HAPPINESS, In a great Meaſure, Dependant on CONSTITUTION.

WHEN I reflect on the unambitious re⯑tirement in which I paſſed the earlier part of my life in the country, I cannot avoid feeling ſome pain in thinking that thoſe happy days are never to return. In that retreat all nature ſeemed capable of affording pleaſure; I then made no refinements on happineſs, but could be pleaſed with the moſt aukward efforts of ruſtic mirth; thought croſs-purpoſes the higheſt ſtretch of hu⯑man wit, and queſtions and commands the moſt rational amuſement for ſpending the evening. Happy could ſo charming an illuſion ſtill con⯑tinue. I find age and knowledge only contribute to ſour our diſpoſitions. My preſent enjoyments may be more refined, but they are infinitely leſs pleaſing. The pleaſure Garrick gives, can no way compare to that I have received from a coun⯑try wag, who imitated a quaker's ſermon. The muſic of Matei is diſſonance to what I felt when our old dairy-maid ſung me into tears with Johnny [52] Armſtrong's Laſt Good Night, or the Cruelty of Barbara Allen.

Writers of every age have endeavoured to ſhew that pleaſure is in us, and not in the objects of⯑fered for our amuſement. If the ſoul be happily diſpoſed, every thing becomes a ſubject of enter⯑tainment, and diſtreſs will almoſt want a name. Every occurrence paſſes in review like the figures of a proceſſion; ſome may be aukward, others ill dreſſed; but none but a fool is for this en⯑raged with the maſter of the ceremonies.

I remember to have once ſeen a ſlave in a for⯑tification in Flanders, who appeared no way touched with his ſituation. He was maimed, de⯑formed, and chained; obliged to toil from the appearance of day 'till night-fall, and condemned to this for life; yet, with all theſe circumſtances of apparent wretchedneſs, he ſung, would have danced, but that he wanted a leg, and appeared the merrieſt, happieſt man of all the garriſon. What a practi⯑cal philoſopher was here; an happy conſtitution ſupplied philoſophy, and though ſeemingly deſti⯑tute of wiſdom, he was really wiſe. No reading or ſtudy had contributed to diſenchant the fairy land around him. Every thing furniſhed him with an opportunity of mirth; and though ſome thought him from his inſenſibility a fool, he was [53] ſuch an ideot as philoſophers might wiſh in vain to imitate.

They, who like him, can place themſelves on that ſide of the world in which every thing appears in a ridiculous or pleaſing light, will find ſome⯑thing in every occurrence to excite their good humour. The moſt calamitous events, either to themſelves or others, can bring no new affliction; the whole world is to them a theatre, on which comedies only are acted. All the buſtle of he⯑roiſm, or the rants of ambition, ſerve only to heighten the abſurdity of the ſcene, and make the humour more poignant. They feel, in ſhort, as little anguiſh at their own diſtreſs, or the com⯑plaints of others, as the undertaker, though dreſſed in black, feels ſorrow at a funeral.

Of all the men I ever read of, the famous Car⯑dinal De Retz poſſeſſed this happineſs of temper in the higheſt degree. As he was a man of gallantry, and deſpiſed all that wore the pedantic appearance of philoſophy, wherever pleaſure was to be ſold, he was generally foremoſt to raiſe the auction. Being an univerſal admirer of the fair ſex, when he found one lady cruel, he generally fell in love with another, from whom he expected a more favourable reception: If ſhe too rejected his ad⯑dreſſes, he never thought of retiring into deſarts, or pining in hopeleſs diſtreſs. He perſuaded him⯑ſelf, [54] that inſtead of loving the lady, he only fan⯑cied he had loved her, and ſo all was well again. When fortune wore her angrieſt look, when he at laſt fell into the power of his moſt deadly enemy Cardinal Mazarine, and was confined a cloſe priſoner in the caſtle of Valenciennes, he never attempted to ſupport his diſtreſs by wiſdom or philoſophy, for he pretended to neither. He laughed at himſelf and his perſecutor, and ſeemed infinitely pleaſed at his new ſituation. In this manſion of diſtreſs, though ſecluded from hi [...] friends, though denied all the amuſements, and even the conveniencies of life, teized every hour by the impertinence of wretches who were em⯑ployed to guard him, he ſtill retained his good humour, laughed at all their little ſpite, and car⯑ried the jeſt ſo far as to be revenged, by writing the life of his goaler.

All that philoſophy can teach, is to be ſtubborn or ſullen under misfortunes. The Cardinal's ex⯑ample will inſtruct us to be merry in circumſtances of the higheſt affliction. It matters not whether our good humour be conſtrued by others into inſenſibility, or even ideotiſm; it is happineſs to ourſelves, and none but a fool would meaſure his ſatiſfaction by what the world thinks of it.

Dick Wildgooſe was one of the happieſt ſilly fellows I ever knew. He was of the number of [55] thoſe good-natured creatures that are ſaid to do no harm to any but themſelves. Whenever Dick fell into any miſery, he uſually called it ſeeing life. If his head was broke by a chairman, or his pocket picked by a ſharper, he comforted himſelf by imi⯑tating the Hibernian dialect of the one, or the more faſhionable cant of the other. Nothing came amiſs to Dick. His inattention to money matters had incenſed his father to ſuch a degree, that all the interceſſion of friends in his favour, was fruitleſs. The old gentleman was on his death⯑bed. The whole family, and Dick among the number, gathered around him. I leave my ſecond ſon Andrew, ſaid the expiring miſer, my whole eſtate, and deſire him to be frugal. Andrew, in a ſorrowful tone, as is uſual on theſe occaſions, Prayed heaven to prolong his life and health to enjoy it himſelf. I recommend Simon, my third ſon, to the care of his elder brother, and leave him beſide four thouſand pounds. Ah! father, cried Simon, (in great affliction to be ſure) May heaven give you life and health to enjoy it yourſelf. At laſt, turning to poor Dick; as for you, you have al⯑ways been a ſad dog, you'll never come to good, you'll never be rich, I'll leave you a ſhilling to buy an halter. Ah! father, cries Dick, without any emotion, May heaven give you life and health to enjoy it yourſelf. This was all the trouble the loſs of fortune gave this thought⯑leſs imprudent creature. However, the tender⯑neſs [56] of an uncle recompenced the neglect of a father; and Dick is now not only exceſſively good-humoured, but competently rich.

The world, in ſhort, may cry out at a bank⯑rupt who appears at a ball; at an author who laughs at the public which pronounces him a dunce; at a general who ſmiles at the reproach of the vulgar, or the lady who keeps her good hu⯑mour in ſpite of ſcandal; but ſuch is the wiſeſt behaviour they can poſſibly aſſume; it is certainly a better way to oppoſe calamity by diſſipation, than to take up the arms of reaſon or reſolution to oppoſe it: By the firſt method we forget our miſeries, by the laſt we only conceal them from others; by ſtruggling with misfortunes, we are ſure to receive ſome wounds in the conflict. The only method to come off victorious, is by running away.

ON OUR THEATRES.

MAdemoiſelle Clairon, a celebrated actreſs at Paris, ſeems to me the moſt perfect fe⯑male figure I have ever ſeen upon any ſtage. Not, perhaps, that nature has been more liberal of per⯑ſonal beauty to her, than ſome to be ſeen upon our theatres at home. There are actreſſes here who have as much of what connoiſſeurs call ſtatuary grace, by which is meant elegance un⯑connected with motion, as ſhe; but they all fall infinitely ſhort of her, when the ſoul comes to give expreſſion to the limbs, and animates every feature.

Her firſt appearance is exceſſively engaging; ſhe never comes in ſtaring round upon the com⯑pany, as if ſhe intended to count the benefits of the houſe, or at leaſt to ſee, as well as be ſeen. Her eyes are always, at firſt, intently fixed upon the perſons of the drama, and ſhe lifts them by degrees, with enchanting diffidence, upon the ſpectators. Her firſt ſpeech, or at leaſt the firſt part of it, is delivered with ſcarce any motion of the arm; her hands and her tongue never ſet out together; but the one prepares us for the [58] other. She ſometimes begins with a mute, eloquent attitude; but never goes forward all at once with hands, eyes, head, and voice. This obſervation, though it may appear of no importance, ſhould certainly be adverted to; nor do I ſee any one performer (Garrick only excepted) among us, that is not, in this particular, apt to offend. By this ſimple beginning ſhe gives herſelf a power of riſing in the paſſion of the ſcene. As ſhe pro⯑ceeds, every geſture, every look acquires new violence, till at laſt tranſported, ſhe fills the whole vehemence of the part, and all the idea of the poet.

Her hands are not alternately ſtretched out, and then drawn in again, as with the ſinging women at Sadler's-wells; they are employed with graceful variety, and every moment pleaſe with new and unexpected eloquence. Add to this, that their motion is generally from the ſhoulder; ſhe never flouriſhes her hands while the upper part of her arm is motionleſs, nor has ſhe the ri⯑diculous appearance, as if her elbows were pinned to her hips.

But of all the cautions to be given our riſing actreſſes, I would particularly recommend it to them never to take notice of the audience, upon any occaſion whatſoever; let the ſpectators ap⯑plaud never ſo loudly, their praiſes ſhould paſs, [59] except at the end of the epilogue, with ſeeeming inattention. I can never pardon a lady on the ſtage who, when ſhe draws the admiration of the whole audience, turns about to make them a low courteſy for their applauſe. Such a figure no longer continues Belvidera, but at once drops into Mrs. Cibber. Suppoſe a ſober tradeſman, who once a year takes his ſhilling's worth at Drury-lane, in order to be delighted with the figure of a queen, the queen of Sheba for inſtance, or any other queen: This honeſt man has no other idea of the great but from their ſuperior pride and impertinence: Suppoſe ſuch a man placed among the ſpectators, the firſt figure that preſents on the ſtage is the queen herſelf, courte⯑fying and cringing to all the company; how can he fancy her the haughty favourite of king Solomon the wiſe, who appears actually more ſubmiſſive than the wife of his boſom. We are all tradeſmen of a nicer reliſh in this reſpect, and ſuch a conduct muſt diſguſt every ſpectator who loves to have the illuſion of nature ſtrong upon him.

Yet, while I recommend to our actreſſes a ſkil⯑ful attention to geſture, I would not have them ſtudy it in the looking-glaſs. This, without ſome precaution, will render their action formal; by too great an intimacy with this, they become ſtiff and affected. People ſeldom improve, when they have no other model but themſelves to copy after. [60] I remember to have known a notable performer of the other ſex, who made great uſe of this flatter⯑ing monitor, and yet was one of the ſtiffeſt figures I ever ſaw. I am told his apartment was hung round with looking-glaſs, that he might ſee his perſon twenty times reflected upon entering the room; and I will make bold to ſay, he ſaw twenty very ugly fellows whenever he did ſo.

On the USE of LANGUAGE.

THE manner in which moſt writers begin their treatiſes on the Uſe of Language, is generally thus: ‘"Language has been granted to man, in order to diſcover his wants and neceſſities, ſo as to have them re⯑lieved by ſociety. Whatever we deſire, what⯑ever we wiſh, it is but to cloath thoſe deſires or wiſhes in words, in order to fruition; the principal uſe of language, therefore, ſay they, is to expreſs our wants, ſo as to receive a ſpeedy redreſs."’

[66]Such an account as this may ſerve to ſatisfy grammarians and rhetoricians well enough, but men who know the world, maintain very contrary maxims; they hold, and I think with ſome ſhew of reaſon, they hold, that he who beſt knows how to conceal his neceſſities and deſires, is the moſt likely perſon to find redreſs, and that the true uſe of ſpeech is not ſo much to expreſs our wants as to conceal them.

When we reflect on the manner in which mankind generally confer their favours, we ſhall find that they who ſeem to want them leaſt, are the very perſons who moſt liberally ſhare them. There is ſomething ſo attractive in riches, that the large heap generally collects from the ſmaller; and the poor find as much pleaſure in encreaſing the enor⯑mous maſs, as the miſer, who owns it, ſees hap⯑pineſs in its encreaſe. Nor is there in this any thing repugnant to the laws of true morality. Seneca himſelf allows, that in conferring benefits, the preſent ſhould always be ſuited to the dignity of the receiver. Thus the rich receive large preſents, and are thanked for accepting them. Men of middling ſtations are obliged to be content with preſents ſomething leſs, while the beggar, who may be truly ſaid to want indeed, is well paid if a farthing rewards his warmeſt ſolicitations.

[67]Every man who has ſeen the world, and has had his ups and downs in life, as the expreſſion is, muſt have frequently experienced the truth of this doctrine, and muſt know that to have much, or to ſeem to have it, is the only way to have more. Ovid finely compares a man of broken fortune to a falling column; the lower it ſinks, the greater weight it is obliged to ſuſtain. Thus, when a man has no occaſion to borrow, he finds numbers willing to lend him. Should he aſk his friend to lend him an hundred pounds, it is poſſible, from the largeneſs of his demand, he may find credit for twenty; but ſhould he humbly only ſue for a trifle, it is two to one whether he might be truſted for two pence. A certain young fellow at George's, whenever he had occaſion to aſk his friend for a guinea, uſed to prelude his requeſt as if he wanted two hundred, and talked ſo familiarly of large ſums, that none could ever think he wanted a ſmall one. The ſame gentleman, whenever he wanted credit for a new ſuit from his taylor, al⯑ways made the propoſal in laced cloaths; for he found by experience, that if he appeared ſhabby on theſe occaſions, Mr. Lynch had taken an oath againſt truſting; or what was every bit as bad, his foreman was out of the way, and would not be at home theſe two days.

There can be no inducement to reveal our wants, except to find pity, and by this means relief; but [68] before a poor man opens his mind in ſuch circum⯑ſtances, he ſhould firſt conſider whether he is con⯑tented to loſe the eſteem of the perſon he ſolicits, and whether he is willing to give up friendſhip only to excite compaſſion. Pity and friendſhip are paſ⯑ſions incompatible with each other, and it is im⯑poſſible that both can reſide in any breaſt for the ſmalleſt ſpace, without impairing each other. Friendſhip is made up of eſteem and pleaſure; pity is compoſed of ſorrow and contempt; the mind may for ſome time fluctuate between them, but it can never entertain both together.

Yet let it not be thought that I would exclude pity from the human mind. There is ſcarce any who are not in ſome degree poſſeſſed of this pleaſing ſoftneſs; but it is at beſt but a ſhort-lived paſſion, and ſeldom affords diſtreſs more than tranſitory aſſiſtance: With ſome it ſcarce laſts from the firſt impulſe till the hand can be put into the pocket; with others it may continue for twice that ſpace, and on ſome of extraordinary ſenſi⯑bility, I have ſeen it operate for half an hour. But, however, laſt as it will, it generally produces but beggarly effects; and where, from this mo⯑tive we give an halfpenny, from others we give always pound. In great diſtreſs we ſometimes, it is true, feel the influence of tenderneſs ſtrongly; when the ſame diſtreſs ſolicits a ſecond time, we then feel with diminiſhed ſenſibility, but like the [69] repetition of an eccho, every new impulſe becomes weaker, till at laſt our ſenſations loſe every mix⯑ture of ſorrow, and degenerate into downright contempt.

Jack Spindle and I were old acquaintance; but he's gone. Jack was bred in a compting-houſe, and his father dying juſt as he was out of his time, left him an handſome fortune, and many friends to adviſe with. The reſtraint in which he had been brought up, had thrown a gloom upon his temper, which ſome regarded as an habitual pru⯑dence, and from ſuch conſiderations, he had every day repeated offers of friendſhip. Thoſe who had money, were ready to offer him their aſſiſtance that way; and they who had daughters, frequently, in the warmth of affection, adviſed him to marry. Jack, however, was in good circumſtances; he wanted neither money, friends, nor a wife, and therefore modeſtly declined their propoſals.

Some errors in the management of his affairs, and ſeveral loſſes in trade, ſoon brought Jack to a different way of thinking; and he at laſt thought it his beſt way to let his friends know that their offers were at length acceptable. His firſt addreſs was therefore to a ſcrivener, who had formerly made him frequent offers of money and friendſhip, at a time when, perhaps, he knew thoſe offers would have been refuſed.

[70]Jack, therefore, thought he might uſe his old friend without any ceremony, and as a man con⯑fident of not being refuſed, requeſted the uſe of an hundred guineas for a few days, as he juſt then had an occaſion for money. ‘"And pray, Mr. Spindle, replied the ſcrivener, do you want all this money?"’ ‘"Want it, Sir, ſays the other, if I did not want it, I ſhould not have aſked it."’ ‘"I am ſorry for that, ſays the friend; for thoſe who want money when they come to borrow, will want money when they ſhould come to pay. To ſay the truth, Mr. Spindle, money is money now-a-days. I believe it is all ſunk in the bot⯑tom of the ſea, for my part; and he that has got a little, is a fool if he does not keep what he has got."’

Not quite diſconcerted by this refuſal, our ad⯑venturer was reſolved to apply to another, whom he knew to be the very beſt friend he had in the world. The gentleman whom he now addreſſed, received his propoſal with all the affability that could be expected from generous friendſhip. ‘"Let me ſee, you want an hundred guineas, and pray, dear Jack, would not fifty anſwer."’ ‘"If you have but fifty to ſpare, Sir, I muſt be con⯑tented."’ ‘"Fifty to ſpare, I do not ſay that, for I believe I have but twenty about me."’ ‘"Then I muſt borrow the other thirty from ſome other friend."’ ‘"And pray, replied the friend, would [71] it not be the beſt way to borrow the whole money from that other friend, and then one note will ſerve for all, you know. Lord, Mr. Spin⯑dle, make no ceremony with me at any time; you know I'm your friend, and when you chuſe a bit of dinner or ſo.——You, Tom, ſee the the gentleman down. You wont forget to dine with us now and then. Your very humble ſer⯑vant."’

