestial bodies, which were placed
at a vastly greater distance. The same vanity in every
man is apt to place him in an imaginary centre of business,
bustle, and importance, so that as the whole active world
seems to tend his way, and to move round him. He thinks
the spot he inhabits, howsoever remote and obscure it may
be, the place of the greatest consequence in the world, and
so it is indeed to him ; and as for other places, they only
share his respect, in proportion as they are situated nearer
to, or farther from, the centre of his pride, himself. Nature
herself helps our vanity to form this sentiment. The mind
measures the importance of things by the impressions they
make upon it. And they make impressions, greater or less,

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443

more faint or vivid, according to their distances. It is only
by the force of abstraction, that I find out the spot, I pass
my days in, to be one of the most obscure and unimport-
ant corners of the universe. But when this is not consulted,
my senses and imagination impose it on me for the very
hinge of all. What a pitiful figure does the great Mogul,
and the emperor of China, with their guards, armies, em-
pires, thrones, make in my eyes ! how dim their splendour !
how mean their magnificence ! how contracted their domi-
nions ! when compared in my imagination with what I see
about me here in the county of Tyrone ! with the power of
its magistrates ! the august assemblies at its sessions ! its
awful and important assizes ! the port and majesty of its
judges ! my map of this county is much larger, than my
map of the whole world, as being projected on a vastly
larger scale. I am tempted to think as the Savoyard did,
who hearing that the king of France was in great want of
money, wondered his Gallic majesty did not get himself
made secretary to the duke of Savoy. If the crown is so
much in debt, say I, why does it not apply to our grand
jury for a presentment ? Wherever we move, the orbicular
figure of the eye rounds the heavens, the earth, and the
whole prospect from all sides, into a circle, whereof each
of us is the centre, and wherein every thing is beheld, as
larger, or less, according to its nearer, or more distant posi-
tion. As we move from place to place, every thing is
forced to shiftits situation and appearance ; the woods, the
lakes, the cities, the valleys, the mountains, perpetually
varying their bearings ; rising and swelling into magnitude,
as they are promoted nearer to ourselves, and dwindling
again into almost nothing, as they retire in disgrace to-
wards the distant limits of the circle. The very heavens
rise above us, wherever we go, lest the heads of beings so
gigantic should disturb the stars. There is a sort of men-
tal orbicularity, analogous to this of the eye, which gathers
the affairs, as this does the prospects, of the world, into a
circle about us, and bestows a more or less important fi-
gure on each, as it is brought into a greater or less ap-
proximation to our own concerns.

Divide and govern is an old political maxim, of but

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precarious and temporary success. Divide and conquer
is better warrauted by experience.

110. One story is good, till another is heard, is a pro-
verb which satirizes the common practice of mankind, and
points to a very judicial rule, namely, to esteem one story
good for nothing, till another, or a contrary story shall be
heard.

111. Enough is as good as a feast, should be mended
into, enough is better than a feast.

112. To the proverb, Deal with all men as if they were
rogues, I would add, but converse with them, as if they
were honest men. A perfect knowledge of mankind would
remove all suspicion, by pointing out the man whom we
might safely trust, and him too, with whom we ought to
deal cautiously, and only on security. But a very imper-
fect degree of this knowledge exposes us, either to perpe-
tual quarrels, or to imposition, it is the fool who makes
the knave, in the same man, or in another. If you trust no
farther than you know, you will do the utmost in your
power to make your neighbours honest, who, as a conse-
quence to this prudent conduct of yours, will at length
find out the truth of that proverb, which far exceeds all
others, ever made by human wisdom, Honesty is the best
policy. It will be next to impossible for the experience of
the longest and busiest life (o put you beyond that saying
of Solomon, He that hateth suretiship is sure.

113. The Divine Being, as one simple uncompounded
essence, is eternal and immutable. Man is a compound
being, consisting of an intelligent soul, wherein there are
various faculties and powers; of an animal soul, wherein
there are various sensations, affections, passions, &c. and
of an organized and vegetative body, wherein is found a
great variety of elements and parts, assigned to different
uses. When he came from the hands of his Maker, all
these were so poised and adjusted as to constitute a work
worthy of infinite goodness, wisdom, and power. Hence re-
sulted the primeval virtue and happiness of man; and
hence the impossibility of dissolution during the conti-
nuance of a constitution, so well balanced. Hence, though
a compound being, he bore a resemblance of the simpli-

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445

city, goodness, and even eternity, through his immortality,
of God himself. - As soon as our enemy had made himself
acquainted with the nature of our composition, he made
his attack on our animal soul, and forcing in his temptation
among our passions and affections, he, as with a wedge,
made a breach between the intellectual and corporeal parts
of the compound, whence hath resulted that discordance,
that loss of balance, that struggle, between the higher and
lower constituents of our nature, which we call vice, and
that dissolution of the compound, which we call death. In
our present corrupted nature the several ingredients, where-
of we consist, are in a state of war among themselves, one
faculty of the mind impairing, and as it were devouring
another; this desire, or affection, or passion, clashing with
that; sense rebelling against reason, and reason labouring
to recover her original superiority ; the flesh raging against
the spirit, and the spirit contending for its natural sove-
reignty over the flesh. These differences are kept up by
the objects and drifts, which from without bear in conti-
nually on the respective faculties or affections, whereto
they are peculiarly adapted. Virtue, peace, and happiness,
can never be restored, till somewhat like the original sim-
plicity and equipoise can be recovered. To effect this,
some power must be called in, which may unite the reason
and passion of man in one view, affix them to one drift and
end, and so bind them together again, that the whole man
may act in concert. This power can be derived into our
nature from nothing but God and true religion. The infi-
nite only can subdue and correct the indefinite. The di-
vine inspection, with heaven and hell, strongly believed in,
and the aid of an Almighty Spirit, are necessary to this
purpose. These alone can make a man one with himself
and one with God. These alone can procure that retrieval,
which may be called the new creation of faith. Civil so-
ciety must always be such as are the individuals, of which
it is composed ; wise, potent, happy ; or foolish, impotent,
and miserable ; according to the correspondent qualities
of its members. If the members of civil society are prin-
cipled alike ; if they unanimously concentre their views in
the good of the society ; if they pursue one common end
and interest ; if they keep themselves within the bounds of

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HYLEMA.

their respective stations and departments in the adminis-
tration ; the body politic flourishes, enjoys a vigorous and
healthful constitution, peace at home, and strength abroad.
Every man acts with, and is defended by, the strength of
all the rest. But when the magistrates encroach on the li-
berty of the people ; or the people on the constitutional
prerogative and authority of the magistrates ; or when the
several constituent parts of the community, detaching
themselves from that sameness of interest, which should
unite and actuate the whole, to separate views and interests,
fall off into parties and factions, especially if into religious
sects at the same time ; the society must necessarily suffer
convulsions, proportionable to the virulence of the party
spirit; must, if no political cure can be in time provided,
run into confusion and distraction; must be soon either
wholly enslaved, or dissolved. What now is the cure ?
Nothing but true religion. Nothing can bring about a
reunion, but that which lifts the minds of mankind to a
coolness in worldly things, by attaching them strongly to
things of infinitely greater moment. A civil society, made
up entirely of true Christians, must be strong, happy, indis-
soluble. A man must be lost to common sense, who does
not see the neafly approaching ruin of our British empire,
pointed out in the foregoing reflections on sects and parties ;
and who does not perceive the death of his country in the
almost total extinction of religion among us.

114. If we see a man greatly admired by people much
above or below him, but persecuted by people of his own
rank or employment, we may safely take it for granted, he
is a man of genius, because he is an object of envy, which
either finds, or endeavours to make an equality, when it
cannot attain to a superiority. There is a detraction, which
is the highest applause ; and there is a species of praise,
which is infamy.

115. Every man is the centre of his own character, with
darkness near, and lustre at a distance, or vice versa. The
former is the case of good writers, who are envied by those
who know them, and admired by such as know only their
works. The reverse is the case of good men, who are es-
teemed by those who are near, and taste of their virtues,
but, at a considerable distance, pass but for men ; but then

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447

they must be too good, or too unfortunate, to be competi-
tors for wealth, honour, or power.

116. To convince the world of the good qualities of the
man you commend, you must demonstrate the truth of your
panegyric ; but your bare assertion will go for granted, if
you run any one down. Nay, an insinuation here will
do the whole work of ocular proof. In praise, what in-
credulity ! In detraction what faith ! Is this owing to our
opinion, that there is more vice than virtue in the world ?
Or to a fact, that there is more envy, than humanity among
mankind ? What odious wretches are they, who can think
as they please, and are always more disposed to think ill
than well of others ! Were this the property of human na-
ture, one would rather be a dog than a man.

117. Bless us ! what is all that noise about ? Whither ■
are these crowds running in such fury ? Who is it they call
madman, deceiver, wine-bibber, upstart ? O ! they have
caught him ! see how they buffet, spit on, scourge him ! Ah !
they nail him to a cross, and feast their eyes with his ago-
nies ! What hath he done ? What enormous villany hath he
been guilty of? Hath he committed a rape on his mother,
or murdered his father? His crime was this, he was the
only man who never did an ill action, who did all the good
in his power, who reprimanded the wicked, comforted the
disconsolate, instructed the ignorant, cured the sick, and
prolonged the life of the dying. He spake as never man
spake, and did as never man did. For this he suffers, for this
he dies, as a nuisance to mankind. What then are men ?

118. Vanity consists in a high opinion of one's self,
and an expectation of, and fondness for praise. This we
all agree in, but nevertheless cannot easily distinguish the
modest from the vain. You say, Flavius is, of all men,
the most modest and humble, an absolute stranger to
vanity. Why? Is it not because he is always of your opi-
nion ? But then, is he not always of mine too, even when
he hears us contradicting each other ? You hear him yes
all your arguments ; and do you not see him nod mine as
fast? To his acquaintances he seems to sacrifice all his
own opinions, those favourites, dearer to him than his wife
and children, than his altars and temples ; for he knows
they will not subscribe to his merit, if he does not subscribe

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HYLEMA.

to their judgment. He seldom ventures to assert any
thing ; and when he does, it is something he knows you
will dissent from. Whenever this happens to be the case,
you convert him in the twinkling of an argument. With
him you are the sheerest reasoner, and with you he is the
most judicious and agreeable man in the world. Do you
not observe, that he consults his own vanity by artfully
practising on yours? These sort of men, were of old called
assentators. A good meal was then their end. But this
man assents only, that you may assent in your turn. He
is the echo of all men, and the prostitute of your opinions
in particular, in hope of being paid by your good opinion
and applause. He trades in praise ; you say, on the fairest,
and I say, on the most profitable terms. You speak of
Eunomius as the most conceited of all living creatures,
because he is r/>ugh, blunt, and apt to be of an opinion
contrary to yours. At least with you, therefore, he does
not consult his vanity, for he knows you think and speak
of him, not only as a disagreeable, but as a very con-
temptible mortal. Take him in the worst light you can, all
you can say is, that he would rather be despised as a wor-
shipper of his own understanding, than purchase your good
liking at the expense of a seemingly disingenuous com-
pliance. But perhaps he contradicts you merely because
he will not servilely desert the truth. Reconsider his ar-
guments, examine yourself with candour, if you can, and
possibly you may find the vanity you rail at is lodged in
your own bosom. It is true, he will dispute with you as
long as you please, and only in this shews some vanity ;
but he will never begin a dispute with you ; nor manage
one begun by you, with vehemence or passion ; will take
no unfair advantages in the course of your debate ; will
shew no fondness to his own opinion, because it is his, nor
aversion to yours, merely as yours ; will give up, if you
convince him ; will do no violence to your vanity by ex-
acting a recantation, though he may have run you fairly
aground. No doctors, lords, or kings, neither learning, nor
numbers, can beat him from his judgment. He shall al-
low you to be a very wise man, without granting your as-
sertion to be therefore one hair the wiser. He will allow
you to be as great a lover of truth as ever beheld that

HYLEMA.

449

naked beauty, but he will by no means confess you see with
clearer eyes than all other men, when he perceives you are
speaking of a counterfeit beauty, all patch and paint. He
will recognise your title of a lord, but not of a lord in mat -
ters of opinion. This you call vanity in him, purely be-
cause he does not take you to be infallible, perhaps because
he can see no better proof of infallibility in you, than of
that which is pretended to by the pope. Were I to form
a judgment from the carriage of you both to each other, I
should conclude that the character of a knowing man is
much easier acquired by listening than talking ; that ad-
miration is purchased by admiring; and that the ear may
render better service to vanity than the tongue.

119. There is an itch of the mind, as well as of the
body, caught by contact with an infectious person. The
latter may soon be cured, though much spread, and deeply
rooted, by the application of a little sulphur ; but the
former, if inveterate, is not curable by all the sulphur of hell.

120. The attempt to know much more than is useful ge-
nerally ends in ignorance of that which is necessary.
Luxury in knowledge teaches us to loath those necessary,
simple, and obvious truths, whereon our hope of salvation
is founded, and creates in the mind a false appetite for ar-
tificial and far-fetched refinements, for the ccenadubia of
invention and conjecture. How wise is the foolishness of
God ! How foolish the wisdom of man ! It is a senseless
humour, but is that of all refiners in religion, to grope in
daylight, and to direct themselves by their own candle,
when the light of God, who is the sun of spirits, shines full
upon them.

121. In some men judgment and invention act apart.
These produce, and censure their own productions, just as
if there were two persons in each of them. Hence those
slow and difficult births, which disqualify these men for
conversation. In others, judgment and invention operate
together, and in the same act, strike out and finish a senti-
ment at once, sometimes so equally just and admirable,
that it looks like the effect of inspiration. This sort of
head, like a well-charged gun, gives fire and direction in
the same instant. This we call a happiness, as if the ef-
fect were the child of chance, because we ourselves cannot

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HVLEMA.

in the same moment, conceive, and elaborate, even a more
ordinary thought. Whence, we say, can such beautiful
and poignant fruit be produced in full maturity, without
budding or blooming ?

122. Man is not only a gregarious, but intended for a
social animal. Yet he can live well, neither in nor out of
societ}7. Had any individual of us been intended to live
wholly by himself, he must have been furnished with
wings, or at least much swifter feet, to escape from danger,
and to overtake his prey, and with teeth and fangs to master
it. Yet you no sooner introduce him to society, than he
discovers so much perversity, treachery, cruelty, that he ap-
pears almost equally unfitto give, or receive, assistance from
others. Man, therefore, is not as he was, when he came
from the hand of his Maker, for he is, after all, the highest,
and must have been intended for the happiest creature, in
this world, by that infinite wisdom and goodness to which
he owes his being. His present nature considered, he is
now in the state of a wild plant, which requires culture, as
much to make it useful as graceful. To give him this cul-
ture, he must by religion be replanted in the garden of God,
there fenced from noxious beasts, there sheltered from in-
clement weather, there nourished by a fruitful soil, and
there dressed to the form originally intended. I say dressed,
let Rousseau say what he will ; but observe, by dressed, I
mean not, that he should be transformed by impertinent
refinements, by fashions or customs of the world, by arts
and inventions, only qualified to obliterate his primitive
nature ; but rather re-dressed, as I said, to his true original,
natural form. The true religion, more authoritatively, than
Rousseau, forbids him to be conformed to this world ; but
it does not order him to run on all four, nor to depend on
his teeth and nails for food, and neither to give nor take
the aids of social life, as that paradoxical writer does.

123. It is almost natural for us to consider time, as some-
what, which moves towards us, and passes by us. We may
accelerate this motion by quickening our own, as they are
said to do, who live fast. Hope, fear, desire, make time
seem to move slowly, in proportion to their violence and
impatience. Once it passes, it seems to mend its pace.
We look back on forty years past, as on a day or week

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451

only, so soon does it vanish almost wholly out of sight.
We think the time past of little moment to us, and are at-
tentive to the present and future. But to make the present
useful, and to provide for the future, we should by reflec-
tion avail ourselves of the past ; otherwise we shall be al-
ways infants. The man of reflection and experience ar-
rests the progress of time, keeps it still present, and hav-
ing seized it by its hinder lock, knows better how to catch
it afterward by that which hangs from its front. Expe-
rience aided by a sound memory, is a lake with a larger in-
let than outlet, which, whenever it overflows, discovers the
fatness of the Nile, and the golden sand of the Pactolus,
which it receives and detains.

124. All our churches are unhappily situated close to
the cataracts of the river Nile.

125. The mind of a Christian is a barometer, in which
affliction, pressing on our affections, where they are ex-
posed to it, forces them upward, contrary to their natural
heaviness, in that part, where they are defended from out-
ward pressure.

126. If you and I examine a point by reason, how comes
it about, that we differ in our judgment? Surely, because
we give the same name of reason, to two different things,
your reason, and my reason. Which of us hath the true
and right reason? I say, it is with me. You say, it is with
you. It is however certain, it cannot be with both.
Perhaps it is with neither. Is there then no such thing
as right reason ? Another may have it, though we have
it not. But how shall we find out who hath it? how
distinguish between right and wrong reason? There the
criterion is as difficult, as the thing to be known by it ; nay,
it is the same thing, for nothing but right reason can tell
us what is right reason. The opinion of every man is,
that his own reason is right reason. As to the act of rea-
soning, there are rules whereby men judge, whether in this
or that instance, the reasoning is right. But the difficulty
still recurs, for nothing but right reasoning can make a right
application of these rules, in order to find out whether the
reasoning is right or not. I know no other way out of this
circle, but that of never applying our reason to things above
it, and always confining the use of it to such points as God

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hath made very plain, either by nature or revelation. When
we attempt to carry our reasonings farther, we put from the
shore of certainty, and ought never to sail so far, as to lose
sight of it, till we know much better, than we do at present
how to navigate the wide ocean of opinion.

127. History makes us some amends for the shortness
of life. We can now be acquainted with as many persons,
and interest ourselves in as many transactions, in short,
know as much in a life of sixty, as an Antediluvian in one
of nine hundred years. We can live a whole generation in
a day, a century in a week ; we can live the world over again
in a year. There was little other knowledge but religion
in the first ages of the world ; but what they had was clear.
The Antediluvians drank from the fountain of nature, and
revelation ; but we from a river, greatly swelled by the in-
flux of innumerable streams, mixed with mud, and so in-
fested with crocodiles, that there is some danger in staying
to take a large draught. Besides, if the first men might
have wanted what was sufficient to slake their thirst, we
run the risk of being drowned. That infidel said well,
who speaking of his own age, the last century, called him-
self and his cotemporaries the ancients, that is, the old age
of the world, in comparison with men of old, whom he
spoke of as children in regard to knowledge. What think
you, would he say, were he now on earth, and acquainted
with the present state of religious and political controver-
sies. Might he not call these times the dotage of the world?

128. Nothing can be so fantastical and senseless as the
satisfaction hoped for in wealth and grandeur. All who
are possessed of them, suffer infinitely either in the acqui-
sition or expenditure, or bothi But the lower part of the
world see not this suffering, but admire the outward parade
and trappings, with which the miseries of the great are
gilded. They do not know, that one used to pomp and
show, to magnificent houses, apparel, tables, attendance,
finds little or no pleasure in them ; and yet is torn by out-
rageous passions, and subject to such anxieties, such dis-
tempers, terrors, as are never felt, cannot indeed, for want
of effeminacy, be felt in low life. I could never conceive
any other delight accruing to the great from riches and
splendour, but that which they take in the stupid admira-

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453

tion of the vulgar, paid to pomp and show. Now this de-
light is the delight of a madman laced with paper and
crowned with straw. The great man compliments himself
and plumes his vanity with the shout of a mob, who cry out
as he flaunts by, See how fine he is ! What a rattle his coach
makes! How his party-coloured, ruffled, ribanded serv-
ants prance before and behind. O he is a very great man !
Off with your hats. Bow, and clear the way. O dear ! O
dear! A great man! A great man! and twice as fine as our
squire ! This incense he receives from the little mob, and
is proud of it. That which he receives from the mob of
greater people is exactly of the same kind, paid to the
same flourish, and only zested a little by the envy of such
as are outshone in the same attack on admiration.

129. Among all the objections made by infidels to the
holy Scriptures and the religious system contained therein,
not one hath shewn so great folly, nor so malicious an en-
deavour to carp at his credit, as this, that there are no in-
stances of friendship in those Scriptures, nor provision for
its encouragement and regulation in the gospel morality.
The fact in the first part of this goodly cavil hath been re-
futed by the instance of David and Jonathan. As to the
latter part, it was not the intention of our blessed Saviour
to encourage a detached affection between two persons ex-
cepting in the case of matrimony, where nature and neces-
sity lead to it ; but to establish in the heart of every man
a love for all mankind. His intention was to make up one
great society of all his followers, calculated for mutual aid
and comfort in this life, and for a union with the host of
heaven in the next. Of this society which he calls a body,
he himself is the head, and love the band; a love so ardent,
as to produce in him, whom it warms, a readiness to lay
down his life for the brethren. If we are all one body,
and every one of us in particular, a member of that
body ; and if we are all brethren in Christ, and in the
family of God, who is our Father, what need of greater
love ? What need of a closer tie ? Or, is it possible there
can be a closer ? Or were it possible, is it fit? Can we
have a stronger attachment to any being, than to Christ,
who hath laid down his life for us? And is not Christ in
all the members of his body ? Does he not expressly say

454

HYLEMA.

the poor Christian is he himself? ' Inasmuch as ye did it
to one of these, ye did it to me.' Would these infidels re-
duce us again to that sort of friendship, which both before,
and in our Saviour's time, had been attended with the most
horrible consequences? How loud would have been the
cry of infidels against his religion, had he but seemed to
open a door for such friendships, as they were then called ?