Diſtreſſed, but not diſcouraged at this treat⯑ment, he was at laſt reſolved to find that aſſiſtance from love, which he could not have from friend⯑ſhip. Miſs Jenny Diſmal had a fortune in her own hands, and ſhe had already made all the ad⯑vances that her ſex's modeſty would permit. He made his propoſal therefore with confidence, but ſoon perceived, No bankrupt ever found the fair one kind. Miſs Jenny and Maſter Billy Galloon were lately fallen deeply in love with each other, and the whole neighbourhood thought it would ſoon be a match.

Every day now began to ſtrip Jack of his former finery; his cloaths flew piece by piece to the pawn⯑broker's, and he ſeemed at length equipped in the genuine mourning of antiquity. But ſtill he thought himſelf ſecure from ſtarving, the num⯑berleſs invitations he had received to dine, even after his loſſes, were yet unanſwered; he was therefore now reſolved to accept of a dinner be⯑cauſe [72] he wanted one; and in this manner he ac⯑tually lived among his friends a whole week with⯑out being openly affronted. The laſt place I ſaw poor Jack was at the Rev. Dr. Goſling's. He had, as he fancied, juſt nicked the time, for he came in as the cloth was laying. He took a chair without being deſired, and talked for ſome time without being attended to. He aſſured the com⯑pany, that nothing procured ſo good an appetite as a walk to White Conduit-houſe, where he had been that morning. He looked at the table-cloth, and praiſed the figure of the damaſk; talked of a feaſt where he had been the day before, but that the veniſon was over done. All this, however, procured the poor creature no invitation, and he was not yet ſufficiently hardened to ſtay without being aſked; wherefore, finding the gentleman of the houſe inſenſible to all his fetches, he thought proper, at laſt, to retire, and mend his appetite by a walk in the Park.

You then, O ye beggars of my acquaintance, whether in rags or lace; whether in Kent-ſtreet or the Mall; whether at the Smyrna or St. Giles's, might I adviſe as a friend, never ſeem in want of the favour which you ſolicit. Apply to every paſſion but pity, for redreſs. You may find re⯑lief from vanity, from ſelf-intereſt, or from ava⯑rice, but ſeldom from compaſſion. The very eloquence of a poor man is diſguſting; and that [73] mouth which is opened even for flattery, is ſeldom expected to cloſe without a petition.

If then you would ward off the gripe of poverty, pretend to be a ſtranger to her, and ſhe will at leaſt uſe you with ceremony. Hear not my ad⯑vice, but that of Offellus. If you be caught din⯑ing upon a halfpenny porrenger of peaſe ſoup and potatoes, praiſe the wholeſomeneſs of your frugal repaſt. You may obſerve, that Dr. Cheyne has preſcribed peaſe broth for the gravel, hint that you are not one of thoſe who are always making a god of your belly. If you are obliged to wear a flimſy ſtuff in the midſt of winter, be the firſt to remark that ſtuffs are very much worn at Paris. If there be found ſome irreparable defects in any part of your equipage, which cannot be concealed by all the arts of ſitting croſs-legged, coaxing, or derning, ſay, that neither you nor Sampſon Gideon were ever very fond of dreſs. Or if you be a phi⯑loſopher, hint that Plato or Seneca are the taylors you chooſe to employ; aſſure the company that man ought to be content with a bare covering, ſince what now is ſo much the pride of ſome, was formerly our ſhame. Horace will give you a La⯑tin ſentence fit for the occaſion, ‘Toga defendere frigus quamvis craſſa queat.’

[74]In ſhort, however caught, do not give up, but aſcribe to the frugality of your diſpoſition what others might be apt to attribute to the narrowneſs of your circumſtances, and appear rather to be a miſer than a beggar. To be poor, and to ſeem poor, is a certain method never to riſe. Pride in the great is hateful, in the wiſe it is ridiculous; beg⯑garly pride is the only ſort of vanity I can excuſe.

ON JUSTICE AND GENEROSITY.

LYSIPPUS is a man whoſe greatneſs of ſoul the whole world admires. His gene⯑roſity is ſuch, that it prevents a demand, and ſaves the receiver the trouble and the confuſion of a requeſt. His liberality alſo does not oblige more by its greatneſs, than by his inimitable grace in giving. Sometimes he even diſtributes his bounties to ſtrangers, and has been known to do good offices to thoſe who profeſſed them⯑ſelves his enemies. All the world are unani⯑mous in the praiſe of his generoſity; there is only one ſort of people, who complain of his conduct. Lyſippus does not pay his debts.

It is no difficult matter to account for a con⯑duct ſo ſeemingly incompatible with itſelf. There is greatneſs in being generous, and there is only ſimple juſtice in ſatisfying his creditors. Gene⯑roſity is the part of a ſoul raiſed above the vulgar. There is in it ſomething of what we admire in [82] heroes, and praiſe with a degree of rapture. Juſtice, on the contrary, is a mere mechanic virtue, only fit for tradeſmen, and what is prac⯑tiſed by every broker in Change Alley.

In paying his debts a man barely does his duty, and it is an action attended with no ſort of glory. Should Lyſippus ſatisfy his creditors, who would be at the pains of telling it to the world. Ge⯑neroſity is a virtue of a very different complexion. It is raiſed above duty, and from its elevation attracts the attention, and the praiſes of us little mortals below.

In this manner do men generally reaſon upon juſtice and generoſity. The firſt is deſpiſed, though a virtue eſſential to the good of ſociety, and the other attracts our eſteem, which too frequently proceeds from an impetuoſity of tem⯑per, rather directed by vanity than reaſon. Ly⯑ſippus is told that his banker aſks a debt of forty pounds, and that a diſtreſſed acquaintance peti⯑tions for the ſame ſum. He gives it without heſitating to the latter; for he demands as a fa⯑vour what the former requires as a debt.

Mankind in general are not ſufficiently ac⯑quainted with the import of the word Juſtice: It is commonly believed to conſiſt only in a per⯑formance of thoſe duties to which the laws of [83] ſociety can oblige us. This I allow is ſometimes the import of the word, and in this ſenſe juſtice is diſtinguiſhed from equity; but there is a juſtice ſtill more extenſive, and which can be ſhewn to embrace all the virtues united.

Juſtice may be defined, that virtue which im⯑pels us to give to every perſon what is his due. In this extended ſenſe of the word, it comprehends the practice of every virtue which reaſon pre⯑ſcribes, or ſociety ſhould expect. Our duty to our maker, to each other, and to ourſelves, are fully anſwered, if we give them what we owe them. Thus juſtice, properly ſpeaking, is the only virtue, and all the reſt have their origin in it.

The qualities of candour, fortitude, charity, and generoſity, for inſtance, are not in their own nature, virtues; and, if ever they deſerve the title, it is owing only to juſtice, which impels and directs them. Without ſuch a moderator, candour might become indiſcretion, fortitude obſtinacy, charity imprudence, and generoſity miſtaken profuſion.

A diſintereſted action, if it be not conducted by juſtice, is at beſt indifferent in its nature, and not unfrequently even turns to vice. The ex⯑pences of ſociety, of preſents, of entertainments, [84] and the other helps to chearfulneſs, are actions merely indifferent, when not repugnant to a better method of diſpoſing of our ſuperfluities, but they become vicious when they obſtruct or exhauſt our abilities from a more virtuous diſpoſi⯑tion of our circumſtances.

True generoſity is a duty as indiſpenſibly neceſ⯑ſary as thoſe impoſed upon us by law. It is a rule impoſed upon us by reaſon, which ſhould be the ſovereign law of a rational being. But this generoſity does not conſiſt in obeying every im⯑pulſe of humanity, in following blind paſſion for our guide, and impairing our circumſtances by preſent benefactions, ſo as to render us incapable of future ones.

Miſers are generally characterized as men without honour, or without humanity, who live only to accumulate, and to this paſſion ſacrifice every other happineſs. They have been deſcribed as madmen, who, in the midſt of abundance, baniſh every pleaſure, and make, from imaginary wants, real neceſſities. But few, very few, cor⯑reſpond to this exaggerated picture; and, perhaps, there is not one in whom all theſe circumſtances are found united. Inſtead of this, we find the ſober and the induſtrious branded by the vain and the idle, with this odious appellation. Men who, by frugality and labour, raiſe themſelves above [85] their equals, and contribute their ſhare of in⯑duſtry to the common ſtock.

Whatever the vain or the ignorant may ſay, well were it for ſociety had we more of this cha⯑racter amongſt us. In general, theſe cloſe men are found at laſt the true benefactors of ſociety. With an avaricious man we ſeldom loſe in our dealings, but too frequently in our commerce with prodigality.

A French prieſt, whoſe name was Godinot, went for a long time by the name of the Griper. He refuſed to relieve the moſt apparent wretched⯑neſs, and by a ſkilful management of his vine⯑yard, had the good fortune to acquire immenſe ſums of money. The inhabitants of Rheims, who were his fellow-citizens, deteſted him, and the populace, who ſeldom love a miſer, wherever he went, received him with contempt. He ſtill, however, continued his former ſimplicity of life, his amazing and unremitted frugality. This good man had long perceived the wants of the poor in the city, particularly, in having no water but what they were obliged to buy at an advanced price; wherefore, that whole fortune, which he had been amaſſing, he laid out in an aqueduct, by which he did the poor more uſeful and laſting ſervice, than if he had diſtributed his whole in⯑come in charity every day at his door.

[86]Among men long converſant with books, we too frequently find thoſe miſplaced virtues, of which I have been now complaining. We find the ſtudious animated with a ſtrong paſſion, for the great virtues, as they are miſtakenly called, and utterly forgetful of the ordinary ones. The declamations of philoſophy are generally rather exhauſted on theſe ſupererogatory duties, than on ſuch as are indiſpenſably neceſſary. A man, therefore, who has taken his ideas of mankind from ſtudy alone, generally comes into the world with an heart melting at every fictitious diſtreſs. Thus he is induced by miſplaced liberality, to put himſelf into the indigent circumſtances of the perſon he relieves.

I ſhall conclude this paper with the advice of one of the Ancients, to a young man, whom he ſaw giving away all his ſubſtance to pretended diſtreſs. ‘"It is poſſible, that the perſon you relieve, may be an honeſt man; and I know, that you, who relieve him, are ſuch. You ſee, then, by your generoſity, you only rob a man, who is certainly deſerving, to beſtow it on one who may poſſibly be a rogue. And while you are unjuſt in rewarding uncertain merit, you are doubly guilty by ſtripping yourſelf."’

ON WIT. By VOLTAIRE.

WIT ſeems to be one of thoſe undetermined ſounds to which we affix ſcarce any preciſe idea. It is ſomething more than judgment, ge⯑nius, taſte, talent, penetration, grace, delicacy, and yet it partakes ſomewhat of each. It may be properly defined ingenious reaſon. It is one of thoſe general terms which always want another word to determine their ſignification; and when we hear ſuch a work praiſed for being witty, ſuch a man applauded for wit, it is but juſt to aſk of what ſort

Thus Corneille with ſublimity, and Boileau with exactneſs; Fontaine with ſimplicity, and Bruyere by being natural, are all reckoned men of wit, yet each differs from the other; and ſtill more from ſome philoſophers, who may be ac⯑counted witty men, who join ſagacity to imagina⯑tion.

They who deſpiſe the Genius of Ariſtotle (in⯑ſtead of being contented with rejecting his Phyſics [88] only, which cannot be good, as he had but few experiments to direct them) will be much ſur⯑prized to find in his rhetoric the manner of ſaying things wittily. He informs us there, that the art does not conſiſt in ſimply uſing the proper term, which offers to the imagination nothing new. We ought, ſays he, rather to employ a metaphor, or a figure, the ſenſe of which muſt be clear, and the expreſſion energetic.

Of this he gives ſeveral examples, and, among others, the expreſſion of Pericles, in talking of a battle in which the moſt beautiful of the youth of Athens were ſlain, The year has been deprived of its ſpring. He adds, that the thought alſo ſhould have the grace of novelty. The perſon who firſt, to expreſs how pleaſures were generally attended with pain, made uſe of the ſimile of roſes being gathered among thorns, had wit. But it is otherwiſe with thoſe who repeat it after him.

But a metaphor is not always the wittieſt man⯑ner of expreſſing a thing with ſpirit, a great deal conſiſts in an unexpected turn, in leaving us to underſtand, without trouble, a part of the poet's meaning. This is ſo much the more pleaſing, as it ſeems an indirect compliment to the reader, and ſhews his wit, as well as that of the Poet. Allu⯑ſion, allegory, compariſon, each furniſhes an ex⯑tenſive field of ingenuity; hiſtory, fable, and the [89] effects of nature, furniſh matter to a well-regulated imagination, that can never be exhauſted.

Let us then conſider in what Places wit ſhould be admitted. It ſeems pretty manifeſt, that, in works of dignity, it ſhould be uſed with caution, as it is only, at beſt, an ornament. The great art is in the proper timing this ornament. A fine thought, a juſt or elegant compariſon, are faults, when reaſon only, or when paſſion ſhould ſpeak, and particularly where the ſubject is intereſting. Uſing it in ſuch circumſtances as theſe, ſhould not be called falſe wit (as Addiſon commonly expreſſes it;) but wit diſplaced, and every miſplaced beauty is rather a defect. This is a fault in which Virgil never tranſgreſſes, and with which Taſſo may be ſometimes reproached, all admirable as he is at other times. This error generally ariſes from an author's exuberance; filled with ideas of different kinds, he is deſirous of ſhewing himſelf, when he ought only to exhibit his perſonages. The beſt method of knowing the true uſe to be made of wit is, by reading the ſmall number of good works, both in the learned languages, and in our own.

Falſe wit, as I have already hinted, is very dif⯑ferent from diſplaced wit. This is not only a falſe thought, but it is generally far-fetched alſo. A man of ſome wit, who formerly abridged [90] Homer in French verſe, imagined he added beau⯑ties to the old ſimple bard, in ſometimes lending him embelliſhments. On the reconciling Achilles with Agamemnon, he thus flouriſhes it:

His taming himſelf does by no means imply his conquering others; but this is not the abſurdity alone, but in making the army, as if by in⯑ſpiration, join in a far-fetched obſervation. If this ſhocks the reader of nice diſcernment, how much more ſo muſt all thoſe forced expreſ⯑ſions, cold yet ſtiffened alluſions, and bloated nothings diſpleaſe, which are found in great plenty in works of otherwiſe real merit. How can we bear to hear a mathematician ſay, ‘"If Saturn ſhould happen to be removed, the remoteſt of his ſatellites would probably take his place, ſince great princes always keep their ſucceſſors at a diſtance."’ It is intolerable, when ſpeaking of Hercules underſtanding phyſicks, to ſay that there was no reſiſting a philoſopher of his force. The deſire of ſparkling and ſurpriſing is too fre⯑quently the cauſe of exceſſes of this kind.

[91]This trifling vanity has alſo produced the play⯑ing upon words in every language, which is the worſt ſort of falſe wit.

Falſe taſte is very different from falſe wit, as the latter always proceeds from affectation, from an effort to go wrong; on the contrary, the other is an habit of going wrong without deſign, and fol⯑lowing, as if by inſtinct, ſome bad, though eſta⯑bliſhed model. The incoherent exuberance of an oriental imagination is a falſe taſte, and an im⯑proper example to imitate: however, they more frequently tranſgreſs in this reſpect, rather from a poverty than a copiouſneſs of real genius. Falling ſtars, ſplitting mountains, rivers flowing to their ſources, the ſun and moon diſſolving, falſe and un⯑natural compariſons, and nature every where ex⯑aggerated, form the character of theſe writers; and this ariſes from their never, in theſe countries, being permitted to ſpeak in public. True elo⯑quence has never been cultivated there, and it is much eaſier to write in a turgid ſtrain, than with eaſe and delicate ſimplicity.

In a word, falſe wit is entirely the oppoſite of the Eaſtern manner; the man of falſe wit deſires to ſay in riddles, what others have ſpoken natu⯑rally. He deſires to unite ideas the moſt incom⯑patible, to divide thoſe which nature has united. To catch unnatural ſimilitudes, without diſcretion [92] to unite pleaſantry with what is ſerious, to mix great and little images together, and to confuſe inſtead of ſatisfying the imagination.

But perſpicuity is not the only part of ſtile in which falſe wit is not conſpicuous, we are at the ſame time too fond of embelliſhment. In our moſt applauded productions there is ſcarce a ſen⯑tence which is not loaded with unneceſſary orna⯑ment, which, though it may add grace to a pe⯑riod, generally diſunites the force of a paragraph. The attention, as in Gothic architecture is ſplit upon a number of minute elegances, which, though each are ſeparately pretty, diminiſh the force of the whole.

Theſe are faults that ſeem to characterize the writings of the age; to theſe every author who would be admired muſt conform. With theſe faults he is ſure of immediate applauſe, though frequently ſcarce allowed a reading. We have ſeen many a writer, of late, make his appearance with theſe qualifications, inſtead of merit; we have ſeen him read by a few, praiſed by all, and ſoon forgotten.