Was it because the Christian covenant or vow does not
make brethren of us all ; does not oblige us to every act of
kindness towards all men, particularly towards all our fel-
low-members in Christ Jesus ; does not prompt us to mu-
tual and universal love by motives sufficiently inducing ;
does not form us into a society of any importance to our
happiness, nor give that society such a head, or such laws,
ordinances, and constitutions, as are able to govern it
wisely, and establish it firmly ; that numbers of men (for
women are excluded) associate for mutual aid and comfort,
in the freemason club ? Can they anew bind themselves
by repeated oaths to the same brotherly beneficence, alrea-
dy provided by the Christian vow, without disowning that
vow as obligatory ? Or have they found out some new ends
of thus uniting, forgotten by the gospel, which are of mo-
ment enough to justify the use of three or four other vows,
not a little prolix ? Or do they think themselves at liberty
to prostitute the solemnity of a vow to matters of small
importance, or to abuse it by an application to matters not
foreign only, but inconsistent with the matter of their prior
vow ratified in baptism ? Are these vows justifiably ap-
plied to a secrecy in things too nugatory to be published,
or in things, which if published, might be of use to all man-
kind ? What sort of utility is it, that women, one half of
the species, must not share in ; or that all other men, but
the initiated, must be forbidden to partake of? Have
these brothers bespoke a building (for they speak of them-
selves as builders and architects) in heaven, accommodated
to the assemblage of a lodge, when the host of heaven may
be excluded, and the eye of God shut out ? How shall
they manage in eternal daylight, to whose assemblies night
and darkness are made absolutely necessary ? There are
no nocturnal doings in the kingdom of Christ who is the
light, whether we consider that kingdom as commencing in

HYLEMA.

455

this life or perfected in the next. Christ, our head and re-
presentative, loved all men, died for all men, and prescribed
his spirit of love and charity as the distinguishing sign and
characteristic of his followers, towards all men, not in this
or that particular act of beneficence, but in all acts of be-
neficence, in every proof or fruit of a kind heart towards
every image of God. We cannot be members of his body,
if not governed by the mind of him our head. But they are
not governed by the mind or will of this head, who bound
their charity, and appropriate it to a select number, espe-
cially by a vow, in any degree warmer or stronger, than to
the other members of Christ, who stand equally in need of
their assistance. This narrow-hearted detachment of love
forms a most unsightly wen on the body of Christ, or rather
an unnatural extravasation of its vital blood and spirit on its
very heart. Long before the present king of Prussia abo-
lished freemasonry out of his dominions, I thought it an as-
sociation detrimental, and on some conjectures, dangerous
to civil government. It sets up imperium in imperio. It
is a solemn league and covenant under the sanction of
more oaths than one, whereby a numerous and formidable
body of men are bound together for ends and purposes —
What ends and purposes ? It seems these are not to be
known, or but in part. Why not wholly ? So far as they
are known, they are either nugatory or derogatory to true
religion, which is the sole basis of civil society. However,
it can hardly be supposed that so many persons some of
them otherwise of good understanding, should be so so-
lemnly sworn together and governed by a grand lodge in
the capital, for nothing than mere puerilities, or ends much
better already provided for by the church of Christ and the
laws of our country. Let the state look to it. For my
own part, I have frequently known this benevolent frater-
nity get drunk after the wise business of the lodge was over,
commit horrible outrages on one another, and still more
frequently join in acts of enormous villany, oppression, and
cruelty against the non-initiated. Nay I have seen a free-
mason culprit, with the cast of a sign or two, turn the judge
and jury from the due course of law and justice, directly
against the clearest evidence, and against the dictates of
their own consciences, if they had any consciences but

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HYLESIA.

those of freemasons. This is no news to the public.
Thousands can join me in this report, and would as openly
make it, as I do, were they not terrified with the thoughts
of irritating so large a body of men. Blessed be God, I am
not, and do say these things from motives of piety and
humanity, hoping for protection from my Master, or willing
to suffer in his cause ; and not without reason to believe,
that the worthy nobility and gentry, thus unfortunately as-
sociated by curiosity at first, and now by oaths, which
perhaps it is sinful to keep, may on these remonstrances,
either quit the fraternity, or suffer it no longer to be ex-
tended to the illiberal and barbarous part of mankind, at
random.

130. Some men exhaust their understandings on a mul-
tiplicity of trifles, and are much at a loss in matters of mo-
ment. A man at sea in a storm, sensible that he is soon
to perish, with all on board, is little or not at all concerned
about the cash or goods he may have embarked. Yet this
man, should he escape, shall be more anxious, when at
land, about his worldly substance, than about his present
and future happiness, which consists not in the abundance
of the things he possesses, purely because he now thinks he
may live awhile longer here, and almost forgets that eter-
nity and heaven, to which life and riches bear no propor-
tion, are before him. This man hath lost his senses, and
knows not that men die at land as well as at sea, and that
he himself shall die in a moment, for the longest life is but
a moment, or less than a momeut, to eternity. Ere he can
recover the use of his reason he must be again on ship-
board in a storm.

131. How came it to pass, saith the infidel, that, if
Christ wrought so many miracles openly in (lie sit(ht of mul-
titudes, all mankind did not flock in to him ? So many evi-
dent proofs of a divine power, especially shewn in healing
the sick, raising the dead, and other acts as demonstrative
of infinite goodness, seem irresistible. Christ himself com-
plains of the Jews for their unbelief under these causes of
conviction ; and even believers are surprised at it. The in-
fidel does not put this question because he is sure he would
have believed, had he seen all the miracles, but to insinuate
an improbability that any miracles were really wrought.

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457

But this man should know, that it is one thing to astonish,
and another to convince ; one thing to convince a mind
under no contrary biasses, and another to convince when
such are strongly rooted ; one thing to convince the judg-
ment, and quite another to convert the heart. He does not
at all conceive how the heart can possibly be concerned in
conviction or faith, though his own heart hath ten thousand
times prevailed with him to act against his convictions;
that his head and heart are closely connected by his natural
make ; and that he never acts with vigour, on mere convic-
tion, when it is not seconded by the warmth of his affec-
tions or passions. How many people are there, who, in
matters of curiosity and wonder, stop at that which asto-
nishes, and make none, or very slight reflections on the
causes or end of that which strikes them with surprise I
But is this infidel sure, had he seen the miracles of Christ,
and been commanded, as a proof of his faith, to forsake his
riches, to abdicate his ambitious views, to renounce his
sensual pleasures, to mortify all his fleshly desires, to take
up his cross, and to follow Christ through persecution and
death ; is he sure, I say, that he would have believed with
all his heart, as well as with all his understanding ? It is
very plain he would not, for, at this day, there is more than
sufficient cause of conviction offered to him, in the unan-
swerable proofs, that the miracles were actually wrought,
that a cloud of prophecies, delivered long before, were ac-
tually fulfilled in Christ, and that a number of prophecies,
published by Christ and his apostles, are, every day, ful-
filled before our eyes in these latter times. Yet he is still
an infidel; and why? but because repentance and virtue,
and a course of life wholly contrary to his habitual desires,
wishes, schemes, is the necessary consequence of believing
in Christ. He is at law, and we will suppose, for it is pos-
sible enough, hath a bad cause ; yet no force of reason, so
strong is the bias of interest, can give him the least room
to doubt its soundness. Or he is furiously enraged against
his neighbour upon a groundless apprehension of injury,
yet, till he cools, the united reasonings of all mankind, even
of his w ife or brother, who, to his knowledge, most tenderly
love him, cannot in the least satisfy him that he wrongs his
neighbour, or even that he is too warm in loading him with

458

HYLEMA.

reflections or reproaches of the bitterest kind, and calling
him out to a duel. This man nevertheless thinks he knows
himself, knows he would have been a thorough Christian,
had he seen the miracles of Christ; and so, on this supposed
knowledge he is persuaded, or believes (for he can but be-
lieve) that no such miracles were ever performed. Take
him in regard to faith, and he is all head. Take him in re-
gard to the affairs of life, to his lawsuit and his quarrel,
and he is all heart. Do not too readily credit him as to the
first ; credit your own eyes as to the second. Our Saviour
had to do with a great majority of men, thus rationally
open, and thus passionately shut to conviction. A rich
young man, struck with his miracles, and the wisdom of his
preaching, became his declared disciple, but as soon as he
talked of self-denial, of voluntary poverty, and of taking up
a cross to follow him, the young gentleman quickly per-
ceived that he wrought no miracles, and that his doctrines
were not worth a farthing. Of the very same stamp were
the thousands of loaf disciples, who could even fatten on
miracles, which however could circulate no nourishment
to their heads. The miracles operated with great force on
the understandings of many beholders, on whose hearts
ease, wealth, and pleasure, operated with still more. The
sight of a man, whose heart goes foremost, and whose head
follows, is very common, is no miracle, nor even a pheno-
menon. At a dead pinch between head and heart, many
who saw the miracles, ascribed them to the devil. Our
modern in6del laughs at this, the devil having taken care
never to appear to him, but in the shape of gold, a bottle,
or a wench, no frightful things to him. Christ's chosen
apostles followed him at first, rather because they hoped
. would restore the kingdom toIsrael,than in obedience to
hie highest conviction ; and one of them, contrary to it, sold
him for thirty small pieces of silver. Judas was not, could
not be, an infidel ; but his heart was uppermost. It is the
predominancy of the heart, that defends some men from the
faith, and makes others who embrace it, act against it. Had
it been the scheme of Christ to raise the Jews to universal
monarchy, and in order to it, had he but destroyed with a
word, two or three thousand Romans, for a sample of his
power, it is to me a clear point, that every Jew would have

11YLEMA.

459

followed him through blood, slaughter, and rapine, to the
lordship over the world, which they at that time modestly
expected.

132. The eyes, were once on a time, indicted, in foro
conscienti(B, for invading the province of the ears, and it
was fully proved, that, contrary to their allegiance to rea-
son, they had pronounced the singing of Ceelia to be most
musical and ravishing, though the jury of musicians, with
Sappho at their head, had singly condemned her voice to be
no better, than that of a screech-owl, and her ear and man-
ner as abominable as those of a peacock. A peacock ! said
the eyes, in their defence, was ever bird so musical ? Surely
one feather in his tail, is sufficient to shew, that, of all birds,
he is most harmonious. Gentlemen of the jury, look at this
feather ; did you ever see any thing so beautiful, Ccelia's
eyes only excepted? Look at her eyes, and say, does she
not sing with more harmony and sweetness, than all the Be-
nedittos and Senecinis, that ever you saw ? How seraphic!
You are not blind, for I see you extract your music from
your books. Look again at her eyes, and give your verdict.
They looked, and all but Sappho brought her in the most ra-
vishing singer they had ever — heard — seen, you mean, said
the counsellor for the ears.

133. Nothing so fully shews the great pliancy of human
nature, as the prodigious difference between people of dif-
ferent ages and countries. Variety of education, example,
condition, religion, and diversity of sex, separate us almost
into a variety of species. My imagination hath several
times brought the patriarch Abraham, and one of our finest
court ladies together, each dressed in their respective mode
and manner of appearing in public. To help me out, I have
supposed the patriarch perfectly well acquainted with the
English language. I have seen them take each other for
animals of little or no analogy, in the nature of things, as
monsters in the creation ; and, on speaking articulately, as
somewhat supernatural. I have even heard them attempt
a dialogue in words well understood by both, but ending in
a total ignorance, on each side, of all that was said by the
other party. I have heard him speak in plain English, of
religious faith, whereof she did not comprehend a tittle, and
he as little of her discourse about fashions, reputations, and

460

HYLEMA.

public diversions. I remember her extreme curiosity led
her to ask him, if he had been at the last masquerade. On
his saying he knew not what she meant by a masquerade,
she gave him a description of it. He gaped, stroaked his
beard, and said, he believed nature was banished out of the
world. To this she replied, that nobody could follow nature
more closely than she did in private, but tbat nature was
downright nonsense in public.

134. There is this difference generally made by educa-
tion between the mind of a man, and of a woman, that his
resembles a wide prospect diversified with woods, rocks,
mountains, interspersed with thorns and brambles ; hers a
pleasure garden, neatly inclosed, of but small extent, and
set off with plants, rather pretty than profitable, such as
flowers of the most beautiful and fragrant kinds, but some-
times poisonous.

135. He must be unhappy who lives without a scheme.
His whole life is out of joint, and every part, of it deprived
of that aid, which might be drawn from any, or all the rest.
The want of reflection cuts off every thing done by expe-
rience in others, and the want of forecast prevents all pro-
vision for the future. His past life hath done nothing for
the present, nor is the present doing any thing for that which
is to succeed. In writings, as here in these detached thoughts
of mine, a want of connexion reduces every thing to its
own intrinsic weight, and deprives it of all the force and
beauty which it might have derived from a judicious ar-
rangement. Here, however, a candid reader will find some-
thing for his use or entertainment, and will excuse me rea-
dily for not detaining him longer, than while he can run off
a single paragraph. But in the course of a man's life, nei-
ther fortune, nor other men, with whom he hath to do, will
tolerate the random of actions purely extempore, where
premeditation and prudence on his part, might have put it
in the power of his neighbours to take their measures in con-
cert with him, which is equally necessary to his happiness,
and that of all, with whom he may be concerned.

' 136. A character, once established, of great talents for
conversation, particularly of wit, humour, and elocution,
gives its possessor a sway in company, like that of a prince,
whose power is become formidable to his neighbours,

HYLEMA.

461

whose ambassadors prevail ere they speak, and whose troops
conquer, before they arrive. So he, who hath infused a ge-
neral opinion of his wit, may keep up that opinion with in-
finitely less cleverness than was necessary to raise it. That
which would not be taken notice of, or perhaps contemned,
in another, is applauded in him. In arguments he hath
the assent, and in raillery the laugh, of every companion ;
the sheer thing he is going to say, does not less entertain
them, than it tickles him, in coming up. Hence his inso-
lence, impatience of contradiction, and merciless animad-
versions. Like a prince, who from the darling of his peo-
ple becomes their tyrant, this despotic talker, regardless of
age and sex, friends and foes, truth and error, reigns the
terror and pest of his admirers.

137. Personalities are as apt to be hereditary as fortunes,
and sometimes adhere longer to a family. That engaging
smile, that curling of the cheek, and those innumerable ma-
noeuvres of her eyes, in approbation, dislike, surprise, en-
couragement, &c. which have enabled Victoria to make
such havoc, were given by her mamma, as a family treasure,
with a charge to train her daughters to them, as soon as
their features should become docile, and with an assurance,
that this art of looking pretty, had come down to her through
many generations, having been first found out, in the reign
of Edward the Third, and copied from Alice Pierce ; that as
it was handed down only by oral tradition, it had undergone
many alterations, sometimes improved, sometimes impaired,
as long or round faces, large or little eyes, lank or plump
cheeks, were in fashion at court; that however it had done
remarkable execution in every reign since its first invention ;
that particularly in the reign of Henry the Eighth, the copy
of it, taken in an interview of but half an hour, had divorced
queen Catharine, set all the universities in Europe a wrang-
ling, and destroyed the Papal supremacy in England ; that
Charles the Second had felt the effects of it in her great
grandmother, after she had been seven years married ; that
her grandmother, though with a complexion, unhappily em-
browned by a mixture of the royal blood, had been more
absolute on the strength of it, than king William, during the
latter part of his reign ; that her mother though a brunette

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HYLEMA.

too, and with a very irregular set of features, had been kept
in play by it, till near the death of George the First, and that
she herself, having been blessed with a brilliant pair of eyes,
an oval face, and a skin transparently white and silky, had
so improved the art, as to ascribe more to it than to her
natural advantages, in the immense conquests she had made
during a space of five and twenty years, and yet hoped to
make, though on the borders of fifty-six.

138. In climbing the ladder of ambition it is an advan-
tage in most cases, to go up gradually. There are few na-
tural slaters whose heads do not grow giddy on a very sud-
den exaltation.

139. In our make imagination was intended to be the
handmaid of reason, to entertain and dress her, but this
servant grown too bold and free, will needs advise and dic-
tate to her mistress, will set her off in frippery and extra-
vagance, more like a courtezan than a matron. Indeed the
lady herself, for one so old, and of so grave a character, is too
fond of shew and fashion. Hence numberless errors in
her conduct, and hence that vulgarity of mien derived from
the low taste of a servant, instead of that majesty which
suits the dignity of a queen.

140. Wit may be uttered by the eyes, face, and hands,
as well as by the tongue. But either may give expression
to false wit, or rather to folly, taken by silly people for the
true. Puns, anagrams, conundrums, find their way through
the tongue and pen; monkey tricks, grimace, and a vast
manufacture of bagatelles, through the face and hands.

The dramatic has this advantage over all other kinds
of poetry, that in dealing with the eyes as well as writh in-
ternal feelings, it approaches nearer to truth and nature.
It actually exposes to view what the other kinds only de-
scribe or relate. Tragedy is a representation of high life,
and of the distress and terror, incident thereto ; comedy, of
low life, and of the festivity and gaiety, often enjoyed by a
rank of people, whom fortune does not think it worth her
while to plague. If you would rather be a subject for
comedy than tragedy, be not ambitious.

141. A fool as such, cannot, and a bad man, as such,
ought not, to be served. Throw not away your favours on

HYLEMA.

4G3

wretches incapable of enjoying, and even of receiving them
as long as others may be found, who can do both, and
thank you for them too.

142. If you destroy a book by answering it, you saw
on0 the branch, on which you sit.

143. Pleasure and pain, prosperity, and adversity,
contend with, and yet exalt each other. How is plea-
sure enhanced by being enjoyed alter pain 1 How is
pain aggravated by being suffered after pleasure ? How
much happier is the rich who was once poor ? How much
more miserable the poor, who was once rich, than such as
was always so ? Yet these are so widely opposite that one
man frequently hazards his life to arrive at that condition,
which another kills himself to get rid 'of. How absolute is
the tyranny of opinion ?

144. We do not swell on the applause, nor sink on the
censure, of a madman or fool, purely because he cannot
judge either of persons, or actions. Why then do we rise or
fall in our own scales, on the opinion of those who know us
not, though they could judge, if they did ? Why, others
may think, they know us, since they hear them applaud or
blame us. And is it true then, that self-adulation or self-
contempt, can build on the ignorance of others ? Is not this
the same with being elated or dejected, on the opinion of a
madman. There is no one who would not infinitely resent
his being so grossly imposed upon by others, as he is by
himself. If you are conscious to yourself of real worth,
why are you cast down at the poisonous censures of such,
as do not, cannot know you? If you know yourself to be
a scoundrel, how can you think of soaring, like a bubble,
on the stinking breath of ill-founded praise, dictated by sel-
fish views in your encomiast, and ventured in your face,
upon a thorough persuasion, that you are a blockhead ? of
praise worse than ironical ?

145. As few heads can bear books, as wine. Many
women would be sooner intoxicated with reading, than
brandy.

146". Why do men laugh seldomer than children, and
wise men than fools ? good sense and experience makes us
too nice to be pleased with every trifle. Wisdom is not
therefore intelligible, because, in proportion as it sets us

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HYLEMA.

above little ludicrous pleasures, it ensures to us those that
are more solid and satisfactory.

147. He is a most impudent blockhead, who rails at
others, for the faults he is guilty of himself. But he some-
times does it to shut their mouths, or divert their attention
from such a life, as cannot bear inspection. A most pre-
posterous method ! but it now and then succeeds. Like the
light of the sun on the mirror of a reflecting telescope, he
sets those spots to view in others which he conceals in him-
self; or if he owns them, takes pains to impute them too,
like the fool who content to wear his cap, would often
clap it on the head of another.

148. A hypocrite is as ostentatious in the display of
his actions, as he is careful to conceal his motives. Like
the tree in Virgil, which exalts its head as high towards
heaven, as it strikes its root downward towards hell.

149. The peevish man punishes himself for the faults,
as well imaginary, as real, of others ; and because his
neighbour hath done him an injury, writes a note to him to
desire he would come and kill him. This is intended for
revenge ; but death and the demon of false honour, grin at
it, as the most ridiculous thing a fool can possibly be
tempted to.

150. The link-boy stumbles through the dirt, and gives
his light and the even part of the street to the person who
pays him. Some of these link-boys go in gowns.

151. A man's actions are his monument; those of the
truly great give him a mausoleum ; those of the little, who
can go no farther, than to a parcel of insignificant singula-
rities, afford them only a flat stone with a curt and quaint
epitaph.