I have been often at a loſs, whether to aſcribe the decline of taſte in a nation, to the reader or the writer. Perhaps both are in fault; the one ſatiated with varied inſtances of perfection, grows [93] whimſical, deſires ſomething new, and miſtakes change for improvement. The other, willing to avoid the character of an imitator, borrows peculiarities from affectation, and becomes origi⯑nal only in trifles. In ſhort, it is as difficult now among ſuch a number of candidates, to catch the attention without theſe oddities of ſtile, as to be remarkable in a crowd without ſome pe⯑culiarity in dreſs and behaviour.

But theſe are generally fleeting modes, which are introduced by the great, brought up to pleaſe for a day, ſoon to be diſplaced by others, which have the advantages of being more new to recom⯑mend them. The literary republic, however, will never ſuffer real injury from ſuch; for what⯑ever pleaſes from its novelty alone, can never pleaſe long. Not from theſe, then, but from the compilers and commentators of the day, is literature to expect the mortal blow; from pe⯑dants, who have no claim but their induſtry for our applauſe; from laborious drones, who write through folios, but do not think through a page.

THE CHARACTERISTICS OF GREATNESS.

IN every duty, in every ſcience in which we would wiſh to arrive at perfection, we ſhould propoſe for the object of our purſuit ſome cer⯑tain ſtation even beyond our abilities; ſome ima⯑ginary excellence, which may amuſe and ſerve to animate our enquiry. In deviating from others, in following an unbeaten road, though we, perhaps, may never arrive at the wiſh'd-for object; yet it is poſſible we may meet ſeveral diſ⯑coveries by the way; and the certainty of ſmall advantages, even while we travel with ſecurity, is not ſo amuſing as the hopes of great rewards, which inſpire the adventurer. Evenit nonnunquam, ſays Quintillian, ut aliquid grande inveniat qui ſemper quaerit quod nimium eſt.

This enterpriſing ſpirit is, however, by no means the character of the preſent age; every perſon who ſhould now leave received opinions, who ſhould attempt to be more than a commen⯑tator [120] upon philoſophy, or an imitator in polite learning, might be regarded as a chimerical pro⯑jector. Hundreds would be ready not only to point out his errors, but to load him with re⯑proach. Our probable opinions are now regarded as certainties; the difficulties hitherto undiſcovered, as utterly inſcrutable; and the writers of the laſt age inimitable, and therefore the propereſt models of imitation.

One might be almoſt induced to deplore the philoſophic ſpirit of the age, which in proportion as it enlightens the mind, encreaſes its timidity, and repreſſes the vigour of every undertaking. Men are now content with being prudently in the right; which, though not the way to make new acquiſitions, it muſt be owned, is the beſt method of ſecuring what we have. Yet this is certain, that the writer who never deviates, who never hazards a new thought, or a new expreſſion, though his friends may compliment him upon his ſagacity, though criticiſm liſts her feeble voice in his praiſe, will ſeldom arrive at any degree of perfection. The way to acquire laſting eſteem, is not by the fewneſs of a writer's faults, but the greatneſs of his beauties, and our nobleſt works are generally moſt replete with both.

An author, who would be ſublime, often runs his thought into burleſque; yet I can readily [121] pardon his miſtaking ten times for once ſucceed⯑ing. True Genius walks along a line, and, perhaps, our greateſt pleaſure is in ſeeing it ſo often near falling, without being ever actually down.

Every ſcience has its hitherto undiſcovered my⯑ſteries, after which men ſhould travel undiſcou⯑raged by the failure of former adventurers. Every new attempt ſerves, perhaps, to facilitate its fu⯑ture invention. We may not find the Philoſo⯑pher's ſtone, but we ſhall probably hit upon new inventions in purſuing it. We ſhall, per⯑haps, never be able to diſcover the longitude, yet, pehaps, we may arrive at new truths in the inveſtigation.

Were any of theſe ſagacious minds among us, (and ſurely no nation, or no period, could ever compare with us in this particular) were any of thoſe minds, I ſay, who now ſit down contented with exploring the intricacies of another's ſyſtem, bravely to ſhake off admiration, and undazzled with the ſplendour of another's reputation, to chalk out a path to fame for themſelves, and boldly culti⯑vate untried experiment, what might not be the reſult of their enquiries, ſhould the ſame ſtudy that has made them wiſe, make them en⯑terprizing alſo? What could not ſuch qualities, united, produce? But ſuch is not the character [122] of the Engliſh, while our neighbours of the con⯑tinent launch out into the ocean of ſcience, without proper ſtores for the voyage, we fear ſhipwreck in every breeze, and conſume in port thoſe powers which might probably have weather'd every ſtorm.

Projectors in a ſtate are generally rewarded above their deſerts; projectors in the republic of letters, never. If wrong, every inferior dunce thinks himſelf entituled to laugh at their diſap⯑pointment; if right, men of ſuperior talents think their honour engaged to oppoſe, ſince every new diſcovery is a tacit diminution of their own pre-eminence.

To aim at excellence, our reputation, our friends, and our all, muſt be ventured; by aiming only at mediocrity, we run no riſque, and we do little ſervice. Prudence and great⯑neſs are ever perſuading us to contrary purſuits. The one inſtructs us to be content with our ſta⯑tion, and to find happineſs in bounding every wiſh. The other impels us to ſuperiority, and calls nothing happineſs but rapture. The one directs to follow mankind, and to act and think with the reſt of the world. The other drives us from the crowd, and expoſes us as a mark to all the ſhafts of envy, or ignorance.

[123]The rewards of mediocrity are immediately paid, thoſe attending excellence generally paid in re⯑verſion. In a word, the little mind who loves itſelf, will write and think with the vulgar, but the great mind will be bravely eccentric, and ſcorn the beaten road, from univerſal benevo⯑lence.

Upon POLITICAL FRUGALITY.

FRUGALITY has ever been eſteemed a virtue as well among Pagans as Chriſtians: There have been even heroes who have prac⯑tiſed it. However, we muſt ac⯑knowledge, that it is too modeſt a virtue, or, if you will, too obſcure a one to be eſſential to he⯑roiſm, few heroes have been able to attain to ſuch an height. Frugality agrees much better with po⯑liticks; it ſeems to be the baſe, the ſupport, and, in a word, ſeems to be the inſeparable companion of a juſt adminiſtration.

[130]However this be, there is not, perhaps, in the world a people leſs fond of this virtue than the Engliſh, and of conſequence there is not a nation more reſtleſs, more expoſed to the uneaſineſſes of life, or leſs capable of providing for particular happineſs. We are taught to deſpiſe this virtue from our childhood, our education is improperly directed, and a man who has gone through the politeſt inſtitutions, is generally the perſon who is leaſt acquainted with the wholeſome precepts of frugality. We every day hear the elegance of taſte, the magnificence of ſome, and the gene⯑roſity of others, made the ſubject of our admira⯑tion and applauſe. All this we ſee repreſented not as the end and recompenſe of labour and de⯑ſert, but as the actual reſult of genius, as the mark of a noble and exalted mind.

In the midſt of theſe praiſes beſtowed on luxury, for which elegance and taſte are but another name, perhaps it may be thought improper to plead the cauſe of frugality. It may be thought low, or vainly declamatory, to exhort our youth from the follies of dreſs, and of every other ſuperfluity to accuſtom themſelves, even with mechanic mean⯑neſs, to the ſimple neceſſaries of life. Such ſort of inſtructions may appear antiquated; yet, how⯑ever, they ſeem the foundations of all our vir⯑tues, and the moſt efficacious method of making mankind uſeful members of ſociety. Unhappily, [131] however, ſuch diſcourſes are not faſhionable among us, and the faſhion ſeems every day growing ſtill more obſolete, ſince the preſs, and every other method of exhortation, ſeems diſpoſed to talk of the luxuries of life as harmleſs enjoyments. I re⯑member, when a boy, to have remarked, that thoſe who in ſchool wore the fineſt cloaths, were pointed at as being conceited and proud. At pre⯑ſent, our little maſters are taught to conſider dreſs betimes, and they are regarded, even at ſchool, with contempt, who do not appear as genteel as the reſt. Education ſhould teach us to become uſeful, ſober, diſintereſted and laborious members of ſociety; but does it not at preſent point out a different path! It teaches us to multiply our wants, by which means we become more eager to poſſeſs, in order to diſſipate, a greater charge to ourſelves, and more uſeleſs or obnoxious to ſociety.

If a youth happens to be poſſeſſed of more genius than fortune, he is early informed that he ought to think of his advancement in the world; that he ſhould labour to make himſelf pleaſing to his ſuperiors; that he ſhould ſhun low company; (by which is meant the company of his equals) that he ſhould rather live a little above than below his fortune; that he ſhould think of becoming great; but he finds none to admoniſh him to be⯑come frugal, to perſevere in one ſingle deſign, to [132] avoid every pleaſure and all flattery, which, how⯑ever, ſeeming to conciliate the favour of his ſu⯑periors, never conciliate their eſteem. There are none to teach him that the beſt way of be⯑coming happy in himſelf, and uſeful to others, is to continue in the ſtate which fortune at firſt placed him, without making too haſty ſtrides to advancement; that greatneſs may be attained, but ſhould not be expected; and that they who moſt impatiently expect advancement, are ſeldom poſſeſſed of their wiſhes. He has few, I ſay, to teach him this leſſon, or to moderate his youthful paſſions, yet, this experience may ſay, that a young man, who but for ſix years of the early part of his life, could ſeem diveſted of all his paſſions, would certainly make, or conſiderably increaſe his fortune, and might indulge ſeveral of his favourite inclinations in manhood with the utmoſt ſecurity.

The efficaciouſneſs of theſe means are ſuffi⯑ciently known and acknowledged; but as we are apt to connect a low idea with all our notions of frugality, the perſon who would perſuade us to it, might be accuſed of preaching up avarice.

Of all vices, however, againſt which morality diſſuades, there is not one more undetermined than this of avarice. Miſers are deſcribed by ſome, as men diveſted of honour, ſentiment or huma⯑nity; [133] but this is only an ideal picture, or the reſemblance at leaſt is found but in a few. In truth, they who are generally called miſers, are ſome of the very beſt members of ſociety. The ſober, the laborious, the attentive, the frugal, are thus ſtiled by the gay, giddy, thoughtleſs and extravagant. The firſt ſet of men do ſociety all the good, and the latter all the evil that is felt. Even the exceſſes of the firſt no way injure the commonwealth; thoſe of the latter are the moſt injurious that can be conceived.

The ancient Romans, more rational than we in this particular, were very far from thus miſ⯑placing their admiration or praiſe; inſtead of re⯑garding the practice of parſimony as low or vi⯑cious, they made it ſynonimous even with pro⯑bity. They eſteemed thoſe virtues ſo inſeparable, that the known expreſſion of Vir Frugi ſignified, at one and the ſame time, a ſober and managing man, an honeſt man, and a man of ſubſtance.

The ſcriptures, in a thouſand places, praiſe oeco⯑nomy; and it is every where diſtinguiſhed from avarice. But in ſpite of all its ſacred dictates, a taſte for vain pleaſures and fooliſh expence is the ruling paſſion of the preſent times. Paſſion did I call it, rather the madneſs which at once poſ⯑ſeſſes the great and the little, the rich and the poor; even ſome are ſo intent upon acquiring the [134] ſuperfluities of life, that they ſacrifice its neceſſaries in this fooliſh purſuit.

To attempt the entire abolition of luxury, as it would be impoſſible, ſo it is not my intent. The generality of mankind are too weak, too much ſlaves, to cuſtom and opinion, to reſiſt the torrent of bad example. But if it be impoſſible to convert the multitude; thoſe who have received a more extended education, who are enlightened and judicious, may find ſome hints on this ſubject uſeful. They may ſee ſome abuſes, the ſuppreſ⯑ſion of which would by no means endanger public liberty; they may be directed to the abolition of ſome unneceſſary expences, which have no ten⯑dency to promote happineſs or virtue, and which might be directed to better purpoſes. Our fire⯑works, our public feaſts and entertainments, our entries of ambaſſadors, &c. what mummery all this; what childiſh pageants, what millions are ſacrificed in paying tribute to cuſtom, what an un⯑neceſſary charge at times when we are preſſed with real want, which cannot be ſatisfied without burthening the poor?

Were ſuch ſuppreſſed entirely, not a ſingle crea⯑ture in the ſtate would have the leaſt cauſe to mourn their ſuppreſſion, and many might be eaſed of a load they now feel lying heavily upon them. If this were put in practice, it would agree with the [135] advice of a ſenſible writer of Sweden, who, in the Gazette de France, 1753, thus expreſſed himſelf on that ſubject. ‘"It were ſincerely to be wiſhed, ſays he, that the cuſtom were eſtabliſhed amongſt us, that in all events which cauſe a publick joy, we made our exultations conſpicuous only by acts uſeful to ſociety. We ſhould then quickly ſee many uſeful monuments of our reaſon, which would much better perpetuate the me⯑mory of things worthy of being tranſmitted to poſterity, and would be much more glorious to humanity than all theſe tumultuous prepara⯑tions of feaſts, entertainments, and other re⯑joicings uſed upon ſuch occaſions."’

The ſame propoſal was long before confirmed by a Chineſe emperor, who lived in the laſt cen⯑tury, who, upon an occaſion of extraordinary joy, forbad his ſubjects to make the uſual illluminations, either with a deſign of ſparing their ſubſtance, or of turning them to ſome more durable indication of joy, more glorious for him, and more ad⯑vantageous to his people.

After ſuch inſtances of political frugality, can we then continue to blame the Dutch ambaſſador at a certain court, who receiving, at his depar⯑ture, the portrait of the king, enriched with diamonds, aſked what this fine thing might be worth? Being told that it might amount to about [136] two thouſand pounds. ‘"And why, cries he, can⯑not his majeſty keep the picture, and give me the money?"’ This ſimplicity may be ridiculed at firſt; but, when we come to examine it more cloſely, men of ſenſe will at once confeſs that he had reaſon in what he ſaid, and that a purſe of two thouſand guineas is much more ſerviceable than a picture.

Should we follow the ſame method of ſtate fru⯑gality in other reſpects, what numberleſs ſavings might not be the reſult! How many poſſibilities of ſaving in the adminiſtration of juſtice, which now burdens the ſubject, and enriches ſome mem⯑bers of ſociety, who are uſeful only from its cor⯑ruption!

It were to be wiſhed, that they who govern kingdoms, would imitate artizans. When at London a new ſtuff has been invented, it is im⯑mediately counterfeited in France. How happy were it for ſociety, if a firſt miniſter would be equally ſolicitous to tranſplant the uſeful laws of other countries into his own. We are arrived at a perfect imitation of Porcelaine; let us endeavour to imitate the good to ſociety that our neighbours are found to practiſe, and let our neighbours alſo imitate thoſe parts of duty in which we excel.

There are ſome men, who, in their garden, attempt to raiſe thoſe fruits which nature has [137] adapted only to the ſultry climates beneath the line. We have at our very doors a thouſand laws and cuſtoms infinitely uſeful; theſe are the fruits we ſhould endeavour to tranſplant; theſe the exotics that would ſpeedily become naturalized to the ſoil. They might grow in every climate, and benefit every poſſeſſor.

The beſt and the moſt uſeful laws I have ever ſeen, are generally practiſed in Holland. When two men are determined to go to law with each other, they are firſt obliged to go before the re⯑conciling judges, called the peace makers. If the parties come attended with an advocate or a ſoli⯑citor, they are obliged to retire, as we take fuel from the fire we are deſirous of extinguiſhing.

The peace makers then begin adviſing the parties, by aſſuring them, that it is the height of folly to waſte their ſubſtance, and make them⯑ſelves mutually miſerable, by having recourſe to the tribunals of juſtice: Follow but our direction, and we will accommodate matters without any expence to either. If the rage of debate is too ſtrong upon either party, they are remitted back for another day, in order that time may ſoften their tempers, and produce a reconciliation. They are thus ſent for twice or thrice; if their folly happens to be incurable, they are permitted to go to law, and as we give up to amputation, ſuch [138] members as cannot be cured by art, juſtice is permitted to take its courſe.

It is unneceſſary to make here long declama⯑tions, or calculate what ſociety would ſave, were this law adopted. I am ſenſible, that the man who adviſes any reformation, only ſerves to make himſelf ridiculous. What! mankind will be apt to ſay, adopt the cuſtoms of countries that have not ſo much real liberty as our own, our preſent cuſtoms what are they to any man; we are very happy under them! This muſt be a very pleaſant fellow, who attempts to make us happier than we already are! Does he not know that abuſes are the patrimony of a great part of the nation. Why deprive us of a malady by which ſuch numbers find their account. This I muſt own is an argu⯑ment to which I have nothing to reply.

What numberleſs ſavings might there not be made in both arts and commerce, particularly in the liberty of exerciſing trade, without the neceſ⯑ſary prerequiſites of freedom! Such uſeleſs obſtruc⯑tions have crept into every ſtate, from a ſpirit of monopoly, a narrow ſelfiſh ſpirit of gain, with⯑out the leaſt attention to general ſociety. Such a clog upon induſtry frequently drives the poor from labour, and reduces them, by degrees, to a ſtate of hopeleſs indigence. We have already a more than ſufficient repugnance to labour; we ſhould [139] by no means encreaſe the obſtacles, or make ex⯑cuſes in a ſtate for idleneſs. Such faults have ever crept into a ſtate, under wrong or needy ad⯑miniſtrations.