152. Is it not a little odd, that the most plain and ob~
vious things in nature, should still be unsettled, even
among the knowing part of mankind. It is not yet agreed
among people who live within seven miles of one another,
when day and night begin. No almanac-maker nor natu-
ral philosopher, nor astronomer, can settle it. Just where
I am, the farmer living next to me, begins his day, at four
in the morning. I go eastward, and find the citizen begins
his, at six, which is two degrees of longitude to the west-
ward ; I go still eastward, but about fifteen feet, and,

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465

perceive his wife begins her day at eight, two degrees more
to the westward. I go half a mile more to the eastward
still, and find the court lady and rake beginning their day
at twelve, four degrees more to the westward still, though
I am sure I have moved forwards to the east. This is
enough to distract all astronomical observation, and pre-
vent the possibility of discovering the longitude, at least a
common longitude, unless we can agree that the city of
London, commonly, but, it seems erroneously, fixed for the
first degree of longitude, is eight degrees of longitude dis-
tant from itself.

153. All things appear to us very much according to
the frame of our own mind, and the sensations we are dis-
posed to feel of this or that object. To the sullen, all man-
kind appear dark and ill-humoured ; to the selfish, narrow-
hearted ; to the subtle, designing. The resentful see indig-
nation ; and the jealous, suspicion in every body. How
unhappy is he, who makes so bad a world for himself! On
the other hand, the honest, the benevolent, the generous,
for the most part, meet with themselves in others, and see
a thousand good qualities even in villains. Be good and
you shall have a good world to live in, I mean on a footing
more solid, than your mere opinion ; for people usually suit
themselves to those they converse or deal with, and treat
as they expect to be treated. We know not how to be ci-
vil to the sullen ; and he who stands on all the nice puncti-
lios of honour with a known scoundrel, is an honourable
man indeed. Again, an ingenuous and kind disposition
excites an occasional honesty and good-will from persons
apt to be knavish and cruel to creatures of their own stamp.
The world is, or (which amounts to somewhat like it in ef-
fect) seems to be, good to the good, and bad to the wicked.
The same may be said, in regard to happiness and misery.
What a beautiful, what a happy scene of things does this
life appear to the happy ! but how full of tombs and tears,
to the miserable ! What a gay world to the young! how de-
cayed and degenerate to the aged ! The women grow uglier
and the stones harder, as we advance in years.

154. You seem conceited, not so much for thinking too
highly of yourself, as for not thinking highly of others. That
is, as highly as they think of themselves.

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HYLEMA.

155. In giving advice, every man points out his own
road to that which he takes for happiness, though he knows
you take it to consist in somewhat else. Yet he might as
well talk to you continually of a good ear for music, if he
were to teach you the art of painting. The man of this
world will give you abundance of sage advice, how to ma-
nage your affairs, how to cultivate an interest with the
great ones, how to carry your lawsuit, &c. Yet, all this
time, he hath reason enough to believe, on the strength of
your repeated declarations, that you mean not to be a man
of this world, but rather to provide for your happiness in a
better. It is plain by his manner of advising, that he does
not give credit to your declarations, or that he knows not
how to speak on any but worldly matters, or that he thinks
nothing else worth speaking of.

156. Singularity is always regarded as whimsical, and
therefore when the generality of mankind are silly, capri-
cious, or whimsical, the epithet of whimsical, is always
given to the wise man. Hence it was, that many said that
Christ was beside himself. A drunken man is the most
apt to think others drunk, and a madman to call others
mad. If the Scriptures are the word of God, and if with
God there are infinite wisdom and truth, it will follow that
the bulk of mankind are beside themselves, as is evident by
their going two different ways at once, going to riches, ho-
nours, or pleasures, without end, by inclination choice and
labour, while they are going to death, in a very few years,
by natural necessity.

157. When I first set out in the world, I imagined, it
would be sufficient, in order to keep well with all, to say
ill of none. But I had travelled but a very little way, when
I perceived that if I did not speak as well of others, as they
thought of themselves, which, to say the truth, was no easy
matter, I was not to hope for much of their good liking, or
good will. Finding matters in this posture, I was willing
to barter a little commendatiou with my acquaintances, in
expectation of a return in kind from them, and only on the
square of trade. Here I was again mistaken. They va-
lued what I said at so low, and what they said themselves
at so high a rate, that it was plain I must pay applause
for approbation, and invoke Apollo and the nine muses,

HYLEMA.

467

without omitting a single nymph, must call for the trumpet
of fame, and for a hundred iron tongues, to sound his
praises about, who thought it enough to say, I was no fool,
and less he could not say for his own sake. Well, per-
ceiving how things went, I cried every body up to the
stars, and had a hundred men, every one of whom was ab-
solutely the wisest, the bravest, the best man alive, and as
many beauties, every one of whom was the loveliest girl of
the age. This did purely for a while, and I got a great
character, by giving enormous ones ; the character of a
judicious person, who, of all men, knew best how to do
justice to merit. This, however, did not last long. Each
hero found out, I made heroes of all, whereas praise with-
out preference, or universal preference, is not praise. By
this time I found out, that I was not to hope for the good
word of every one, and therefore began to drive a closer
kind of traffic. I singled out a few, and made each of them
an object of admiration to myself, and a subject of pane-
gyric to others, for some particular excellence, taking care
never to ascribe the same to more than one. By this ex-
pedient I kept my characters, distinct and separate, with-
out suffering my Caesar to break in upon my Socrates ; nor
my Cicero, though too eager for it, to interfere with my
Homer. I throve pretty well on this narrow way of deal-
ing ; for as these few were my only worthies, so I was their
only judge of men and actions, I mean, for some time. It
was not long ere my heroes, dissatisfied with their own
praises, drew as largely on me for satire and ridicule, in
regard to others. This would not be content to be made
a demi-god, unless I made another a toad. One could not
enjoy the saintship I had given him, if I did not brand
another for a devil. Had I attempted this, I should have
made many bitter enemies, for one cool friend. On my re-
fusal therefore, I was cashiered as a panegyrist, because I
would not be employed as a satirist, and considered after-
ward, as no judge of merit, because I seemed blind to its
opposite.

158. Were you to converse with Gelon and Xanthus,
you would imagine, they had passed their lives in two wide-
ly different worlds. Gelon, as an officer in the army, hath
been quartered in a thousand different places, and was the
2 H 2

4G8

HYLEMA.

delight of every place he came to, as a man of good sense
and of an easy and cheerful turn. He hath met with no-
thing but civility and kindness from mankind, for he knows
how to be properly civil and kind to every one. Mankind
in his report, are but a little lower than angels. On the
contrary, Xanthus is ever telling you stories of the bruta-
lity of one, and the treachery of another, and the extreme
severity of a third, all exercised on himself. In his ac-
count, men are but a little higher than devils. But then
Xanthus is sour, suspicious, and disobliging. Which of
these two are we to believe? Both, as to facts. Gelon
makes friends by being a friend ; Xanthus, enemies by
being an enemy. From a redundancy of good nature, Gelon
thinks he hath been better treated, than he was, and Xan-
thus, from an excess of the opposite quality, magnifies the
ill usage he hath received. It is true, mankind should deal
by others, as they wish others to deal by them. If they are
not so just, they at least generally follow a maxim which
is the counterfeit of this, namely, to do as they are done by.
A very few do good, without a view to returns, and even
do good for evil. The rest of mankind trade in good or
bad offices, in the former receiving less, and in the latter
more than value. But they can do no better.

159. If time, according to the definition of philosophers
and astronomers, is that portion of duration, which is bound-
ed and distinguished by the revolutions of the earth and the
other planets, I am not much concerned in it. The other
idea of it, as boundea Dy tne womb aud grave comes nearer
to my purpose. This era, setting out with my birth is dis-
tinguished into several smaller portions by the revolutions
which my mind and body undergo in the different stages of
life. Changes of place or condition, with every disorder
or recovery, every event, whether to or against my wish,
every fall from, or rise to virtue, subdivide these again into'
more particular epochas. Here I have periods of my own,
for a system of chronology wherein I am greatly interested.
I am not equally beholding to the sun and moon, to the
Olympiads, the Julian or Gregorian calendars, for marking
out a duration, that is not mine. I mean the same thing by
life and time, and compute it, not by what passes without,
but within me. I gaze at no star, nor constellation of stars'

HYLEMA.

469

to predict the fair weather of virtue and peace, or the storms
of passion and vice, to which my microcosm shall be sub-
ject; but at the great luminaries of faith and conscience,
in my understanding and heart. On these I endeavour to
found my ephemerides and almanack ; and it is only owing
to a defect in my observations, or a neglect of my journal,
that I am not as great an astronomer as Kepler or Newton,
and even a much greater astrologer than Lilly. Hours, days,
months, years, do not, of themselves, and as such, exer-
cise any considerable influence over my affairs, my temper
of mind, my,habit of body, or my religious principles, which
prescribe, or ought to prescribe, every thing I think or do.
By these are afforded the proper seasons and opportunities
for the conduct that becomes a rational being ; the spring
for his labours, and the autumn for his fruits. How pre-
posterous is it to strain or disjoint the tenor of our actions,
that they may follow the hand of a clock, and to lose the
occasion of succeeding in our schemes because the shadow
on the dial is not yet come to the time ! It stirs my indig-
nation to hear a man say, he hath lived so many years, for,
were life to be so computed, the visiting and carding lady,
the sot, the saunterer, might be said to live as long, as he
that hath, out of nothing, but his own industry, made com-
petent provision for a large family of children, and trained
them up to be useful members of society, and good servants
to God ; or as long as lady Arabella Denny. It is certain,
let the vulgar era of life run as much as you please, on days
and weeks, life is contracted by idleness, and extended by
action. We lose all that space which passes while we are
thoughtless or inactive. The action that preceded, closes
with the action that succeeds it, and expunges the interme-
diate vacuity from our account of time. Birth and death
are drawn so much nearer together, and life consuiasteoOMt
shortened, in proportion as less thought and action are in-
terposed. On the contrary, the thinking and the active, as
they force in thought between thought, and wedge in one
action beside another, stretch their lives, and set their ex-
tremities at a greater distance. Admitting this method of
computation, some surprising paradoxes will be established ;
such as, that many persons, who eat, drink, and digest vic-
tuals, are no t alive ; that the dead swallownearly as much food

470

UVLEM A.

as the living ; that one man may die extremely old at thirty,
and another in his minority, though arrived at his ninetieth
year ; that the generality of the great ones do only lie in
state, but not embowelled, to be gazed at by those who la-
bour to feed, dress, and carry them about, just as if they
were still in being ; and that the greater part of mankind
live and die by turns, it may be, twice or thrice a day, as
they are murdered by inaction, or find a resurrection on a
call of business or pleasure. If we are resolved however to
receive the sun for the regulator of our time in the country,
and the moon in town, what astronomer shall furnish us
with an equation table, or rather each of us with an indivi-
dual equation, to adjust his tardy motions to the impatient,
or his too quick ones to the cunctator ? Who shall regu-
late the too fugitive time of night between the moon and
her lunar subjects, or teach them to set, ere the daylight
arises to expose their horns ? Fond of my own system, I
cannot help asserting, that every man is a fool, or an alma-
nack-maker.

160. We laugh at children for their ambitious emulation
about who shall have the finer plaything ; but do not con-
sider, that the higher post or title is but the gewgaw of an
older child. After all, it is among the bearded children no-
thing more, than who shall have the lobster's claw, or who
shall be put oft' with that of the crab.

161. The very essence of affectation cousists in imper-
tinence, in looks, gesticulations, and modes of speaking,
which have nothing to do, in the nature of things, with what
we are about. Conceit gives silly people an unhappy fer-
tility of invention in such matters, which may denominate
a man or woman, a genius at affectation, an original of the
most ridiculous sort. But there is an humble class of the
affected, who are content to borrow a parcel of little airs
and ways from the manner ot others, on wnom ihvy sit na-
turally enough, but look wretchedly in the copy. He is silly,
who hopes to look better in another's clothes, that do not
fit him, than in his own which do. The open-mouthed laugh
of Flavia is extremely awkward, and besides, exposes her
ill-coloured and irregular teeth. She was not aware of this,
when she copied it from Lydia, whose teeth are pearls, and'
whose cheek never discovers that deadly dimple, for which

HYLEMA.

471

she is so admired, but when she laughs. It is a poor thing
to be a fool, but to be a fool by choice, and at second-hand,
is the most despicable thing in the world. Could such a
one bray himself in a mortar, and give a new form to the
mass, it would not be half so graceful, as that which nature
hath already given. A man is but a bungling man-maker.

102. There is not an objection urged against Christianity
more frequently, nor with greater force, than the divisions
in principle, and the animosities among churches, so shame-
fully visible wherever it is professed. The professors of
other religions, we are told, and it is confessed, have not
differed so widely, nor contended so bitterly with one an-
other, when they did differ about their credenda, or modes
of worship. Now among the many unanswerable argu-
ments for Christianity, this objection to it is not one of the
meanest, considered, as its effect upon weak understand-
ings, or irregular tempers. It is only its interesting weight,
which gives occasion to the close and minute scrutiny into
its doctrines, and afterward to that fury, with which the
disputes about those doctrines, when differently understood,
are maintained. Mankind never fall out about what they
do not value. Do we ever see a polemical book or pam-
phlet, which does not set forth the opinions of its author,
as so many fundamental articles of Christianity, and as ab-
solutely necessary to salvation ? Is not heaven and hell
brought into every controversy ? Did not our religion go
deeper into the heart, and more affectingly engage our pas-
sions, than any other, it would never excite a greater warmth
in disputation, than other religions have done ; it would not
be better worth a dispute, than others. The heathens who
are capable of argumentation, could have found a pleasure,
and gratified their ambition, by striking out new opinions,
and leading parties, as well as our Christian controvertists ;
but they held their religion in too great contempt to hope
for a name by any exercise of their talents upon the modes,
or even articles, of a system so perfectly absurd and insig-
nificant. They saw plainly, that diversity, and conformity,
in downright stupidity, were not worth minding; so they suf-
fered time, poetry, legislation, whim, to make a thousand
changes in it every day. Had not this been the case, we
should have heard of some bickerings about the gods of na-

472

HVLKMA.

tions, who often went to war about their sheep. No, their
gods were of a very pacific nature. The deity of wood gave
no disturbance to the divinity of stone ; nor did he envy the
magnificence of him, who stood in brass, silver, or gold.
They could keep the peace in one country, in one temple,
and even in one hearth. Their worshippers too, who dug
them out of the quarry, or cut them out of the tree, were
not in haste to butcher one another about them. It was not
for Apollo, but the wealth of his temple, that the Phocian
war was kindled. We do not fight about a little dirt or stub-
ble, but about gold and silver. Yet I hardly think the ob-
jector will throw away his money, because many individuals,
nay, and so many nations every day, knock one another on
the head about money. What we graft on a strong stem is
apt to grow bigger and bear more fruit, whether good or bad,
than if grafted on a dwindling stock. It is from the root of
truth and importance that the heresies and schisms of our
religion draw their strength, and shew the vigour of the root
in the wide spread of their branches, the profusion of their
leaves, and the load of fruits, sweet or sour, nutritious or
poisonous, according to the canals that convey the sap
which they produce. Religion is not the worse for being
abused by ignorant, designing, or contentious men ; and if
it is attended with violent effects when misconceived by
the wrong-headed, or misapplied by wrong-hearted persons,
it shews at least, that the cannon could fire home, and
wanted only to be properly pointed. It is an old adage, and
a true one, that the corruption of the best things, is the worst
sort of corruption. This applied to all religions, will do par-
ticular honour to the Christian.

163. An upright is always an easier than a stooping
posture, because it is more natural, and one part is better
supported by another ; so it is easier to be an honest man
than a knave. It is also more graceful.

164. Life is a game you must play, and requires a great
deal of skill to play it well, for many of the people you are
to play with are sharpers. If you would succeed in it, you
must practise it much. Looking on will never do. The
best gamesters are those who have lost most. If you are
obliged to play before you understand the game, get an old
hand to direct you, or play for little. If you would take a

HYLEMA.

473

short way to be easy about it, and to make an amusement
of that which others make their business, despise the world,
and play for nothing.

165. Eunomus and Ismenias seem to be possessed of
the same talent for humour, which consists in exposing the
absurdities of others, whether as to their discourse or ac-
tions. But their talents are very different. That of Euno-
mus is nothing else than clear judgment, which measuring
every thing by a straight and perfect rule, quickly disco-
vers its crookedness and deviation, which expressed,
affords that entertainment so liked by the generality of
companies he goes into. Whereas the distorted head of
Ismenias distorts all the persons and actions that fall under
his observations, and this imputative deformity never fails
to excite a laugh. His talent lies in caracatura. Euno-
mus sets before you the pictures of objects deformed, but
Ismenias shews you deformed pictures of objects.

166. Bigotry is a strong and furious attachment to
opinions, adopted by prejudice, party, affection, aversion,
chance, and nursed by time and habit. All parties fling the
imputation of bigotry bitterly in one another's faces, and
are in the right, for, she is of all sides ; scolds, contends,
fights, for all sides ; gives demonstration to arguments on
all sides ; makes every body in the right, levels truth and
error, and brings them to be matches. She raises no differ-
ences herself, but foments all that are raised by interest,
education, &c. She can blow up a slight dispute, once
kindled, into a war, such as that between the Swiss cantons
and Charles duke of Burgundy, about a load of dry skins,
which ended in the ruin of the Burgundian family. She can
make two political writers embroil two nations, or two po-
lemical divines two churches, and lead them out to fire their
powder and ball, or their still hotter invectives, oue on the
other, with no larger a weapon than a goose-quill. She is
in her element, when on the wrong side of a debate, and
looks awkwardly on the right. One bigoted to the truth,
looks like a sound-limbed man on crutches, or a seeing man
led by a blind. She is so heady, that her slaves must not
assist themselves with reason, though it is for them ; so
blind, that she strikes herself against all obstacles ; runs into
all difficulties ; opposes the tenets she would establish ;

474

HVLEMA.

contends for those she would overturn; governs all parties;
is disowned by all, and ever objected by all to their oppo-
nents, as the bitterest reproach that can be flung at them.
Reason is ashamed of her, when they are together, and
almost always passes for folly, while abetted by bigotry.
When they are opposed reason lies by for a time, till
bigotry hath swaggered herself off her mettle, and ran her
horse, faction, out of breath ; and then stepping up to the
horse and taking him by the ear, for he hath no bridle, turns
him round, on which he and his rider continuing the vio-
lence of their career, rush into a bog or down a precipice.

167. The writer of a party may be compared to a bar-
bell in a tavern. He is rung by all, and supplies all with
food for prejudice and zeal.

168. I lodge in the house, feed at the table, drink the
w inc, use the servants and horses, of Hermes. In short I
have as thorough an enjoyment of his fortune, as to every
convenience and comfort of life, as he hath, without the
smallest expectation on his part of adulation, or any other
compliances, than such as I am ready to make in regard to
all other men. Am I not as rich as Hermes? By no
means, for he gives, and I receive, and * it is more blessed
to give than to receive.'

169. Thais was bred up from her infancy in an opinion
that an old family and wherewithal to live genteelly, make
a gentlewoman, and that a gentlewoman needs no other
appellation to eutitle her to respect. Her fortune failing
at the age of twenty, her principle forced her, for she had
no other, to seek a maintenance by her beauty. She hath
now passed several years in very handsome lodgings, been
amply supported and well attended. She pleases herself
with the fancy that she is still a gentlewoman. Try it when
you will, and you shall find that meanness is the essence of
pride, properly so called.

170. Chremes at sixty, keeps a wench, and hath disin-
herited his son for marrying a virtuous and amiable young
woman, but of a fortune below his pretensions. Chremes
hath two passions, avarice and the love of women; and
thinks it reasonable that a hoary father should act by the
latter and his youthful son by the former.

171. He cannot know himself, whose condition hath

HYLEMA.

475

never varied, because his understanding and passions have
had but one set of trials and path to go in, which his con-
tinual sameness of motions hath beaten into so great a de-
gree of smoothness, that he can hardly stumble in it. Ma-
rius, the rugged, the rigid, the hardy soldier, becomes a
mere debauchee, when advanced to affluence and power.
His virtue melts in the sunshine of fortune, like the prowess
of those northern nations whom he conquered on their de-
scent into a much warmer climate. Fortune, that could
not frighten him with her frowns, reduces him with her
smiles. The tower that stands a battery, is overturned by
a sap. What a fool is Phrino, saith Corus, for the part he
hath acted, since he came into his government? To be
guilty of such errors in conduct without even a temptation
to them ! Behold, Corus is advanced to the same post, and
every one now cries out, Phrino was a wise man. We
know not what we are capable of till we are tried. When
a man's fortune hurries one way, he is in great danger of a
fall, on a sudden reverse of her motion, if he is not master
of more than common strength and agility in turning as she
turns, as to every thing, but that which religious principle
hath rendered unalterable.

172. The servants of Grindus make loud complaints of
their master's cruelty, suffered by them in cold and hunger.
Unreasonable creatures! do they not live as plentiful as
he ? Would they indulge in bean bread and slink veal,
while their master lives on leeks and cold potatoes ? ' He
that is evil to himself, to whom will he be good ?' Ecclus.
xiv. 5.