Excluſive of the maſters, there are numberleſs faulty expences among the workmen; clubs, gar⯑niſhes, freedoms, and ſuch like impoſitions, which are not too minute even for law to take notice of, and which ſhould be aboliſhed without mercy, ſince they are ever the inlets to exceſs and idle⯑neſs, and are the parent of all thoſe outrages which naturally fall upon the more uſeful part of ſociety. In the towns and countries I have ſeen, I never ſaw a city or a village yet, whoſe miſeries were not in proportion to the number of its pub⯑lic houſes. In Rotterdam, you may go through eight or ten ſtreets without finding a public houſe. In Antwerp, almoſt every ſecond houſe ſeems an alehouſe. In the one city, all wears the appear⯑ance of happineſs and warm affluence; in the other, the young fellows walk about the ſtreets in ſhabby finery, their fathers ſit at the door derning or knitting ſtockings, while their ports are filled with dunghills.

Alehouſes are ever an occaſion of debauchery and exceſs, and either in a religious or political light, it would be our higheſt intereſt to have the greateſt part of them ſuppreſſed. They ſhould be put un⯑der [140] laws of not continuing open beyond a certain hour, and harbouring only proper perſons. Theſe rules, it may be ſaid, will diminiſh the neceſſary taxes; but this is falſe reaſoning, ſince what was conſumed in debauchery abroad, would, if ſuch a regulation took place, be more juſtly, and per⯑haps, more equitably for the workman's family, ſpent at home; and this cheaper to them, and without loſs of time. On the other hand, our alehouſes being ever open, interrupt buſineſs; the workman is rever certain who frequents them, nor can the maſter be ſure of having what was begun, finiſhed at the convenient time.

An habit of frugality among the lower orders of mankind is much more beneficial to ſociety than the unreflecting might imagine. The pawn⯑broker, the attorney, and other peſts of ſociety, might, by proper management, be turned into ſerviceable members; and, were their trades aboliſhed, it is poſſible the ſame avarice that con⯑ducts the one, or the ſame chicanery that charac⯑terizes the other, might, by proper regulations, be converted into frugality, and commendable prudence.

But ſome have made the eulogium of luxury, have repreſented it as the natural conſequence of every country that is become rich. Did we not employ our extraordinary wealth in ſuperfluities, [141] ſay they, what other means would there be to em⯑ploy it in? To which it may be anſwered, If frugality were eſtabliſhed in the ſtate, if our expences were laid out rather in the neceſſaries than the ſuperfluities of life, there might be fewer wants, and even fewer pleaſures, but infinitely more happineſs. The rich and the great would be better able to ſatisfy their creditors; they would be better able to marry their children, and, in⯑ſtead of one marriage at preſent, there might be two, if ſuch regulations took place.

The imaginary calls of vanity, which in reality contribute nothing to our real felicity, would not then be attended to, while the real calls of na⯑ture might he always and univerſally ſupplied. The difference of employment in the ſubject is what, in reality, produces the good of ſociety. If the ſubject be engaged in providing only the luxuries, the neceſſaries muſt be deficient in pro⯑portion. If neglecting the produce of our own country, our minds are ſet upon the productions of another, we encreaſe our wants, but not our means; and every new imported delicacy for our tables, or ornament in our equipage, is a tax upon the poor.

The true intereſt of every government is to cultivate the neceſſaries, by which is always meant every happineſs our own country can produce; and ſuppreſs all the luxuries, by which is meant, [142] on the other hand, every happineſs imported from abroad. Commerce has therefore its bounds; and every new import, inſtead of encouragement, ſhould be firſt examined whether it be conducive to the intereſt of ſociety.

Among the many publications with which the preſs is every day burthened, I have often won⯑dered why we never had, as in other countries, an Oeconomical Journal, which might at once direct to all the uſeful diſcoveries in other coun⯑tries, and ſpread thoſe of our own. As other journals ſerve to amuſe the learned, or what is more often the caſe, to make them quarrel, while they only ſerve to give us the hiſtory of the miſchievous world, for ſo I call our warriors; or the idle world, for ſo may the learned be called; they never trouble their heads about the moſt uſe⯑ful part of mankind, our peaſants and our arti⯑zans; were ſuch a work carried into execution with proper management and juſt direction, it might ſerve as a repoſitory for every uſeful improve⯑ment, and increaſe that knowledge which learning often ſerves to confound.

Sweden ſeems the only country where the ſci⯑ence of oeconomy ſeems to have fixed its empire. In other countries, it is cultivated only by a few admirers, or by ſocieties which have not received [143] ſufficient ſanction to become compleatly uſeful; but here there is founded a royal academy, deſtined to this purpoſe only, compoſed of the moſt learned and powerful members of the ſtate; an academy which declines every thing which only terminates in amuſement, erudition or curioſity, and admits only of obſervations tending to illuſtrate huſbandry, agriculture, and every real phyſical improvement. In this country nothing is left to private rapacity, but every improvement is immediately diffuſed, and its inventor immediately recompenſed by the ſtate. Happy were it ſo in other countries; by this means every impoſtor would be prevented from ruining or deceiving the publick with pre⯑tended diſcoveries or noſtrums, and every real in⯑ventor would not, by this means, ſuffer the in⯑conveniences of ſuſpicion.

In ſhort, true oeconomy, equally unknown to the prodigal and avaricious, ſeems to be a juſt mean between both extremes; and to a tranſgreſſion of this, at preſent decried virtue, it is that we are to at⯑tribute a great part of the evils which infeſt ſociety. A taſte for ſuperfluity, amuſement, and pleaſure bring effeminacy, idleneſs, and expence in their train. But a thirſt of riches is always proportioned to our debauchery, and the greateſt prodigal is too frequently found to be the greateſt miſer; ſo that the vices which ſeem the moſt oppoſite, are fre⯑quently [144] found to produce each other; and, to avoid both, it is only neceſſary to be frugal.

UPON UNFORTUNATE MERIT.

EVERY age ſeems to have its favourite pur⯑ſuits, which ſerve to amuſe the idle, and re⯑lieve the attention of the induſtrious. Happy the man who is born excellent in the purſuit in vogue, and whoſe genius ſeems adapted to the times he lives in. How many do we ſee, who might have excelled in arts or ſciences, and who ſeem fur⯑niſhed with talents equal to the greateſt diſcoveries, had the road not been already beaten by their predeceſſors, and nothing left for them, except trifles to diſcover, while others, of very moderate abilities, become famous, becauſe happening to be firſt in the reigning purſuit.

Thus, at the renewal of letters in Europe, the taſte was not to compoſe new books, but to com⯑ment on the old ones. It was not to be expected that new books ſhould be written, when there were ſo many of the Ancients, either not known, or not underſtood. It was not reaſonable to at⯑tempt new conqueſts, while they had ſuch an extenſive region lying waſte for want of cultiva⯑tion. At that period, criticiſm and erudition were the reigning ſtudies of the times; and he, who had only an inventive genius, might have [158] languiſhed in hopeleſs obſcurity. When the writers of antiquity were ſufficiently explained and known, the learned ſet about imitating them: From hence proceeded the number of latin ora⯑tors, poets and hiſtorians, in the reigns of Clement the ſeventh, and Alexander the ſixth. This paſ⯑ſion for antiquity laſted for many years, to the utter excluſion of every other purſuit, till ſome began to find, that thoſe works which were imi⯑tated from nature, were more like the writings of antiquity, than even thoſe written in expreſs imi⯑tation. It was then modern language began to be cultivated with aſſiduity, and our poets and orators poured forth their wonders upon the world.

As writers become more numerous, it is natural for readers to become more indolent; from whence muſt neceſſarily ariſe a deſire of attaining know⯑ledge with the greateſt poſſible eaſe. No ſcience or art offers its inſtruction and amuſement in ſo ob⯑vious a manner as ſtatuary and painting. From hence we ſee, that a deſire of cultivating thoſe arts generally attends the decline of ſcience. Thus the fineſt ſtatues, and the moſt beautiful paintings of antiquity preceded but a little the abſolute decay of every other ſcience. The ſtatues of Antoninus, Comodus, and their cotemporaries, are the fineſt productions of the chiſſel, and appeared but juſt before learning was deſtroyed by comment, criti⯑ciſm, and barbarous invaſions.

What happened in Rome may probably be the caſe with us at home. Our nobility are now more [159] ſolicitous in patronizing painters and ſculptors than thoſe of any other polite profeſſion; and from the lord, who has his gallery, down to the 'prentice, who has his twopenny copper-plate, all are admirers of this art. The great, by their careſſes, ſeem in⯑ſenſible to all other merit but that of the pencil; and the vulgar buy every book rather from the ex⯑cellence of the ſculptor than the writer.

How happy were it now, if men of real excel⯑lence in that profeſſion were to ariſe! Were the painters of Italy now to appear, who once wan⯑dered like beggars from one city to another, and produce their almoſt breathing figures, what re⯑wards might they not expect! But many of them lived without rewards, and therefore rewards alone will never produce their equals. We have often found the great exert themſelves not only without promotion, but in ſpite of oppoſition. We have found them flouriſhing, like medicinal plants, in a region of ſavageneſs and barbarity, their excellence unknown, and their virtues unheeded.

They who have ſeen the paintings of Cara⯑vagio are ſenſible of the ſurpriſing impreſſion they make; bold, ſwelling, terrible to the laſt degree; all ſeem animated, and ſpeaks him among the foremoſt of his profeſſion; yet this man's fortune and his fame ſeemed ever in oppoſition to each other.

Unknowing how to flatter the great, he was driven from city to city in the utmoſt indigence, and might truly be ſaid to paint for his bread.

[160]Having one day inſulted a perſon of diſtinction, who refuſed to pay him all the reſpect which he thought his due, he was obliged to leave Rome, and travel on foot, his uſual method of going his journeys down into the country, without either money or friends to ſubſiſt him.

After he had travelled in this manner as long as his ſtrength would permit, faint with famine and fatigue, he at laſt called at an obſcure inn by the way ſide. The hoſt knew, by the appearance of his gueſt, his indifferent circumſtances, and re⯑fuſed to furniſh him a dinner without previous payment.

As Caravagio was entirely deſtitute of money, he took down the inkeeper's ſign, and painted it anew for his dinner.

Thus refreſhed, he proceeded on his journey, and left the innkeeper not quite ſatisfied with this method of payment. Some company of diſtinction, however, coming ſoon after, and ſtruck with the beauty of the new ſign, bought it at an ad⯑vanced price, and aſtoniſhed the innkeeper with their generoſity; he was reſolved, therefore, to get as many ſigns as poſſible drawn by the ſame artiſt, as he found he could ſell them to good ad⯑vantage; and accordingly ſet out after Caravadgio, in order to bring him back. It was night-fall be⯑fore he came up to the place, where the unfortu⯑nate Caravagio lay dead by the road ſide, over⯑come by fatigue, reſentment and deſpair.

On EDUCATION. To the AUTHOR of the BEE.

AS few ſubjects are more intereſting to ſociety, ſo few have been more frequently written upon, than the education of youth. Yet is it not a little ſurprizing, that it ſhould have been treated almoſt by all in a declamatory manner? They have inſiſted largely on the ad⯑vantages that reſult from it, both to the in⯑dividual and to ſociety, and have expatiated in [162] the praiſe of what none have ever been ſo hardy as to call in queſtion.

Inſtead of giving us fine, but empty harangues, upon this ſubject, inſtead of indulging each his particular and whimſical ſyſtems, it had been much better if the writers on this ſubject had treated it in a more ſcientific manner, repreſſed all the ſallies of imagination, and given us the reſult of their obſervations with didactic ſimplicity. Upon this ſubject, the ſmalleſt errors are of the moſt dangerous conſequence; and the author ſhould venture the imputation of ſtupidity upon a topic, where his ſlighteſt deviations may tend to injure the riſing generation.

I ſhall, therefore, throw out a few thoughts upon this ſubject, which have not been attended to by others, and ſhall diſmiſs all attempts to pleaſe, while I ſtudy only inſtruction.

The manner in which our youth of London are at preſent educated is, ſome in free ſchools in the city, but the far greater number in boarding ſchools about town. The parent juſtly conſults the health of his child, and finds an education in the country tends to promote this, much more than a continuance in town. Thus far they are right; if there were a poſſibility of having even our free ſchools kept a little out of town, it [163] would certainly conduce to the health and vigour of, perhaps, the mind, as well as the body. It may be thought whimſical, but it is truth; I have found by experience, that they, who have ſpent all their lives in cities, contract not only an effeminacy of habit, but even of thinking.

But when I have ſaid, that the boarding ſchools are preferable to free ſchools, as being in the country, this is certainly the only advantage I can allow them, otherwiſe it is impoſſible to con⯑ceive the ignorance of thoſe who take upon them the important truſt of education. Is any man unfit for any of the profeſſions; he finds his laſt reſource in ſetting up ſchool. Do any become bankrupts in trade. They ſtill ſet up a boarding ſchool, and drive a trade this way, when all others fail: Nay, I have been told of butchers and barbers, who have turned ſchoolmaſters; and more ſurpriſing ſtill, made fortunes in their new profeſſion.

Could we think ourſelves in a country of civi⯑lized people; could it be conceived that we have any regard for poſterity, when ſuch are permitted to take the charge of the morals, genius and health of thoſe dear little pledges, who may one day be the guardians of the liberties of Europe, and who may ſerve as the honour and bulwark of their aged parents? The care of our children, is it [164] below the ſtate? is it fit to indulge the caprice of the ignorant with the diſpoſal of their children in this particular? For the ſtate to take the charge of all its children, as in Perſia or Sparta, might at preſent be inconvenient; but ſurely, with great eaſe, it might caſt an eye to their inſtructors. Of all members of ſociety, I do not know a more uſeful, or a more honourable one, than a ſchool-maſter; at the ſame time that I do not ſee any more generally deſpiſed, or whoſe talents are ſo ill rewarded.

Were the ſalaries of ſchool maſters to be aug⯑mented from a diminution of uſeleſs ſine cures, how might it turn to the advantage of this people; a people whom, without flattery, I may, in other reſpects, term the wiſeſt and greateſt upon earth. But while I would reward the de⯑ſerving, I would diſmiſs thoſe utterly unqualified for their employment: In ſhort, I would make the buſineſs of a ſchool maſter every way more reſpectable, by encreaſing their ſalaries, and ad⯑mitting only men of proper abilities.

There are already ſchool maſters appointed, and they have ſome ſmall ſalaries; but where at preſent there is but one ſchool maſter appointed, there ſhould at leaſt be two; and wherever the ſalary is at preſent twenty pounds, it ſhould be an hundred. Do we give immoderate benefices [165] to thoſe who inſtruct ourſelves, and ſhall we deny even ſubſiſtence to thoſe who inſtruct our children. Every member of ſociety ſhould be paid in propor⯑tion as he is neceſſary; and I will be bold enough to ſay, that ſchool maſters in a ſtate, are more neceſſary than clergymen, as children ſtand in more need of inſtruction than their parents.

But inſtead of this, as I have already obſerved, we ſend them to board in the country to the moſt ignorant ſet of men that can be imagined. But leaſt the ignorance of the maſter be not ſufficient, the child is generally conſigned to the uſher. This is generally ſome poor needy animal, little ſupe⯑rior to a footman either in learning or ſpirit, in⯑vited to his place by an advertiſement, and kept there merely from his being of a complying diſpo⯑ſition, and making the children fond of him. You give your child to be educated to a ſlave, ſays a philoſopher to a rich man; Inſtead of one ſlave, you will then have two.

It were well, however, if parents, upon fixing their children in one of theſe houſes, would exa⯑mine the abilities of the uſher as well as the maſter; for, whatever they are told to the con⯑trary, the uſher is generally the perſon moſt em⯑ployed in their education. If then, a gentleman, upon putting out his ſon to one of theſe houſes, ſees the uſher diſregarded by the maſter, he may [166] depend upon it, that he is equally diſregarded by the boys; the truth is, in ſpite of all their en⯑deavours to pleaſe, they are generally the laughing ſtock of the ſchool. Every trick is played upon the uſher; the oddity of his manners, his dreſs, or his language, are a fund of eternal ridicule; the maſter himſelf now and then cannot avoid joining in the laugh, and the poor wretch, eter⯑nally reſenting this ill uſage, ſeems to live in a ſtate of war with all the family. This is a very proper perſon, is it not, to give children a reliſh for learning? They muſt eſteem learning very much, when they ſee its profeſſors uſed with ſuch ceremony. If the uſher be deſpiſed, the father may be aſſured his child will never be properly inſtructed.

But let me ſuppoſe, that there are ſome ſchools without theſe inconveniencies, where the maſter and uſhers are men of learning, reputation and aſſiduity. If there are to be found ſuch, they cannot be prized in a ſtate ſufficiently. A boy will learn more true wiſdom in a public ſchool in a year, than by a private education in five. It is not from maſters, but from their equals, youth learn a knowledge of the world; the little tricks they play each other, the puniſhment that fre⯑quently attends the commiſſion, is a juſt picture of the great world, and all the ways of men are practiſed in a public ſchool in miniature. It is [167] true, a child is early made acquainted with ſome vices in a ſchool, but it is better to know theſe when a boy, than be firſt taught them when a man, for their novelty then may have irreſiſtible charms.

In a public education, boys early learn tem⯑perance; and if the parents and friends would give them leſs money upon their uſual viſits, it would be much to their advantage, ſince it may juſtly be ſaid, that a great part of their diſorders ariſe from ſurfeit, Plus occidit gula quam gladius. And now I am come to the article of health, it may not be amiſs to obſerve▪ that Mr. Locke, and ſome others, have adviſed that children ſhould be inured to cold, to fatigue, and hardſhip, from their youth; but Mr. Locke was but an indifferent phyſician. Habit, I grant, has great influence over our conſtitutions, but we have not preciſe ideas upon this ſubject.

We know, that among ſavages, and even among our peaſants, there are found children born with ſuch conſtitutions, that they croſs ri⯑vers by ſwimming, endure cold, thirſt, hunger, and want of ſleep, to a ſurprizing degree; that when they happen to fall ſick, they are cured without the help of medicine, by nature alone. Such examples are adduced to perſuade us to imi⯑tate their manner of education, and accuſtom [168] ourſelves betimes to ſupport the ſame fatigues. But had theſe gentlemen conſidered firſt, that thoſe ſavages and peaſants are generally not ſo long lived as they who have led a more indolent life: Secondly, that the more laborious the life is, the leſs populous is the country. Had they conſidered, that what phyſicians call the ſtamina vitae, by fatigue and labour, become rigid, and thus anticipate old age. That the number who ſurvive thoſe rude trials, bears no proportion to thoſe who die in the experiment. Had theſe things been properly conſidered, they would not have thus extolled an education begun in fatigue and hardſhips. Peter the Great, willing to enure the children of his ſeamen to a life of hardſhip, ordered that they ſhould only drink ſea water, but they unfortunately all died under the ex⯑periment.

But while I would exclude all unneceſſary la⯑bours, yet ſtill I would recommend temperance in the higheſt degree. No luxurious diſhes with high ſeaſoning, nothing given children to force an appetite, as little ſugared or ſalted proviſions as poſſible, though never ſo pleaſing; but milk, morning and night, ſhould be their conſtant food. This diet would make them more healthy than any of thoſe ſlops that are uſually cooked by the miſtreſs of a boarding ſchool; beſides, it corrects [169] any conſumptive habits, not unfrequently found amongſt the children of city parents.

As boys ſhould be educated with temperance, ſo the firſt greateſt leſſon that ſhould be taught them is, to admire frugality. It is by the exer⯑ciſe of this virtue alone, they can ever expect to be uſeful members of ſociety. It is true, lectures continually repeated upon this ſubject, may make ſome boys when they grow up, run into an ex⯑treme, and become miſers; but it were well, had we more miſers than we have among us. I know few characters more uſeful in ſociety, for a man's having a larger or ſmaller ſhare of money lying uſeleſs by him, no way injures the common⯑wealth; ſince, ſhould every miſer now exhauſt his ſtores, this might make gold more plenty, but it would not encreaſe the commodities or pleaſures of life; they would ſtill remain as they are at preſent; it matters not, therefore, whether men are miſers or not, if they be only frugal, labo⯑rious, and fill the ſtation they have choſen. If they deny themſelves the neceſſaries of life, ſo⯑ciety is no way injured by their folly.

Inſtead, therefore, of romances, which praiſe young men of ſpirit, who go through a variety of adventures, and at laſt conclude a life of diſſipa⯑tion, folly, and extravagance in riches and matri⯑mony, there ſhould be ſome men of wit employed [170] to compoſe books that might equally intereſt the paſſions of our youth, where ſuch an one might be praiſed for having reſiſted allurements when young, and how he at laſt became lord mayor; how he was married to a lady of great ſenſe, for⯑tune, and beauty; to be as explicit as poſſible, the old ſtory of Whittington, were his cat left out, might be more ſerviceable to the tender mind, than either Tom Jones, Joſeph Andrews, or an hundred others, where frugality is the only good quality the hero is not poſſeſſed of. Were our ſchool-maſters, if any of them have ſenſe enough to daw up ſuch a work, thus employed it would be much more ſerviceable to their pupils than all the grammars and dictionaries they may publiſh theſe ten years.

Children ſhould early be inſtructed in the arts from which they would afterwards draw the greateſt advantages. When the wonders of na⯑ture are never expoſed to our view, we have no great deſire to become acquainted with thoſe parts of learning which pretend to account for the phae⯑nomena. One of the ancients complains, that as ſoon as young men have left ſchool, and are obliged to converſe in the world, they fancy themſelves tranſported into a new region. Ut cum in forum venerarint exiſtiment ſe in alium ter⯑rum orbem delatos. We ſhould early, therefore, inſtruct them in the experiments, if I may ſo ex⯑preſs [171] it, of knowledge, and leave to maturer age the accounting for the cauſes. But, inſtead of that, when boys begin natural philoſophy in col⯑leges, they have not the leaſt curioſity for thoſe parts of the ſcience which are propoſed for their inſtruction; they have never before ſeen the phae⯑nomena, and conſequently have no curioſity to learn the reaſons. Might natural philoſophy, therefore, be made their paſtime in ſchool, by this means it would in college become their amuſe⯑ment.

In ſeveral of the machines now in uſe, there would be ample field both for inſtruction and amuſement; the different ſorts of the phoſpho⯑rus, the artificial pyrites, magnetiſm, electricity, the experiments upon the rarefaction and weight of the air, and thoſe upon elaſtic bodies, might employ their idle hours, and none ſhould be called from play to ſee ſuch experiments but ſuch as thought proper. At firſt then it would be ſuffi⯑cient if the inſtruments, and the effects of their combination, were only ſhewn; the cauſes ſhould be deferred to a maturer age, or to thoſe times when natural curioſity prompts us to diſcover the wonders of nature. Man is placed in this world as a ſpectator; when he is tired with wondering at all the novelties about him, and not till then, does he deſire to be made acquainted with the cauſes that create thoſe wonders.

[172]What I have obſerved with regard to natural philoſophy, I would extend to every other ſcience whatſoever. We ſhould teach them as many of the facts as were poſſible, and defer the cauſes until they ſeemed of themſelves deſirous of know⯑ing them. A mind thus leaving ſchool, ſtored with all the ſimple experiences of ſcience, would be the fitteſt in the world for the college courſe; and though ſuch a youth might not appear ſo bright, or ſo talkative, as thoſe who had learned the real principles and cauſes of ſome of the ſciences, yet he would make a wiſer man, and would re⯑tain a more laſting paſſion for letters than he who was early burdened with the diſagreeable inſtitu⯑tion of effect and cauſe.

In hiſtory, ſuch ſtories alone ſhould be laid be⯑fore them as might catch the imagination; inſtead of this, they are too frequently obliged to toil through the four empires, as they are called, where their memories are burdened by a number of diſguſting names, that deſtroy all their future reliſh for our beſt hiſtorians, who may be termed the trueſt teachers of wiſdom.

Every ſpecies of flattery ſhould be carefully avoided; a boy who happens to ſay a ſprightly thing is generally applauded ſo much, that he happens to continue a coxcomb ſometimes all his life after. He is reputed a wit at fourteen, and [173] becomes a blockhead at twenty. Nurſes, footmen, and ſuch, ſhould therefore be driven away as much as poſſible. I was even going to add, that the mother herſelf ſhould ſtifle her pleaſure, or her vanity, when little maſter happens to ſay a good or a ſmart thing. Thoſe modeſt lubberly boys, who ſeem to want ſpirit, generally go through their buſineſs with more eaſe to themſelves, and more ſatisfaction to their inſtructors.

There has of late a gentleman appeared, who thinks the ſtudy of rhetoric eſſential to a per⯑fect education. That bold male eloquence, which often, without pleaſing, convinces, is generally deſtroyed by ſuch inſtitutions. Convincing elo⯑quence, however, is infinitely more ſerviceable to its poſſeſſor than the moſt florid harangue or the moſt pathetic tones that can be imagined; and the man who is thoroughly convinced himſelf who underſtands his ſubject, and the language he ſpeaks in, will be more apt to ſilence oppoſition, than he who ſtudies the force of his periods, and fills our ears with ſounds, while our minds are deſtitute of conviction.

It was reckoned the fault of the orators at the decline of the Roman empire, when they had been long inſtructed by rhetoricians, that their periods were ſo harmonious, as that they could be ſung as well as ſpoken. What a ridiculous figure [174] muſt one of theſe gentlemen cut, thus meaſuring ſyllables, and weighing words, when he ſhould plead the cauſe of his client! Two architects were once candidates for the building a certain temple at Athens; the firſt harangued the crowd very learnedly upon the different orders of archi⯑tecture, and ſhewed them in what manner the temple ſhould be built; the other, who got up to ſpeak after him, only obſerved, that what his brother had ſpoken he could do; and thus he at once gained his cauſe.

To teach men to be orators, is little leſs than to teach them to be poets; and for my part, I ſhould have too great a regard for my child, to wiſh him a manor only in a bookſeller's ſhop.

Another paſſion which the preſent age is apt to run into, is to make children learn all things; the languages, the ſciences, muſic, the exerciſes, and painting. Thus the child ſoon becomes a talker in all, but a maſter in none. He thus ac⯑quires a ſuperficial fondneſs for every thing, and only ſhews his ignorance when he attempts to ex⯑hibit his ſkill.

As I deliver my thoughts without method or con⯑nection, ſo the reader muſt not be ſurprized to find me once more addreſſing ſchoolmaſters on the preſent [175] method of teaching the learned languages, which is commonly by literal tranſlations. I would aſk ſuch, if they were to travel a journey, whether thoſe parts of the road in which they found the greateſt difficulties would no be moſt ſtrongly re⯑membered? Boys, who, if I may continue the alluſion, gallop through one of the ancients with the aſſiſtance of a tranſlation, can have but a very ſlight acquaintance either with the author or his language. It is by the exerciſe of the mind alone that a language is learned; but a literal tranſlation, on the oppoſite page, leaves no exer⯑ciſe for the memory at all. The boy will not be at the fatigue of remembering, when his doubts are at once ſatisfied by a glance of the eye; where⯑as were every word to be ſought from a dictionary, the learner would attempt to remember them, to ſave him the trouble of looking out for it for the future.

To continue in the ſame pedantic ſtrain, tho' no ſchoolmaſter, of all the various grammars now taught in the ſchools about town, I would recommend only the old common one; I have for⯑got whether Lily's, or an emendation of him. The others may be improvements; but ſuch im⯑provements ſeem, to me, only mere grammatical niceties, no way influencing the learner, but per⯑haps loading him with trifling ſubtilties, which, [176] at a proper age, he muſt be at ſome pains to forget.

Whatever pains a maſter may take to make the learning of the langages agreeable to his pupil, he may depend upon it, it will be at firſt extreamly unpleaſant. The rudiments of every language, therefore, muſt be given as a taſk, not as an amuſement. Attempting to deceive children into inſtruction of this kind, is only deceiving our⯑ſelves; and I know no paſſion capable of conquer⯑ing a child's natural lazineſs but fear. Solomon has ſaid it before me; nor is there any more cer⯑tain, tho' perhaps more diſagreeable truth, than the proverb in verſe, too well known to repeat on the preſent occaſion. It is very probable that parents are told of ſome maſters who never uſe the rod, and conſequeetly are thought the pro⯑pereſt inſtructors for their children; but though tenderneſs is a requiſite quality in an inſtructor, yet there is too often the trueſt tenderneſs in well-timed correction.

Some have juſtly obſerved, that all paſſion ſhould be baniſhed on this terrible occaſion; but I know not, there is a frailty attending human na⯑ture, that few maſters are able to keep their temper whilſt they correct. I knew a good-natured man, who was ſenſible of his own weak⯑neſs in this reſpect, and conſequently had recourſe [177] to the following expedient to prevent his paſſions from being engaged, yet at the ſame time adminiſter juſtice with impartiality. When ever any of his pupils committed a fault, he ſummoned a jury of his peers, I mean of the boys of his own or the next claſſes to him; his accuſers ſtood forth; he had a liberty of pleading in his own defence, and one or two more had a liberty of pleading againſt him: when found guilty by the pannel, he was conſigned to the footman, who attended in the houſe, who had previous orders to uſe his puniſhment with lenity. By this means the ma⯑ſter took off the odium of puniſhment from him⯑ſelf; and the footman, between whom and the boys there could not be even the ſlighteſt inti⯑macy, was placed in ſuch a light as to be ſhunned by every boy in ſchool.

And now I have gone thus far, perhaps you will think me ſome pedagogue, willing, by a well-timed puff, to encreaſe the reputation of his own ſchool; but ſuch is not the caſe. The re⯑gard I have for ſociety, for thoſe tender minds who are the objects of the preſent eſſay, ſuch are the only motives I have for offering thoſe thoughts, calculated not to ſurprize by their novelty, or the elegance of compoſition, but merely to remedy ſome defects which have crept into the preſent ſyſtem of ſchool education. If this letter ſhould be inſerted, perhaps I may trouble you, in my next, with ſome thoughts upon an univerſity edu⯑cation, not with an intent to exhauſt the ſubject, but to amend ſome few abuſes. I am, &c.

ON THE CONTRADICTIONS OF THE WORLD. FROM VOLTAIRE.

THE more we know of the world, the more we ſee of its abſurdities and contradictions. To begin with the grand ſeignior; he generally cuts off every head that diſpleaſes him, and can ſeldom preſerve his own.

If from the turk we make a natural tranſition to the pope, he confirms the election of emperors, he has even kings for vaſſals, yet is not ſo power⯑ful as any one of their miniſters. He iſſues out or⯑ders for America and Africa; yet is not able to deprive even the little republic of Lucca of its pri⯑vileges. The emperor is ſometimes king of the Romans; but his only privileges conſiſt in holding the pope's ſtirrup, and preſenting him with the baſon while he waſhes.

[179]The Engliſh ſerve their kings upon the knee; but they are often found to depoſe them, to im⯑priſon them, and bring ſome of them to the ſcaf⯑fold.

Biſhops and monks, who make vows of pover⯑ty, in conſequence of ſuch vows receive immo⯑derate incomes; and, by virtue of their pro⯑feſſed humility, become deſpotic princes.

Men who are convicted of not conforming to the religion of their country, are burned in the market place; while the ſecond eclogue of Virgil, which contains the moſt ſhocking obſcenities, is gravely commented upon and taught by thoſe very ſtrenuous aſſerters of the divinity.

If a poor philoſopher, who imagines no miſ⯑chief, ſhould teach that the earth takes an annual revolution, or that all light proceeds from the ſun, ſhould he aſſert that matter may have ſeveral pro⯑perties, which we are entirely unacquainted with, he is at once branded with impiety, and as a diſ⯑turber of public tranquility; our modern philoſo⯑phers are diſcouraged from delivering their ſenti⯑ments, while the Tuſculan queſtions of Cicero, and the works of Lucretius, which contain a compleat courſe of irreligion, are put into the hands of our youth, and cried up as models for imitation.

[180]Bayle, the ſceptic philoſopher, was perſecuted even in Holland. Le Vayer, a greater ſceptic, and a much inferior philoſopher, was conſtituted the king's preceptor. Nay, France has ſeen her ambaſſadors burnt in effigy in the ſtreets of Paris, and the very next day honoured with the royal in⯑ſtructions.

The famous atheiſt Spinoſa lived and died in peace. Vanini, who wrote only againſt Ariſtotle, was burnt as an atheiſt. With this appellation he is branded in all the hiſtories of the works of the learned, and biographical dictionaries. thoſe immenſe archives of folly and falſhood. Conſult any of theſe, and you will find that Va⯑nini not only publickly taught atheiſm by his writ⯑ings, but alſo that twelve of his diſciples left Naples with him, in order to aſſiſt in making proſelytes. After conſulting thoſe anecdotes, next conſult his own works, and you will be ſur⯑priſed to find them replete with proofs of the exiſtence of a God. He thus ſpeaks in his Amphi⯑theatrum, a work equally condemned and un⯑known.

‘"God is the beginning and end, and the pa⯑rent of all that was or will be; he always exiſts, but not in time. To him the paſt has not fled, and the future will not arrive. He reigns every⯑where, without being in any place; motion⯑leſs, [181] without being fixed; rapid, without paſ⯑ſing. He is all, and above all; he is in all, but without being confined; without all, but not excluded. Good, but without quality; great, but without quantity; entire, without parts; unchangeable, yet diverſified in every part of the univerſe. His will is his power, ſimple; there is no poſſibility with him, but all really is. In a word, being all, he is above all beings, being actually preſent, and exiſting in all."’

After ſuch a confeſſion of faith, could we think it, Vanini was declared an atheiſt! What were the motives to condemn him? Nothing more than the bare depoſition of one Francon. In vain did his books bear witneſs to the falſhood of the depoſer; one ſingle enemy has coſt him his life, and tarniſhed his character through all Europe.

Should I continue to examine the contradictions which are to be found in the republic of letters, I might, perhaps, be obliged to write the hiſtory of all the ſcholars and the wits of the age. Should I extend my ſurvey to ſociety, I might be obliged to write the hiſtory of Europe. Should an Aſiatic come among us, what judgment could he form of our religion! Or would he not think that of Paganiſm ſtill continued! The days of the week ſtill retain the names of heathen deities, our [182] churches are filled with the ſtatues of the gods of the ancients; and ſhould he ſometimes be a ſpec⯑tator at our theatres, he might miſtake the ſcene for a temple to their honour, and our aſſiduity for devotion.