173. It is true I live well, saysGandes ; but how much
more gloriously should I figure it, if I had not so many
children. Not a whit, Gandes, for in that case, you would
pay more for your food and clothing, and a larger sum in
servants wages. Nature would not suffer fortune to do
more for you than she does.

174. It is a vulgar mistake to think there are two sorts
of chastity, one of the mind and another of the body. This
virtue is only of the mind. What signifies it what care
she takes of her body, whose heart is common ? Would
you be satisfied to glean the affections of a woman who
invites every fop and pretty fellow to reap before you, with

476

HYLEMA.

all the flutter of lace powder, snuff, and all the grimace of
cringes, senseless speeches, soft ogles, easy sonnets ? Of
the two, would you not think yourself much more interest-
ingly wronged by a prostitution of your wife's heart, than of
any thing else about her? You are a fool, if you do not
think a force committed on the person of your wife, a trifle
to a voluntary surrender of her affections to some other
man, perhaps to a score of men, after which you must judge
it wholly in vain, to guard against the alienation of her
body. If a wife is a friend, a comforter, a helpmate, a co-
quette cannot be converted into a wife.

175. When Alcidas bows to me, I draw back my foot,
imagining he is stooping to wipe my shoe; but quickly
perceive he does it only to shew me how finely he can bow,
for I plainly perceive he holds me in contempt for the dry-
ness and awkwardness of my conge.

176. If mankind were all alike, were equally knowing,
and equally passioned, it would be proper to preach to
them all in the same manner; but taking them as they are,
nothing can be -more idle, than speaking to them in public,
on all subjects, by one and the same rule, or even to any
one congregation, at all times, in one and the same method.
Preachers are divided into two classes, those who endea-
vour to convince the judgment, and those who attempt to
move the passions ; and he that pushes at either purpose,
scarcely ever thinks of aiming at the other, hear him who
will. The mere reasoner spins as fine a thread of argu-
ments, and that as coolly, to a country congregation, as if
he were addressing himself to the fellows and students of
a university. This, supposing it to be understood, adds
nothing to the conviction of the heares, who believed all
before they heard him, and leaves no impression. It
would be to as good purpose to give them whipt syllabub
only for their dinner. The mere pathetic preacher is de-
spised as a mere declaimer by an understanding audience,
who take an attempt on their hearts for an affront to their
understandings. Each of these is but one half of a preacher,
whether his audience is learned or illiterate. The consum-
mate preacher unites them both in himself. His reasonings
are animated, and his attack on the passions is rational.
He takes in the whole man at once. You are convinced

HYLEMA.

477

and warmed at the same time. Like Barrow, he works
upon you with every talent, clear conception, sound rea-
soning, a fine imagination, and in a language perfectly in-
telligible, but all on fire ; and you hear him with every fa-
culty of your soul, and every fibre of your heart. A dis-
course that does not strike at both head and heart, strikes
at neither. The principal work however of a moral dis-
course is with the heart, for here the judgment is already
settled, and the affections only want to be roused and set
right. When God promulgated the moral law, he delivered
himself in thunder and lightning, and with the sound of a
trumpet that shook the mountains ; and when Christ en-
forced it on his disciples, he said, ' If ye love me keep my
commandments.' This was speaking to the hardened heart
in terror, and to the tender, in sweetness ; but both to the
heart.

177. Of all the absurdities in preaching there is none so
ridiculous as the affectation of hard and high flown words,
which hath succeeded to Greek and Latin quotations. This
matter is set in a strong light, by the following letter of a
country farmer to his landlord in town.
Sir,

'When you was here I troubled you sometimes to tell
me the meaning of a hard word or two, in our parson's ser-
mons. Since you went away, he is growing worse and
worse. We don't know what he is about. We believe it
is very fine ; but alack-a-day ! what have we poor folks to
do with fine things ? I can just know, that he is preaching
against the Papishes, and has been a good wrhile, for he
calls the pope names, and says he can prove the Romans
to be blind and mistaken. Now I wish I could understand
him, for I hate Popery. He uses several long words,
which I can neither mouth nor spell. But there is one
hard word, and pray, maister, if you ever heard it, do now
tell me the meaning of it under your hand. I am sure you
are not proud, but a mild gentleman, and will tell me, be-
cause he uses it so often, that we judge there must be a great
deal in it. The word is, demonstration; our schoolmaster
spelt it for me, though he knows no more what it is than I
do. Neighbour John, he believes it is the same as mon-
ster, and that the pope is a monster, or a monstration man.

478

II VLEM A.

Dick Beats, says, it is glass, or some such clear thing, for
parson often says, demonstration (aye, I have spelt it right
again) is quite clear ; so may be it is chrystal, for we
say such a thing is as clear as crystal. Poh ! no, says
Billy Jeffry, says he, it is a gun ; for he, says he, will rout and
overthrow the Papishes with it. Margery Todd says, it is
a sum of money. It is true, she can read, and gives a rea-
son, for he often says he will give us a demonstration for
such and such a thing ; but parson would not drive a bar-
gain on a Sunday, and in the pulpit. But now I will tell
you what I think. I believe it is a mark he puts to a weak
argument, as who should say, perhaps, or may be, as it were.
My reason for this is, because he seems to be at a loss, or
baffled, or got into a bog-hole, or a demonstration or so.
Even Lord help us poor creatures, who are not book-
learned, nor acquaint with hard words. What a deal of
pure doctrine do we lose by not being scholards ! pray
good sir, let me have your answer soon, for we have a great
deal of argufying here about this word, and Jeffry and I
laid a wager about it yesterday, which is to be ended by
your letter, if you will be so kind.

I am till death, your loving tenant,

Robert Jackson.'
178. There is a lady in the tow n where I live, who hath
a negro girl to wait on her. When this black thing came
first hither, every body Avas frightened at her ; but now she
never stirs out unattended by two or three young creatures
of her own sex, who prodigiously admire her, though they,
I dare say, would rather be white themselves than black.
The white seems to be happiest that is nearest her, and
hath her by the arm. This fondness for the strange, and
the foreign, is one of the most remarkable foibles of the
sex. Yet I cannot tell how it comes to pass, that they so
seldom admire a good man, that curiosity, that rarity, more
scarce than any thing in Sloan's Museum.

179. From the day that Pasibula's brother became a man
of fortune and distinction, she, though formerly well con-
tent with her condition, without the loss of a single farthing,
became a distressed and miserable wretch. Her brother's
advancement brought impudence and insults upon her from
her equals, though they carried to her just as before ;

HYLEMA. 479

brought contempt from people of distinction, who never-
theless behaved to her just as formerly. She was thrown
into a fit of hysterics by a neighbouring woman, hardly a
hair's breadth lower in the world than herself, who had the
assurance to sit down beside her, as she had a hundred
times done, ere Pasibula's brother became a great man-
ISO. One should naturally think, that the vanity of a
beautiful woman must arise from the consciousness of her
fine face and person ; yet there is nothing she studies so
carefully, nor is at such expense for, as to disguise both,
and turn herself into a monster, wherein nature is indus-
triously defaced, and the extravagance of fashion set out
to view. Were it not for this humour in women, we men
should be more enslaved to them than we are.

181. The painter who drew a Venus by his mistress,
was surprised to find hardly any one could like the piece.
In like maimer you are surprised at my reasoning and talk-
ing in a different manner from you, but ought not to be, for
if you are Ccelia'd in matters of opinion, I am Clarissa'd,
and why not?

182. I once found a lady with her right hand bathed in
blood, and asking her the reason, she said she had got a
catarh in that hand, and was bathing it in the blood of a
black cat, as a sovereign remedy for the humour, which
had its appellation on that account, from the name of that
animal. It was to no purpose to assure her, that cat is
an English, and catarh a Greek word, of no analogy in the
meaning. It is well if many other opinions, not only in
physic, but theology and politics, are not of an original as
uncouth and far-fetched as this.

183. There are single sounds, which naturally strike the
ear in an agreeable manner. The inventors of music ha ve
found the way so to compound the higher and lower notes
of the same, or different instruments, as to carry this plea-
sure still farther. There are two degrees of pleasure per-
ceived in music. The first is that which tickles the ear
only with a chime of notes, which having a sort of ab-
stracted affinity to one another, like that of numbers in
mere arithmetical proportions, but without meaning, that
is, without reference to any thing, but the mere sense of
hearing, communicates a small degree of pleasure. To be

480

HYLEMA.

at all entertained by this, we must have a metaphysical
relish for the natural agreements of sounds. Nature gives,
as it were, a hint of this, and habit carries it farther. The
whole of this pleasurable sensation proceeds from a per-
ception of this agreement, and differs not from that which
we feel from other philosophical discoveries of similarity
or uniformity. We are pleased with the music, because
it shews us, that there is a natural adjustment in sounds,
which at first seem so unconnected. This the mind catches
in the ear only, for it penetrates no farther, as it does
light and colours in the eye, into which they are refracted
through a prism. It may be doubted, whether there is any
other pleasure received in either case, than what arises
from the mere gratification of curiosity. Our modern mu-
sic is mostly of this unmeaning and unaffecting kind. It
is seated almost wholly in the ear, and hardly ever goes
farther, but through habit. The other degree in musical
entertainment strikes deeper into the mind, and while it
carries with it all the mere auditory pleasure, just men-
tioned, speaks to, and entertains our affections also. It is
the object of an internal sense, as well as of an external.
It is heard by love, by anger, by fear, by courage ; or it is
felt by the soul, as played on the strings of that instru-
ment, which is placed nearest to her preceptive powers ;
and perhaps ought to be considered as a unison or con-
cert, executed at once between a violin without and an-
other within. Somewhat of this we perceive in a few of
Corelli's compositions, and in more of Handel's. But our
musicians affect too great a variety of notes in each tune,
and aim not, or but a very little, at a meaning. Their
pieces gingle prettily, but seldom speak, as the much sim-
pler music of the ancients undoubtedly did. Some of their
effects are on record, I do not mean in fabulous, but in true
history, which our present art can by no means come nigh
to, such as the power of David over Saul, of Timotheus over
Alexander, and of the Salii, who could drive their hearers
into distraction. Enthusiastic preachers have studied the
power of sounds, cadences, swells, pauses, more accurately,
than our greatest masters of musical composition. A fel-
low otherwise ignorant, and uttering little else than non-
sense, shall move an audience to what degree of passion

HYLEMA.