In Spain, our Aſiatic would be ſurpriſed to find ſevere laws, which forbid ſtrangers carrying on any commerce to America; and yet he might ſee ſtran⯑gers alone in poſſeſſion of that prohibited trade; and the Spaniards, in effect, no more than factors to others, whom they enrich, while they continue in poverty. How would he be ſurpriſed to find our actors ſtiled vagabonds by law, yet encouraged by the great, and kept company with as equals! He would find the preſs loaded with works which every one condemns, and yet all are eager to pur⯑chaſe. He would every where find our cuſtoms in oppoſition to our ſtatutes. He might probably laugh at our abſurdities; yet, ſhould we take a voy⯑age into Aſia, we might ſee the ſame abſurdities practiſed with very little variation.

Men are every where equally fools; they have made laws in the ſame manner that breaches are repaired in the walls of a city. In one country, the elder ſons have all the fortune from the reſt; in another, the fortune is equally divided amongſt them all. At one time, the church commands duelling; at another, it excommunicates all who [183] venture in ſingle combat. They have, at times, excommunicated the partizans and the oppoſers of Ariſtotle; thoſe who wore long hair, and thoſe who wore ſhort.

We have, in this world, but one inviolable body of law, which is never infringed; I mean the laws of gaming. Theſe never admit of excep⯑tion, change, or ſubordination. If a man who was once a footman plays with a king, he is im⯑mediately paid, when he wins, without heſita⯑tion. Such is always the rule in this; in all other affairs, the ſword is the only law, where the ſtrong cut the weak into a thouſand pieces.

Notwithſtanding this, the world ſubſiſts as if all things were well ordered, and irregularity ſeems ſuited to our natures. Our political world re⯑ſembles our globe, a great regular irregularity. It would be folly to expect to ſee our mountains, ſeas, and rivers aſſume beautiful mathematical figures; it would ſtill be a greater folly to expect perfect wiſdom in ſociety.

ON THE INSTABILITY OF WORLDLY GRANDEUR.

AN alehouſe-keeper, near Iſlington, who had long lived at the ſign of the French king, upon the commencement of the laſt war with France, pulled down his old ſign, and put up the queen of Hungary. Under the influence of her red face and golden ſceptre, he continued to ſell ale, till ſhe was no longer the favourite of his cuſtomers; he changed her, therefore, ſome time ago, for the king of Pruſſia, who may probably be changed in turn for the next great man that ſhall be ſet up for vulgar admiration.

Our publican, in this, imitates the great ex⯑actly, who deal out their figures one after the other, to the gazing crowd beneath them. When we have ſufficiently wondered at one, that is taken in, and another exhibited in its room, which ſel⯑dom holds its ſtation long; for the mob are ever pleaſed with variety.

I muſt own I have ſuch an indifferent opinion of the vulgar, that I am ever led to ſuſpect that [185] merit which raiſes their ſhout; at leaſt I am cer⯑tain to find thoſe great, and ſometimes good men, who find ſatisfaction in ſuch acclamations, made worſe by it; and hiſtory has too frequently taught me, that the head which has grown this day giddy with the roar of the million, has the very next been fixed upon a pole.

As Alexander VI. was entering a little town in the neighbourhood of Rome, which had been juſt evacuated by the enemy, he perceived the townſ⯑men buſy in the market-place in pulling down from a gibbet a figure which had been deſigned to repreſent himſelf. There were alſo ſome knock⯑ing down a neighbouring ſtatue of one of the Orſini family, with whom he was at war, in or⯑der to put Alexander's effigy, when taken down, in its place. It is poſſible a man who knew leſs of the world would have condemned the adulation of thoſe barefaced flatterers; but Alexander ſeemed pleaſed at their zeal, and turning to Borgia, his ſon, ſaid with a ſmile, Vides mi fili quam leve diſ⯑crimen palibulum inter et ſtatuum. ‘"You ſee, my ſon, the ſmall difference between a gibbet and a ſtatue."’ If the great could be taught any leſſon, this might ſerve to teach them upon how weak a foundation their glory ſtands, which is built upon popular applauſe; for as ſuch praiſe what ſeems like merit, they as quickly condemn what has only the appearance of guilt.

[186]Popular glory is a perfect coquet; her lovers muſt toil, feel every inquietude, indulge every caprice, and, perhaps, at laſt, be jilted into the bargain. True glory, on the other hand, re⯑ſembles a woman of ſenſe; her admirers muſt play no tricks; they feel no great anxiety, for they are ſure, in the end, of being rewarded in proportion to their merit. When Swift uſed to appear in public, he generally had the mob ſhout⯑ing in his train. Pox take theſe fools (he would ſay) how much joy might all this bawling give my Lord Mayor.

We have ſeen thoſe virtues which have, while living, retired from the public eye, generally tranſmitted to poſterity, as the trueſt objects of admiration and praiſe. Perhaps, the character of the late Duke of Marlborough may one day be ſet up, even above that of his more talked-of predeceſſor; ſince an aſſemblage of all the mild and amiable virtues, are far ſuperior to thoſe vul⯑garly called the great ones. I muſt be pardoned for this ſhort tribute to the memory of a man, who, while living, would as much deteſt to re⯑ceive any thing that wore the appearance of flat⯑tery, as I ſhould to offer it.

I know not how to turn ſo trite a ſubject out of the beaten road of common place, except by illuſtrating it, rather by the aſſiſtance of my me⯑mory than my judgment, and inſtead of making reflections by telling a ſtory.

[187]A Chineſe, who had long ſtudied the works of Confucius; who knew the characters of fourteen thouſand words, and could read a great part of every book that came in his way, once took it into his head to travel into Europe, and obſerve the cuſtoms of a people whom he thought not very much inferior, even to his own countrymen, in the arts of refining upon every pleaſure. Upon his arrival at Amſterdam, his paſſion for letters naturally led him to a bookſeller's ſhop; and, as he could ſpeak a little Dutch, he civilly aſked the bookſeller for the works of the immortal Ilixofou. The bookſeller aſſured him, he had never heard the book mentioned before. ‘"What, have you never heard of that immortal poet, (returned the other, much ſurprized) that light of the eyes, that favourite of kings, that roſe of perfection. I ſuppoſe you know nothing of the immortal Fipſihihi, ſecond couſin to the moon?"’ ‘"Nothing at all, indeed, Sir, (returned the other.)"’ ‘"Alas, (cries our traveller) to what purpoſe, then, has one of theſe faſted to death, and the other offered himſelf up as a ſacrifice to the Tartarean enemy, to gain a renown which has never travelled beyond the precincts of China. "’

There is ſcarce a village in Europe, and not one univerſity, that is not thus furniſhed with its little great men. The head of a petty corporation, [188] who oppoſes the deſigns of a prince, who would tyrannically force his ſubjects to ſave their beſt cloaths for Sundays; the puny pedant, who finds one undiſcovered property in the polype, deſcribes an unheeded proceſs in the ſkeleton of a mole, and whoſe mind, like his microſcope, perceives na⯑ture only in detail; the rhymer, who makes ſmooth verſes, and paints to our imagination when he ſhould only ſpeak to our hearts, all equally fancy themſelves walking forward to immortality, and deſire the crowd behind them to look on. The crowd takes them at their word. Patriot, philo⯑ſopher and poet, are ſhouted in their train. Where was there ever ſo much merit ſeen; no times ſo important as our own; ages, yet unborn, ſhall gaze with wonder and applauſe! To ſuch muſic, the important pigmy moves forward, buſtling and ſwelling, and aptly compared to a puddle in a ſtorm.

I have lived to ſee generals who once had crowds halloing after them wherever they went, who were be praiſed by news papers and magazines, thoſe echoes of the voice of the vulgar, and yet they have long ſunk into merited obſcurity, with ſcarce even an epitaph left to flatter. A few years ago the herring fiſhery employed all Grub-ſtreet; it was the topic in every coffee-houſe, and the burthen of every ballad. We were to drag up oceans of gold from the bottom of the ſea; we [189] were to ſupply all Europe with herrings upon our own terms. At preſent, we hear no more of all this. We have fiſhed up very little gold that I can learn; nor do we furniſh the world with her⯑rings, as was expected. Let us wait but a few years longer, and we ſhall find all our expectations an herring fiſhery.

Of ELOQUENCE.

OF all kinds of ſucceſs, that of an orator is the moſt pleaſing. Upon other occaſions, the applauſe we deſerve is conferred in our abſence, and we are inſenſible of the plea⯑ſure we have given; but in eloquence, the vic⯑tory and the triumph are inſeparable. We read our own glory in the face of every ſpectator, the audience is moved, the antagoniſt is defeated, and the whole circle burſts into unſolicited applauſe.

[194]The rewards which attend excellence in this way are ſo pleaſing, that numbers have written profeſſed treatiſes to teach us the art; ſchools have been eſtabliſhed with no other intent; rhe⯑toric has taken place among the inſtitutions, and pedants have ranged under proper heads, and diſtinguiſhed with long learned names, ſome of the ſtrokes of nature, or of paſſion, which ora⯑tors have uſed. I ſay only ſome for a folio volume could not contain all the figures which have been uſed by the truly eloquent, and ſcarce a good ſpeaker or writer, but makes uſe of ſome that are peculiar or new.

Eloquence has preceded the rules of rhetoric, as languages have been formed before grammar. Nature renders men eloquent in great intereſts, or great paſſions. He that is ſenſibly touched, ſees things with a very different eye from the reſt of mankind. All nature to him becomes an object of compariſon and metaphor, without attending to it; he throws life into all, and inſpires his audience with a part of his own enthuſiaſm.

It has been remarked, that the lower parts of mankind generally expreſs themſelves moſt figura⯑tively, and that tropes are found in the moſt ordinary forms of converſation. Thus, in every language, the heart burns; the courage is rouzed; [195] the eyes ſparkle; the ſpirits are caſt down; paſ⯑ſion enflames; pride ſwells, and pity ſinks the ſoul. Nature, every where, ſpeaks in thoſe ſtrong images, which, from their frequency, paſs unnoticed.

Nature it is which inſpires thoſe rapturous en⯑thuſiaſms, thoſe irreſiſtible turns; a ſtrong paſ⯑ſion, a preſſing danger, calls up all the imagina⯑tion, and gives the orator irreſiſtible force. Thus, a captain of the firſt caliphs, ſeeing his ſoldiers fly, cried out, ‘"Whither do you run? the enemy are not there! You have been told that the caliph is dead; but God is ſtill living. He regards the brave, and will reward the coura⯑geous. Advance!"’

A man, therefore, may be called eloquent, who transfers the paſſion or ſentiment with which he is moved himſelf, into the breaſt of another; and this definition appears the more juſt, as it compre⯑hends the graces of ſilence, and of action. An intimate perſuaſion of the truth to be proved, is the ſentiment and paſſion to be transferred; and he who effects this, is truly poſſeſſed of the talent of eloquence.

I have called eloquence a talent, and not an art, as ſo many rhetoricians have done, as art is acquired by exerciſe and ſtudy, and eloquence is [196] the gift of nature. Rutes will never make either a work or a diſcourſe eloquent; they only ſerve to prevent faults, but not to introduce beauties; to prevent thoſe paſſages which are truly eloquent, and dictated by nature from being blended with others, which might diſguſt, or, at leaſt, abate our paſſion.

What we clearly conceive, (ſays Boileau) we can clearly expreſs. I may add, that what is felt with emotion, is expreſſed alſo with the ſame movements; the words ariſe as readily to paint our emotions, as to expreſs our thoughts with perſpicuity. The cool care an orator takes to expreſs paſſions which he does not feel, only prevents his riſing into that paſſion he would ſeem to feel. In a word, to feel your ſubject tho⯑roughly, and to ſpeak without fear, are the only rules of eloquence, properly ſo called, which I can offer. Examine a writer of genius on the moſt beautiful parts of his work, and he will al⯑ways aſſure you that ſuch paſſages are generally thoſe which have given him the leaſt trouble, for they came as if by inſpiration. To pretend that cold and didactic precepts will make a man elo⯑quent, is only to prove that he is incapable of eloquence.

But, as in being perſpicuous, it is neceſſary to have a full idea of the ſubject, ſo in being elo⯑quent, [197] it is not ſufficient, if I may ſo expreſs it, to feel by halves. The orator ſhould be ſtrongly impreſſed, which is generally the effects of a fine and exquiſite ſenſibility, and not that tranſient and ſuperficial emotion, which he ex⯑cites in the greateſt part of his audience. It is even impoſſible to affect the hearers in any great degree, without being affected ourſelves. In vain it will be objected, that many writers have had the art to inſpire their readers with a paſſion for virtue, without being virtuous themſelves; ſince it may be anſwered, that ſentiments of virtue filled their minds at the time they were writing. They felt the inſpiration ſtrongly, while they praiſed juſtice, generoſity, or good nature; but, unhappily for them, theſe paſſions might have been diſcontinued, when they laid down the pen. In vain will it be objected again, that we can move without being moved, as we can convince, without being convinced. It is much eaſier to deceive our reaſon than ourſelves; a trifling defect in reaſoning, may be overſeen, and lead a man aſtray; for it requires reaſon and time to detect the falſhood, but our paſſions are not ſo eaſily impoſed upon, our eyes, our ears, and every ſenſe, is watchful to detect the impoſture.

No diſcourſe can be eloquent, that does not elevate the mind. Pathetic eloquence, it is true, has for its only object to affect; but I appeal to [198] men of ſenſibility, whether their pathetic feelings are not accompanied with ſome degree of eleva⯑tion. We may then call eloquence and ſublimity the ſame thing, ſince it is impoſſible to be one, without feeling the other. From hence it follows, that we may be eloquent in any language, ſince no language refuſes to paint thoſe ſentiments with which we are thoroughly impreſſed. What is uſually called ſublimity of ſtile, ſeems to be only an error. Eloquence is not in the words, but in the ſubject, and in great concerns, the more ſimply any thing is expreſſed, it is generally the more ſublime. True eloquence does not conſiſt, as the rhetoricians aſſure us, in ſaying great things in a ſublime ſtyle, but in a ſimple ſtyle; for there is, properly ſpeaking, no ſuch thing as a ſublime ſtyle, the ſublimity lies only in the things; and when they are not ſo, the language may be turgid, affected, metaphorical, but not affecting.

What can be more ſimply expreſſed, than the following extract from a celebrated preacher, and yet what was ever more ſublime? Speaking of the ſmall number of the elect, he breaks out thus among his audience: ‘"Let me ſuppoſe that this was the laſt hour of us all; that the heavens were opening over our heads; that time was paſſed, and eternity begun; that Jeſus Chriſt in all his glory, that man of ſorrows in all his glory, appeared on the tribunal, and that we [199] were aſſembled here to receive our final decree of life or death eternal! Let me aſk, im⯑preſſed with terror like you, and not ſeparating my lot from yours, but putting myſelf in the ſame ſituation in which we muſt all one day appear before God, our judge. Let me aſk, if Jeſus Chriſt ſhould now appear to make the terrible ſeparation of the juſt from the unjuſt, do you think the greateſt number would be ſaved? Do you think the number of the elect would even be equal to that of the ſinners? Do you think, if all our works were examined with juſtice, would he find ten juſt perſons in this great aſſembly? Monſters of ingratitude would he find one?"’ Such paſſages as theſe, are ſublime in every language. The expreſſion may be leſs ſtriking, or more indiſtinct, but the greatneſs of the idea ſtill remains. In a word, we may be eloquent in every language and in every ſtyle, ſince elocution is only an aſſiſtant, but not a conſtitutor of eloquence.

Of what uſe, then, will it be ſaid, are all the precepts given us upon this head, both by the antients and moderns? I anſwer, that they cannot make us eloquent, but they will certainly prevent us from becoming ridiculous. They can ſeldom procure a ſingle beauty, but they may baniſh a thouſand faults. The true method of an orator, is not to attempt always to move, always to affect, [200] to be continually ſublime, but at proper intervals to give reſt both to his own and the paſſions of his audience. In theſe periods of relaxation, or of preparation rather, rules may teach him to avoid any thing low, trivial, or diſguſting. Thus criticiſm, properly ſpeaking, is intended not to aſſiſt thoſe parts which are ſublime, but thoſe which are naturally mean and humble, which are compoſed with coolneſs and caution, and where the orator rather endeavours not to offend, than attempts to pleaſe.

I have hitherto inſiſted more ſtrenuouſly on that eloquence which ſpeaks to the paſſions, as it is a ſpecies of oratory almoſt unknown in England. At the bar it is quite diſcontinued, and I think with juſtice. In the ſenate, it is uſed but ſparingly, as the orator ſpeaks to enlightened judges. But in the pulpit, in which the orator ſhould chiefly addreſs the vulgar, it ſeems ſtrange, that it ſhould be entirely laid aſide.

The vulgar of England are without exception, the moſt barbarous and the moſt unknowing of any in Europe. A great part of their ignorance may be chiefly aſcribed to their teachers, who, with the moſt pretty gentleman-like ſerenity, deliver their cool diſcourſes, and addreſs the reaſon of men, who have never reaſoned in all their lives. They are told of cauſe and effect, of beings ſelf [201] exiſtent, and the univerſal ſcale of beings. They are informed of the excellence of the Bangorian controverſy, and the abſurdity of an intermediate ſtate. The ſpruce preacher reads his lucubration without lifting his noſe from the text, and never ventures to earn the ſhame of an enthuſiaſt.

By this means, though his audience feel not one word of all he ſays, he earns, however, among his acquaintance, the character of a man of ſenſe; among his acquaintance only did I ſay, nay, even with his biſhop.

The polite of every country have ſeveral mo⯑tives to induce them to a rectitude of action; the love of virtue for its own ſake, the ſhame of of⯑fending, and the deſire of pleaſing. The vulgar have but one, the enforcements of religion; and yet thoſe who ſhould puſh this motive home to their hearts, are baſely found to deſert their poſt. They ſpeak to the ſquire, the philoſopher, and the pedant; but the poor, thoſe who really want inſtruction, are left uninſtructed.

I have attended moſt of our pulpit orators, who, it muſt be owned, write extremely well upon the text they aſſume. To give them their due alſo, they read their ſermons with elegance and propriety, but this goes but a very ſhort way in true eloquence. The ſpeaker muſt be moved. [202] In this, in this alone, our Engliſh divines are defi⯑cient. Were they to ſpeak to a few calm diſpaſ⯑ſionate hearers, they certainly uſe the propereſt methods of addreſs; but their audience is chiefly compoſed of the poor, who muſt be influenced by motives of reward and puniſhment, and whoſe only virtues lie in ſelf-intereſt or fear.

How then are ſuch to be addreſſed; not by ſtu⯑died periods, or cold diſquiſitions; not by the labours of the head, but the honeſt ſpontaneous dictates of the heart. Neither writing a ſermon with regular periods and all the harmony of ele⯑gant expreſſion; neither reading it with emphaſis, propriety, and deliberation; neither pleaſing with metaphor, ſimile, or rhetorical fuſtian; neither arguing coolly, and untying conſequences united in a priori, nor bundling up inductions a poſteriori; neither pedantic jargon, nor academical trifling, can perſuade the poor; writing a diſcourſe coolly in the cloſet, then getting it by memory, and delivering it on Sundays, even that will not do. What then is to be done? I know of no expe⯑dient to ſpeak; to ſpeak at once intelligibly, and feelingly, except to underſtand the language. To be convinced of the truth of the object; to be perfectly acquainted with the ſubject in view, to prepoſſeſs yourſelf with a low opinion of your audience, and to do the reſt extempore. By this means ſtrong expreſſions, new thoughts, riſing [203] paſſions, and the true declamatory ſtyle, will naturally enſue.

Fine declamation does not conſiſt in flowery periods, delicate alluſions, or muſical cadences; but in a plain, open, looſe ſtile, where the pe⯑riods are long and obvious; where the ſame thought is often exhibited in ſeveral points of view; all this, ſtrong ſenſe, a good memory, and a ſmall ſhare of experience, will furniſh to every orator; and without theſe a clergyman may be called a fine preacher, a judicious preacher, and a man of ſound ſenſe; he may make his hearers ad⯑mire his underſtanding, but will ſeldom enlighten theirs.

When I think of the Methodiſt preachers among us, how ſeldom they are endued with common ſenſe, and yet how often and how juſtly they af⯑fect their hearers, I cannot avoid ſaying within myſelf, had theſe been bred gentlemen, and been endued with even the meaneſt ſhare of underſtand⯑ing, what might they not effect! Did our biſhops, who can add dignity to their expoſtulations, teſtify the ſame fervour, and entreat their hearers, as well as argue, what might not be the conſequence! The vulgar, by which I mean the bulk of man⯑kind, would then have a double motive to love religion, firſt from ſeeing its profeſſors honoured here, and next from the conſequences here⯑after. [204] At preſent, the enthuſiaſms of the poor are oppoſed to law; did law conſpire with their en⯑thuſiaſms, we ſhould not only be the happieſt na⯑tion upon earth, but the wiſeſt alſo.

Enthuſiaſm in religion, which prevails only among the vulgar, ſhould be the chief object of politics. A ſociety of enthuſiaſts, governed by rea⯑ſon among the great, is the moſt indiſſoluble, the moſt virtuous, and the moſt efficient of its own decrees that can be imagined. Every country that has any degree of ſtrength, have had their enthuſiaſms, which ever ſerve as laws among the people. The Greeks had their Kalokagathia, the Romans their Amor Patriae, and we the truer and firmer bond of the Proteſtant religion. The principle is the ſame in all; how much then is it the duty of thoſe whom the law has appointed teachers of this religion to enforce its obligations, and to raiſe thoſe enthuſiaſms among people, by which alone political ſociety can ſubſiſt.

From eloquence, therefore, the morals of our people are to expect emendation; but how little can they be improved, by men who get into the pulpit rather to ſhew their parts, than convince us of the truth of what they deliver, who are pain⯑fully correct in their ſtile, muſical in their tones, where every ſentiment, every expreſſion, ſeems the reſult of meditation and deep ſtudy.

[205]Tillotſon has been commended as the model of pulpit eloquence; thus far he ſhould be imitated, where he generally ſtrives to convince, rather than to pleaſe: but to adopt his long, dry, and ſome⯑times tedious diſcuſſions, which ſerve to amuſe only divines, and are utterly neglected by the generality of mankind, to praiſe the intricacy of his periods, which are too long to be ſpo⯑ken, to continue his cool phlegmatic manner of enforcing every truth, is certainly erroneous. As I ſaid before, the good preacher ſhould adopt no model, write no ſermons, ſtudy no periods; let him but underſtand his ſubject, the language he ſpeaks, and be convinced of the truths he de⯑livers. It is amazing to what heights eloquence of this kind may reach! This is that eloquence the ancients repreſented as lightning, bearing down every oppoſer; this the power which has turned whole aſſemblies into aſtoniſhment, ad⯑miration, and awe, that is deſcribed by the tor⯑rent, the flame, and every other inſtance of irre⯑ſiſtible impetuoſity.

But to attempt ſuch noble heights, belongs only to the truly great, or the truly good. To diſcard the lazy manner of reading ſermons, or ſpeaking ſermons by rote; to ſet up ſingly againſt the oppoſition of men who are attached to their own errors, and to endeavour to be great, in⯑ſtead of being prudent, are qualities we ſeldom [204] [...] [205] [...] [206] ſee united. A miniſter of the church of England, who may be poſſeſſed of good ſenſe, and ſome hopes of preferment, will ſeldom give up ſuch ſub⯑ſtantial advantages for the empty pleaſure of im⯑proving ſociety. By his preſent method he is liked by his friends, admired by his dependants, not diſpleaſing to his biſhop; he lives as well, eats and ſleeps as well, as if a real orator, and an eager aſſerter of his miſſion; he will hardly, therefore, venture all this to be called, perhaps, an enthuſiaſt; nor will he depart from cuſtoms eſtabliſhed by the brotherhood, when, by ſuch a conduct, he only ſingles himſelf out for their contempt.

CUSTOM and LAWS compared.

WHAT, ſay ſome, can give us a more con⯑temptible idea of a large ſtate than to find it moſtly governed by cuſtom; to have few writ⯑ten laws, and no boundaries to mark the juriſ⯑diction between the ſenate and people? Among the number who ſpeak in this manner is the great Monteſquieu, who aſſerts that every nation is free in proportion to the number of its written laws, and ſeems to hint at a deſpotic and arbitrary con⯑duct in the preſent king of Pruſſia, who has abridged the laws of his country into a very ſhort compaſs.

As Tacitus and Monteſquieu happen to differ in ſentiment upon a ſubject of ſo much importance (for the Roman expreſly aſſerts, that the ſtate is generally vicious in proportion to the number of its laws) it will not be amiſs to examine it a little more minutely, and ſee whether a ſtate, which, like England, is burdened with a multiplicity of written laws, or which, like Switzerland, Ge⯑neva, and ſome other republics, is governed by cuſtom, and the determination of the judge is beſt.

And to prove the ſuperiority of cuſtom to written law, we ſhall at leaſt find hiſtory con⯑ſpiring. [208] Cuſtom, or the traditional obſervance of the practice of their forefathers, was what di⯑rected the Romans, as well in their public as private determinations. Cuſtom was appealed to in pronouncing ſentence againſt a criminal, where part of the formulary was more majorum. So Saluſt, ſpeaking of the expulſion of Tarquin, ſays, mutato more, and not lege mutata; and Vir⯑gil, paciſque imponere morem. So that, in thoſe times of the empire in which the people retained their liberty, they were governed by cuſtom; when they ſunk under oppreſſion and tyranny, they were reſtrained by new laws, and the laws of tradition aboliſhed.

As getting the ancients on our ſide is half a victory, it will not be amiſs to fortify the argu⯑ment with an obſervation of Chryſoſtom's: That the enſlaved are the fitteſt to be governed by laws, and free men by cuſtom. Cuſtom partakes of the nature of parental injunction; it is kept by the people themſelves, and obſerved with a willing obedience. The obſervance of it muſt, there⯑fore, be a mark of freedom, and coming origi⯑nally to a ſtate from the reverenced founders of its liberty, will be an encouragement and aſſiſtance to it in the defence of that bleſſing; but a con⯑quered people, a nation of ſlaves, muſt pretend to none of this freedom, or theſe happy diſtinc⯑tions, having, by degeneracy, loſt all right to [209] their brave forefathers free inſtitutions, their maſters will in policy take the forfeiture; and the fixing a conqueſt muſt be done by giving laws which may every moment ſerve to remind the people enſlaved of their conquerors, nothing be⯑ing more dangerous than to truſt a late-ſubdued people with old cuſtoms, that preſently upbraid their degeneracy, and provoke them to revolt.

The wiſdom of the Roman republic, in their veneration for cuſtom, and backwardneſs to in⯑troduce a new law, was perhaps the cauſe of their long continuance, and of the virtues of which they have ſet the world ſo many ex⯑amples. But to ſhew in what that wiſdom con⯑ſiſts, it may be proper to obſerve, that the bene⯑fit of new written laws are merely confined to the conſequences of their obſervance; but cuſtomary laws, keeping up a veneration for the founders, engage men in the imitation of their virtues, as well as policy. To this may be aſcribed the re⯑ligious regard the Romans paid to their forefathers memory, and their adhering for ſo many ages to the practice of the ſame virtues, which no⯑thing contributed more to efface than the intro⯑duction of a voluminous body of new laws over the neck of venerable cuſtom.

The ſimplicity, conciſeneſs, and antiquity of cuſtom gives an air of majeſty and immutability [210] that inſpires awe and veneration; but new laws are too apt to be voluminous, perplexed, and in⯑determinate; from whence muſt neceſſarily ariſe neglect, contempt, and ignorance.

As every human inſtitution is ſubject to groſs imperfections, ſo laws muſt neceſſarily be liable to the ſame inconveniences, and their defects ſoon diſcovered. Thus, through the weakneſs of one part, all the reſt are liable to be brought into con⯑tempt. But ſuch weakneſſes in a cuſtom, for very obvious reaſons, evade an examination; be⯑ſides, a friendly prejudice always ſtands up in their favour.

But let us ſuppoſe a new law to be perfectly equitable and neceſſary; yet, if the procurers of it have betrayed a conduct that confeſſes bye-ends and private motives, the diſguſt to the circum⯑ſtances diſpoſes us, unreaſonably indeed, to an irreverence of the law itſelf; but we are indul⯑gently blind to the moſt viſible imperfections of an old cuſtom. Though we perceive the defects ourſelves, yet we remain perſuaded that our wiſe forefathers had good reaſons for what they did; and though ſuch motives no longer continue, the benefit will ſtill go along with the obſervance, though we don't know how. It is thus the Ro⯑man lawyers ſpeak, Non omnium quae a majoribus conſtituta ſunt ratio reddi poteſt, et ideo rationes [211] eorum quae conſtituuntur inquiri non oportet, alia quin multa ex his quae certa ſunt ſubvertuntur.

Thoſe laws which preſerve to themſelves the greateſt love and obſervance, muſt needs be beſt; but cuſtom, as it executes itſelf, muſt be neceſ⯑ſarily ſuperior to written laws in this reſpect, which are to be executed by another. Thus no⯑thing can be more certain than that numerous written laws are a ſign of a degenerate commu⯑nity, and are frequently not the conſequence of vicious morals in a ſtate, but the cauſes.

From hence we ſee how much greater benefit it would be to the ſtate rather to abridge than en⯑creaſe its laws. We every day find them en⯑creaſing; acts and reports, which may be termed the acts of judges, are every day becoming more voluminous, and loading the ſubject with new penalties.

Laws ever encreaſe in number and ſeverity, until they at length are ſtrained ſo tight as to break themſelves. Such was the caſe of the latter em⯑pire, whoſe laws were at length become ſo ſtrict, that the barbarous invaders did not bring ſervi⯑tude but liberty.

OF THE PRIDE and LUXURY OF THE Middling CLASS of PEOPLE.

OF all the follies and abſurdities which this great metropolis labours under, there is not one, I believe, at preſent, appears in a more glaring and ridiculous light than the pride and luxury of the middling claſs of people; their eager deſire of being ſeen in a ſphere far above their capacities and circumſtances, is daily, nay hourly inſtanced by the prodigious numbers of me⯑chanics, who flock to the races, and gaming-tables, brothels, and all public diverſions this faſhionable town affords.

You ſhall ſee a grocer, or a tallow-chandler ſneak from behind the compter, clap on a laced coat and a bag, fly to the E. O. table, throw away fifty pieces with ſome ſharping man of qua⯑lity, while his induſtrious wife is ſelling a penny⯑worth of ſugar, or a pound of candles, to ſup⯑port her faſhionable ſpouſe in his extravagances.

I was led into this reflection by an odd adven⯑ture, which happened to me the other day at Ep⯑ſom [213] races, where I went, not through any de⯑ſire, I do aſſure you, of laying betts, or winning thouſands; but at the earneſt requeſt of a friend who had long indulged the curioſity of ſeeing the ſport, very natural for an Engliſhman. When we had arrived at the courſe, and had taken ſeveral turns to obſerve the different objects that made up this whimſical groupe, a figure ſuddenly darted by us, mounted and dreſſed in all the elegance of thoſe polite gentry who come to ſhew you they have a little money, and rather than pay their juſt debts at home, generouſly come abroad to beſtow it on gamblers and pickpockets. As I had not an opportunity of viewing his face till his return, I gently walked after him, and met him as he came back, when, to my no ſmall ſurpriſe, I beheld, in this gay Narciſſus, the vi⯑ſage of Jack Varniſh, an humble vender of prints. Diſguſted at the ſight, I pulled my friend by the ſleeve, preſſed him to return home, telling him all the way, that I was ſo enraged at the fellow's impudence, I was reſolved never to lay out an⯑other penny with him.

And now, pray ſir, let me beg of you to give this a place in your paper, that Mr. Varniſh may underſtand he miſtakes the thing quite, if he imagines horſe-racing commendable in a tradeſ⯑man; and that he who is revelling every night in the arms of a common ſtrumpet (though [214] bleſſed with an indulgent wife) when he ought to be minding his buſineſs, will never thrive in this world. He will find himſelf ſoon miſtaken, his finances decreaſe, his friends ſhun him, cuſtomers fall off, and himſelf thrown into a Gaol. I would earneſtly recommend this adage to every mechanic in London, ‘"Keep your ſhop, and your ſhop will keep you."’ A ſtrict obſervance of theſe words will, I am ſure, in time, gain them eſtates. Induſtry is the road to wealth, and honeſty to hap⯑pineſs; and he who ſtrenuouſly endeavours to pur⯑ſue them both, may never fear the critic's laſh, or the ſharp cries of penury and want.

THE SENTIMENTS OF A FRENCHMAN ON THE TEMPER of the ENGLISH.

NOTHING is ſo uncommon among the Engliſh, as that eaſy affability, that inſtant method of acquaintance, or that chearfulneſs of diſpoſition, which make in France the charm of every ſociety. Yet, in this gloomy reſerve, they ſeem to pride themſelves, and think them⯑ſelves leſs happy, if obliged to be more ſocial. One may aſſert, without wronging them, that they do not ſtudy the method of going through life with pleaſure and tranquility, like the French. Might not this be a proof that they are not ſo much philoſophers as they imagine? Philoſophy is no more than the art of making ourſelves happy; that is, of ſeeking pleaſure in regularity, and reconciling what we owe to ſociety with what is due to ourſelves.

[221]This chearfulneſs, which is the characteriſtic of our nation in the eye of an Engliſhman, paſſes almoſt for folly. But is their gloomineſs a greater mark of their wiſdom? and folly againſt folly is not the moſt chearful ſort the beſt. If our gaiety makes them ſad, they ought not to find it ſtrange, if their ſeriouſneſs makes us laugh.

As this diſpoſition to levity is not familiar to them, and as they look on every thing as a fault which they do not find at home, the Engliſh, who live among us, are hurt by it. Several of their authors reproach us with it as a vice, or at leaſt as a ridicule.

Mr. Addiſon ſtiles us a comic nation. In my opinion it is not acting the philoſopher on this point, to regard as a fault, that quality which contributes moſt to the pleaſure of ſociety and happineſs of life. Plato, convinced that what⯑ever makes men happier, makes them better, adviſes to neglect nothing that may excite and convert to an early habit, this ſenſe of joy in children. Seneca places it in the firſt rank of good things. Certain it is, at leaſt, that gaiety may be a concomitant of all ſorts of virtue, but that there are ſome vices with which it is in⯑compatible.

[222]As to him who laughs at every things, and him who laughs at nothing, neither of them has ſound judgment. All the difference I find between them is, that the laſt is conſtantly the moſt un⯑happy. Thoſe who ſpeak againſt chearfulneſs, prove nothing elſe, but that they were born me⯑lancholic, and that in their hearts they rather envy than condemn that levity they affect to deſpiſe.