481

be pleases, and throw several of them into convulsions.
This he does wholly by an art of managing sounds, for he
deals not in sense. I have heard notes made by a jack, a
gate, or a car, which I thought capable of being brought
to excellent purpose, into some species of harmony. It is
to me no matter of doubt, whether a thorough genius for
music, and accurately acquainted with the mechanical
springs of thought, affection, passion, in the human make,
might by closely copying, and judiciously introducing the
select sounds of birds, beasts, thunder, but above all of
mankind, in this or that passion, into a piece of music,
calculated for a particular pathetic purpose, give us a mu-
sical performance, far exceeding in power all that have
ever yet been performed or felt. The Grecian orators were
wont to stop, in the midst of their harangues, to have a law
read that was pertinent to the argument urged: If our
preachers, when employed on a very moving subject, were
to make a pause, and give a minute to the music for the
performance of a short clause, taken from a psalm or hymn
apropos, I conceive it might have an excellent effect.

184. We ought not to form an idea of, nor by any means
fix a character for any man, from an observation made on
one or two of his actions, unless those actions are most
uncommonly good or evil, but from the general tenor of his
life. Accident, or temptation, or surprise, sometimes hurry
him beyond the command of his reason and his principles,
and force him, as it were, to act below himself. Accidents,
inducements, grace, sometimes prompt him with uncom-
mon ardour to deeds of the noblest kind, and compel him,
in some degree, to act above himself. By none of these
can we fairly estimate the man. Besides, as most of our
measures are taken, and our actions done, in concert with
others, they are apt to partake of their understandings,
principles, and passions, as well as of our own. Hence
we frequently have the real characters of others given us,
which, compared with our general conduct, fit us no better
than their clothes. To judge of a man when he is carried
out of himself by the impetuosity of some foreign cause, is
much the same as to say, the air of a country is bad, be-
cause the weather was foul on that single day which we
spent in it To judge of a man by actions, wherein he is

VOL. V. 2 I

482

IIYI.EMA.

concerned with others, is like the English, to give Marl-
borough, and like the Germans, to give Eugene, all the
glory of the campaigns made in Queen Anne's time. "Were
you to take a man by a single action, or by the effect of a
mere accident, you would, with the Melitans, pronounce
Paul a murderer, merely because a viper will bite, and a
god too, because a man may happen not to die, though he
hath been bitten.

185. Of all men Ccenus hath the greatest fund of hu-
mour, and of all men gives it the greatest scope. There
are few wits whose genius extends to all kinds of charac-
ters, actions, accidents, employments, personalities, &c. one
is excellent at an alderman or a cit : another at matrimony
with its appendages, the frailties of the fair sex, &c. An-
other, at religion and the clergy, on the strength of a talent
confined wholly to church affairs. Each of these shines in
a sphere of his own, but Ccenus in all. Nothing ridiculous
or ridiculeable escapes him ; no man knows so well, on
what part of a person, an action, a character, an imputa-
tive absurdity may be fastened. Other wits spare their
own foibles in the rest of mankind, and always point their
satire outward. But Ccenus makes no more difficulty of
laughing at his own follies, than at the burlesque pictures
that hang on the walls of his stair-case. Void of shame him-
self, he lets you see he feels not yours. He will even do
a silly thing for an introduction to his saying a witty
one. He will participate as freely in the mirth of his com-
pany as in the wine, when both are at his own expense.
Who shall furnish the occasion of a laugh, he cares not, if
he supplies the jest. A young cat that plays with every thing
in its way, often with its own tail, is the emblem of Ccenus.

386. It is nothing but the selfishness of an honest man
which costs him liberty or his life, when accusation throws
him into a jail, or murder into a grave ; for had he been
less tenacious of his pelf, the villain or the robber need not
to have been obliged to use him so ill. It is hard, that
people will not part with their substance by the milder me-
thods of cheating and lawsuits, but must have it wrung
from them by poison or a pistol. Could the villanous part
of mankind, thoroughly and lastingly associate, no honest
man would ever be worth a groat. But while villain preys

HYLEMA.

483

on villain, and neither can have all, the honest picks up a
little of his own, which drops between, and runs off with it.
Two villains combined, like a pair of shears, cut every
thing between, till they meet and cut each other, to an in-
capacity of doing farther mischief. It is our happiness,
that a knave working by himself, can work but slowly, and
joined with another, may be soon detected.

187. Those communities, such as the empire of China,
wherein honour and deference are made to wait on office,
are in a fairer way to be happy, than where family is per-
mitted to detach them from power, and often to turn them
against it. Wealth and honour, separated from civil au-
thority, are the wens of a body politic, which detain a part
of its substance and strength from the due course of circu-
lation, whereby alone the health and vigour of the whole
can be rightly promoted and supported. Were figure at-
tached solely to civil power, it would not run down, as it
does among us from the king to the peasant, and from the
queen to the kitchen-wench, in a channel of expense and
folly, so universally ruinous. A poor creature aiming at
the splendour of others, much better fortuned, is like an
apple-tree which planted among elms raised its head as
high as they, but with a stem too small and feeble to keep
it up to the years of maturity. Were there no such thing
as nobility or gentry among us, this senseless, this ridicu-
lous, this miserable emulation would be unknown and un-
felt; we should have no lords nor ladies in miniature, no
splendid beggars, no raggamuffin gentry. No attempts to
pay the debts of pride by revolutions, no market of votes,
of interest, of oaths, to support the dignity of a family, des-
picable for every other vice, -as well as those sorts of pros-
titution.

188. God speaks to all men in that language which is
gone out into all lands, and thereby proclaims himself, and
the origin of all things, so clearly and loudly, that all that
are disposed to listen and learn, may attain to a knowledge
of him, themselves, and the world he hath created for them.
The creation speaks of God, but men have not learnt its
language, and unless God will speak to them in their own,
he is not to be understood. Just so it is between men and
dogs peculiarly; to be understood by that species, we
2 i 2

484

HYLEM A.

must not talk to them in our language, but in one more
particularly canine.

189. He who reads a great deal, without interposing the
proper reflections and meditations, deals by his mind, as
he does by his wall, when he daubs the plaster on too thick.
Though here and there a patch may stick, the greater part
drops off, and leaves the building more disfigured for that
which remains.

190. Worldly good things are dispersed among mankind
like snow on the side of a steep mountain, with somewhat
not far removed from equality. Some places can better
retain it than others, while clotted masses rolling down
from above, gather size and weight by oppressing all, over
which they come.

191. To contrive a constitution politic, so as that it may
last for a long time, and impart peace and happiness to its
members, all possible care must be taken to prevent com-
petition and usurpation. For this purpose three things
should be done ; first, to render the constituent parts so
mutually dependent on one another, that they cannot sub-
sist asunder, or in a state of opposition, like heat and
moisture in the natural body, whereof if you take away one
you destroy the other, for you destroy the whole. Secondly,
there should be as few motives left to ambition as possible ;
little wealth and no precedency, but that which is annexed
to constitutional place and power. Lastly, but principally,
a religion most capable of standing the test of reason, and
of carrying the affections from worldly to higher things,
ought to be embraced, established, and inculcated with all
possible care on the minds of all, that they who rule, may
do i t as men who know they are to account to God for
their administration ; and that they who obey, may do it
not for wrath, but conscience' sake. No taste can subsist
but by religion, nor was any ever ruined, but by the want
of it.

192. When two go hand in hand, if one slips the other
can keep him up. It will be a rare chance, if both fall to-
gether ; but then indeed they fall with the greater weight.
When two wrestle, they strive to fling each other, and
though both must fall, each is satisfied, if he can get the
other undermost. When two run, each exerts himself to be

HYLEMA.

485

foremost, and uses not only his agility, but sometimes his
skill in tripping. Married people had better walk than run,
and run than wrestle.

193. If a husband and wife be one, they carry no yoke,
for coupling is only applicable to two. But if they are not
one, then their vow is a yoke, under which it will be better
to go quietly, for fear of galling ; and the way to go quietly
is to go close, to direct their faces to the same point, and
so to admeasure their steps as to advance an equal pace,
and stop at once. If the point and pace cannot be chosen
by consultation, which is the best way, authority must de-
cide. God hath affixed authority to strength, so that the
party which resists superior strength and authority too, is
likely to come by the worse.

194. The gifts of nature are so much to the good, and
easier kept than those of our own acquisition. Could a
man make himself exactly to his wish, he would, I doubt
not, be more liberal to himself in these gifts, I mean, ac-
cording to his idea of excellence, than nature hath been.
But though we cannot bestow this primary, we may a se-
condary nature, on ourselves, by habits which it is pretty
much in our own power to choose. We cannot make the
mind itself, but we can make it liberal or narrow, free or
slavish, polite or brutish, generous or base. We can accus-
tom it to great or mean objects ; to wise or foolish, good or
evil pursuits, and point its inclinations and aversions,
which way we think fit. Nature may lean a little more to
one side than another, but is pliable. We are born but
men, and are afterward made, in a great measure, at our
own election, great or little, good or bad men, by habi-
tuating ourselves to the company, the conversation, the
manner of life, and course of action, which we like best.
Custom brays us in its mortar ; and makes us over again ;
but so far as we choose our customs, we may be said to
dig ourselves out of nature's quarry, one for a gravel-stone,
another for a brilliant, at our own discretion.

195. There cannot be a more foolish nor atheistical
question put (I mean in the sense of the proposers) than
this, which shallow minds are often heard to urge, namely,
When mankind fell into a state of corruption and misery,
why did not God destroy the sinful race, create a new one,

486

HYLEMA.

and so alter the world, as to prevent a second defection 1
In another sense, this hath been actually done, so far as
was consistent with the wisdom and majesty of God, and
the freedom of that creature for whom the world was made.
He understands not the language of our divine religion,
who knows not, that the old man dies, and a new man is
born or created in every true Christian ; nor does he at all
conceive in what sense it is that Christ saith, immediately
on his rising from the dead, ' Behold I make all things new.'
The Christian is a new man, and lives on a new earth, and
under a new heaven. To him they are truly such, for they
no longer tempt him to idolatry and wickedness, but prompt
him to gratitude, and the love of God. If the human race
hath not been wholly expunged out of the creation, it hath
been once almost totally destroyed for sin by a universal
deluge ; in which the globe itself is, with good reason, be-
lieved to have suffered a great change. The laws impressed
on its nature have been frequently reversed, suspended, or
overpowered by its Maker, for the demonstration of true
religion, and for the reformation of mankind. The time
also approaches when it shall be consumed with fire. So
far the querist hath had, or shall have, his wish. But let
him take care that he perish not in a worse wreck, than
that of annihilation. It is owing purely to God's wisdom
and goodness that no greater devastation hath been made,
that we exist, and may be for ever happy. Surely we have
reason to bless God for our being, for our lives, and for the
world, on which we subsist in a far better manner than we
deserve.

END OF VOL. V.

Printed by J.F. Dove, St. John's Square.

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