The Spectator, whoſe conſtant object was the good of mankind in general, and of his own nation in particular, ſhould, according to his own principles, place chearfulneſs among the moſt deſirable qualities; and, probably, whenever he contradicts himſelf in this particular, it is only to conform to the tempers of the people whom he addreſſes. He aſſerts, that gaiety is one great obſtacle to the prudent conduct of women. But are thoſe of a melancholic temper, as the Engliſh women generally are, leſs ſubject to the foibles of love? I am acquainted with ſome doctors in this ſcience, to whoſe judgment I would more willingly refer, than to his. And, perhaps, in reality, perſons naturally of a gay temper, are too eaſily taken off by different objects, to give themſelves up to all the exceſſes of this paſſion.

[223]Mr. Hobbes, a celebrated philoſopher of his nation, maintains, that laughing proceeds from our pride alone. This is only a paradox if aſ⯑ſerted of laughing in general, and only argues that miſanthropical diſpoſition for which he was remarkable.

To bring the cauſes he aſſigns, for laughing, under ſuſpicion, it is ſufficient to remark, that proud people are commonly thoſe who laugh leaſt. Gravity is the inſeparable companion of pride. To ſay that a man is vain, becauſe the hu⯑mour of a writer, or the buffooneries of an har⯑lequin, excite his laughter, would be advancing a great abſurdity. We ſhould diſtinguiſh between laughter, inſpired by joy, and that which ariſes from mockery. The malicious ſneer is improperly called laughter. It muſt be owned, that pride is the parent of ſuch laughter as this; but this is in itſelf vicious; whereas, the other ſort has nothing in its principles or effects that deſerves condemnation. We find this amiable in others, and is it unhappineſs to feel a diſpoſition towards it in ourſelves?

When I ſee an Engliſhman laugh, I fancy I rather ſee him hunting after joy, than having caught it; and this is more particularly remark⯑able in their women, whoſe tempers are inclined to melancholy. A laugh leaves no more traces [224] on their countenance than a flaſh of lightning on the face of the heavens. The moſt laughing air is inſtantly ſucceeded by the moſt gloomy. One would be apt to think that their ſouls open with difficulty to joy, or at leaſt that joy is not pleaſed with its habitation there.

In regard to fine raillery, it muſt be allowed, that it is not natural to the Engliſh, and therefore thoſe who endeavour at it make but an ill figure. Some of their authors have candidly confeſſed, that pleaſantry is quite foreign to their character; but, according to the reaſon they give, they loſe no⯑thing by this confeſſion. Biſhop Sprat gives the following one: ‘"The Engliſh (ſays he) have too much bravery to ſubmit to be derided, and too much virtue and honour to mock others’

On DECEIT and FALSHOOD.
To the AUTHOR, &c.

DECEIT and falſhood have ever been an over-match for truth, and followed and admired by the majority of mankind. If we enquire after the reaſon of this, we ſhall find it [226] in our own imaginations, which are amuſed and entertained with the perpetual novelty and va⯑riety that fiction affords, but find no manner of delight in the uniform ſimplicity of homely truth, which ſtill ſues them under the ſame appearance.

He, therefore, that would gain our hearts, muſt make his court to our fancy, which being ſovereign comptroller of the paſſions, lets them looſe, and enflames them more or leſs, in pro⯑portion to the force and efficacy of the firſt cauſe, which is ever the more powerful the more new it is. Thus, in mathematical demonſtrations them⯑ſelves, though they ſeem to aim at pure truth and inſtruction, and to be addreſſed to our reaſon alone, yet I think it is pretty plain, that our underſtanding is only made a drudge to gratify our invention and curioſity, and we are pleaſed not ſo much becauſe our diſcoveries are certain, as becauſe they are new.

I do not deny but the world is ſtill pleaſed with things that pleaſed it many ages ago, but it ſhould at the ſame time be conſidered, that man is naturally ſo much of a logician, as to diſtin⯑guiſh between matters that are plain and eaſy, and others that are hard and inconceivable. What we underſtand, we overlook and deſpiſe, and what we know nothing of, we hug and delight in? Thus there are ſuch things as perpetual no⯑velties; [227] for we are pleaſed no longer than we are amazed, and nothing ſo much contents us as that which confounds us.

This weakneſs in human nature, gave occaſion to a party of men to make ſuch gainful markets as they have done of our credulity. All objects and facts whatever, now ceaſed to be what they had been for ever before, and received what make and meaning it was found convenient to put upon them: What people eat, and drank, and ſaw, was not what they eat, and drank, and ſaw, but ſomething farther, which they were fond of, be⯑cauſe they were ignorant of it. In ſhort, nothing was itſelf, but ſomething beyond itſelf; and by theſe artifices and amuſements, the heads of the world were ſo turned and intoxicated, that, at laſt, there was ſcarce a ſound ſet of brains left in it.

In this ſtate of giddineſs and infatuation it was no very hard taſk to perſuade the already deluded, that there was an actual ſociety and communion between human creatures and ſpiritual daemons. And when they had thus put people into the power and clutches of the devil, none but they alone could have either ſkill or ſtrength to bring the priſoners back again.

[228]But ſo far did they carry this dreadful drollery, and ſo fond were they of it, that to maintain it and themſelves in profitable repute, they literally ſacrificed for it, and made impious victims of numberleſs old women, and other miſerable per⯑ſons, who either through ignorance could not ſay what they were bid to ſay, or, through madneſs, ſaid what they ſhould not have ſaid. Fear and ſtupidity made them incapable of defending them⯑ſelves, and frenzy and infatuation made them confeſs guilty impoſſibilities, which produced cruel ſentences, and then inhuman executions.

Some of theſe wretched mortals finding them⯑ſelves either hateful or terrible to all, and be⯑friended by none, and, perhaps, wanting the common neceſſaries of life, came at laſt, to ab⯑hor themſelves as much as they were abhorred by others, and grew willing to be burnt or hanged out of a world, which was no other to them than a ſcene of perſecution and anguiſh.

Others, of ſtrong imaginations and little un⯑derſtandings, were by poſitive and repeated charges againſt them, of committing miſchievous and ſupernatural facts and villainies, deluded to judge of themſelves by the judgment of their enemies, whoſe weakneſs or malice prompted them to be accuſers. And many have been condemned as witches and dealers with the devil, for no other [229] reaſon but their knowing more than thoſe who accuſed, tried, and paſſed ſentence upon them.

In theſe caſes, credulity is a much greater error than infidelity, and it is ſafer to believe nothing than too much. A man that believes little or nothing of witchcraft, will deſtroy nobody for being under the imputation of it; and ſo far he certainly acts with humanity to others, and ſafety to himſelf: But he that credits all, or too much, upon that article, is obliged, if he acts conſiſtently with his perſuaſion, to kill all thoſe whom he takes to be the killers of mankind; and ſuch are witches. It would be a jeſt and a contradiction to ſay, that he is for ſparing them who are harmleſs of that tribe, ſince the received notion of their ſuppoſed contract with the devil, implies that they are engaged by covenant and inclination to do all the miſchief they poſſibly can.

I have heard many ſtories of witches, and read many accuſations againſt them, but I do not re⯑member any that would have induced me to have conſigned over to the halter or the flame, any of thoſe deplorable wretches, who, as they ſhare our likeneſs and nature, ought to ſhare our compaſ⯑ſion, as perſons cruelly accuſed of impoſſibilities.

But we love to delude ourſelves, and often fancy or forge an effect, and then ſet ourſelves as [230] gravely, as ridiculouſly, to find out the cauſe. Thus, for example, when a dream or the hyp has given us falſe terrors, or imaginary pains, we immediately conclude, that the infernal tyrant owes us a ſpite, and inflicts his wrath and ſtripes upon us, by the hands of ſome of his ſworn ſervants amongſt us. For this end an old woman is promoted to a ſeat in Satan's privy council, and appointed his executioner in chief, within her diſtrict. So ready and civil are we to allow the devil the dominion over us, and even to provide him with butchers and hangmen of our own make and nature.

I have often wondered why we did not, in chuſing our proper officers for Belzebub, lay the lot rather upon men than women, the former being more bold and robuſt, and more equal to that bloody ſervice; but, upon enquiry, I find it has been ſo ordered for two reaſons; firſt, the men having the whole direction of this affair, are wiſe enough to ſlip their own necks out of the collar; and, ſecondly, an old woman is grown by cuſtom the moſt avoided and moſt unpitied creature under the ſun, the very name carrying contempt and ſatire in it. And ſo far, indeed, we pay but an uncourtly ſort of reſpect to Satan in ſacrificing to him nothing but the dry ſticks of human nature.

[231]We have a wondering quality within us, which finds huge gratification when we ſee ſtrange ſeats done, and cannot at the ſame time ſee the doer, or the cauſe. Such actions are ſure to be attribu⯑ted to ſome witch or daemon; for if we come to find they are ſlily performed by artiſts of our own ſpecies, and by cauſes purely natural, our delight dies with our amazement.

It is therefore one of the moſt unthankful of⯑fices in the world, to go about to expoſe the mi⯑ſtaken notions of witchcraft and ſpirits; it is robbing mankind of a valuable imagination, and of the privilege of being deceived. Thoſe who at any time undertook the taſk, have always met with rough treatment and ill language for their pains, and ſeldom eſcaped the imputation of athe⯑iſm, becauſe they would not allow the devil to be too powerful for the Almighty. For my part, I am ſo much a heretick as to believe, that God Almighty, and not the devil, governs the world.

If we enquire what are the common marks and ſymptoms by which witches are diſcovered to be ſuch, we ſhall ſee how reaſonably and mercifully thoſe poor creatures were burnt and hanged, who unhappily fell under that name.

[232]In the firſt place, the old woman muſt be pro⯑digious ugly; her eyes hollow and red, her face ſhrivelled; ſhe goes double, and her voice trem⯑bles. It frequently happens, that this rueful figure frightens a child into the palpitation of the heart: Home he runs, and tells his in mamma, that goody ſuch a one looked at him, and he is very ill. The good woman cries out, her dear baby is bewitched, and ſends for the parſon and the conſtable.

It is moreover neceſſary, that ſhe be very poor. It is true, her maſter Satan has mines and hidden treaſures in his gift; but no matter, ſhe is for all that very poor, and lives on alms. She goes to Siſly the cook maid for a diſh of broth, or the heel of a loaf, and Siſly denies them to her. The old woman goes away muttering, and, perhaps, in leſs than a month's time Siſly hears the voice of a cat, and ſtrains her ancles, which are certain ſigns that ſhe is bewitched.

A farmer ſees his cattle die of the murrain, and the ſheep of the rot, and poor goody is forced to be the cauſe of their death, becauſe ſhe was ſeen talking to herſelf the evening before ſuch an ewe departed, and had been gathering ſticks at the ſide of the wood where ſuch a cow run mad.

[233]The old woman has always for her companion an old grey cat, which is a diſguiſed devil too, and confederate with goody in works of darkneſs. They frequently go journies into Egypt upon a broom-ſtaff, in half an hour's time, and now and then goody and her cat change ſhapes. The neighbours often over-hear them in deep and ſo⯑lemn diſcourſe together, plotting ſome dreadful miſchief, you may be ſure.

There is a famous way of trying witches, re⯑commended by king James I. The old woman is tied hand and foot, and thrown into the river, and if ſhe ſwims ſhe is guilty, and taken out and burnt; but if ſhe is innocent, ſhe ſinks, and is only drowned.

The witches are ſaid to meet their maſter fre⯑quently in churches and church-yards. I wonder at the boldneſs of Satan and his congregation, in revelling and playing mountebank farces on con⯑ſecrated ground; and I have as often wondered at the overſight and ill policy of ſome people in al⯑lowing it poſſible.

It would have been both dangerous and impious to have treated this ſubject at one certain time in this ludicrous manner. It uſed to be managed with all poſſible gravity, and even terror; and, indeed, it was made a tragedy in all its parts, [234] and thouſands were ſacrificed, or rather mur⯑dered, by ſuch evidence and colours, as, God be thanked, we are at this day aſhamed of. An old woman may be miſerable now, and not be hanged for it.

OF THE OPERA in ENGLAND.

THE riſe and fall of our amuſements pretty much reſembles that of empire. They this day flouriſh without any viſible cauſe for ſuch vi⯑gour; the next they decay away, without any reaſon that can be aſſigned for their downfall. Some years ago the Italian opera was the only fa⯑ſhionable amuſement among our nobility. The managers of the playhouſes dreaded it as a mortal enemy, and our very poets liſted themſelves in the oppoſition; at preſent, the houſe ſeems deſerted, the caſtratiſing to empty benches, even Prince Vologeſe himſelf, a youth of great expectations, ſings himſelf out of breath, and rattles his chain to no purpoſe.

To ſay the truth, the opera, as it is conducted among us, is but a very humdrum amuſement; in other countries, the decorations are entirely mag⯑nificent, the ſingers all excellent, and the burlettas or interludes, quite entertaining; the beſt poets compoſe the words, and the beſt maſters the muſic, but with us it is otherwiſe; the decorations are but trifling, and cheap; the ſingers, Matei only excepted, but indifferent. Inſtead of interlude, we have thoſe ſorts of ſkipping dances, which are cal⯑culated for the galleries of the theatre. Every per⯑former [249] ſings his favourite ſong, and the muſic is only a medly of old Italian airs, or ſome meagre modern Capricio.

When ſuch is the caſe, it is not much to be wondered, if the opera is pretty much neglected; the lower orders of people have neither taſte nor fortune to reliſh ſuch an entertainment; they would find more ſatisfaction in the Roaſt Beef of Old England, than in the fineſt cloſes of an eunuch, they ſleep amidſt all the agony of recitative: On the other hand, people of fortune or taſte, can hardly be pleaſed where there is a viſible poverty in the decorations, and an entire want of taſte in the compoſition.

Would it not ſurprize one, that when Metaſtaſio is ſo well known in England, and ſo univerſally ad⯑mired, the manager or the compoſer ſhould have recourſe to any other operas than thoſe written by him. I might venture to ſay, that written by Metaſtaſio, put up in the bills of the day, would alone be ſufficient to fill an houſe, ſince thus, the admirers of ſenſe as well as ſound, might find en⯑tertainment.

The performers alſo ſhould be entreated to ſing only their parts, without clapping in any of their own favourite airs. I muſt own, that ſuch ſongs are generally to me the moſt diſagreeable in the [250] world. Every ſinger generally chuſes a favourite air, not from the excellency of the muſic, but from the difficulty; ſuch ſongs are generally choſen as ſurprize rather than pleaſe, where the performer may ſhew his compaſs, his breath, and his volu⯑bility.

From hence proceed thoſe unnatural ſtartings, thoſe unmuſical cloſings, and ſhakes lengthened out to a painful continuance; ſuch, indeed, may ſhew a voice, but it muſt give a truly delicate ear the utmoſt uneaſineſs. Such tricks are not muſic; neither Corelli nor Pergoleſi ever permitted them, and they begin even to be diſcontinued in Italy, where they firſt had their riſe.

And now I am upon the ſubject: Our compo⯑ſers alſo ſhould affect greater ſimplicity, let their baſe cliff have all the variety they can give it; let the body of the muſic (if I may ſo expreſs it) be as various as they pleaſe, but let them avoid orna⯑menting a barren ground work; let them not at⯑tempt, by flouriſhing, to cheat us of ſolid harmony.

The works of Mr. Rameau are never heard without a ſurprizing effect. I can attribute it only to this ſimplicity he every where obſerves, inſo⯑much, that ſome of his fineſt harmonies are often only octave and uniſon. This ſimple manner has greater powers than is generally imagined; and [251] were not ſuch a demonſtration miſplaced, I think, from the principles of muſic, it might be proved to be moſt agreeable.

But to leave general reflection. With the pre⯑ſent ſet of performers, the operas, if the con⯑ductor thinks proper, may be carried on with ſome ſucceſs, ſince they have all ſome merit; if not as actors, at leaſt as ſingers. Signora Matei is at once both a perfect actreſs and a very fine ſinger. She is poſſeſſed of a fine ſenſibility in her manner, and ſeldom indulges thoſe extravagant and un⯑muſical flights of voice complained of before. Cornacini, on the other hand, is a very indifferent actor; has a moſt unmeaning face; ſeems not to feel his part; is infected with a paſſion of ſhewing his compaſs; but to recompence all theſe defects, his voice is melodious; he has vaſt compaſs and great volubility; his ſwell and ſhake are perfectly fine, unleſs that he continues the l [...]tter too long. In ſhort, whatever the defects of his action may be, they are amply recompenced by his excellency as a ſinger; nor can I avoid fancying that he might make a much greater figure in an oratorio, than upon the ſtage.

However, upon the whole, I know not whether ever operas can be kept up in England; they ſeem to be entirely exotic, and require the niceſt ma⯑nagement and care. Inſtead of this, the care of [252] them is aſſigned to men unacquainted with the genius and diſpoſition of the people they would amuſe, and whoſe only motives are immediate gain. Whether a diſcontinuance of ſuch entertain⯑ments would be more to the loſs or the advantage of the nation, I will not take upon me to deter⯑mine, ſince it is as much our intereſt to induce foreigners of taſte among us on the one hand, as it is to diſcourage thoſe trifling members of ſociety, who generally compoſe the operatical dramatis perſonae on the other.