1591	----	PROTAGORAS By Plato Translated by Benjamin Jowett INTRODUCTION. The Protagoras, like several of the Dialogues of Plato, is put into the mouth of Socrates, who describes a conversation which had taken place between himself and the great Sophist at the house of Callias--'the man who had spent more upon the Sophists than all the rest of the world'--and in which the learned Hippias and the grammarian Prodicus had also shared, as well as Alcibiades and Critias, both of whom said a few words--in the presence of a distinguished company consisting of disciples of Protagoras and of leading Athenians belonging to the Socratic circle. The dialogue commences with a request on the part of Hippocrates that Socrates would introduce him to the celebrated teacher. He has come before the dawn had risen--so fervid is his zeal. Socrates moderates his excitement and advises him to find out 'what Protagoras will make of him,' before he becomes his pupil. They go together to the house of Callias; and Socrates, after explaining the purpose of their visit to Protagoras, asks the question, 'What he will make of Hippocrates.' Protagoras answers, 'That he will make him a better and a wiser man.' 'But in what will he be better?'--Socrates desires to have a more precise answer. Protagoras replies, 'That he will teach him prudence in affairs private and public; in short, the science or knowledge of human life.' This, as Socrates admits, is a noble profession; but he is or rather would have been doubtful, whether such knowledge can be taught, if Protagoras had not assured him of the fact, for two reasons: (1) Because the Athenian people, who recognize in their assemblies the distinction between the skilled and the unskilled in the arts, do not distinguish between the trained politician and the untrained; (2) Because the wisest and best Athenian citizens do not teach their sons political virtue. Will Protagoras answer these objections? Protagoras explains his views in the form of an apologue, in which, after Prometheus had given men the arts, Zeus is represented as sending Hermes to them, bearing with him Justice and Reverence. These are not, like the arts, to be imparted to a few only, but all men are to be partakers of them. Therefore the Athenian people are right in distinguishing between the skilled and unskilled in the arts, and not between skilled and unskilled politicians. (1) For all men have the political virtues to a certain degree, and are obliged to say that they have them, whether they have them or not. A man would be thought a madman who professed an art which he did not know; but he would be equally thought a madman if he did not profess a virtue which he had not. (2) And that the political virtues can be taught and acquired, in the opinion of the Athenians, is proved by the fact that they punish evil-doers, with a view to prevention, of course--mere retribution is for beasts, and not for men. (3) Again, would parents who teach her sons lesser matters leave them ignorant of the common duty of citizens? To the doubt of Socrates the best answer is the fact, that the education of youth in virtue begins almost as soon as they can speak, and is continued by the state when they pass out of the parental control. (4) Nor need we wonder that wise and good fathers sometimes have foolish and worthless sons. Virtue, as we were saying, is not the private possession of any man, but is shared by all, only however to the extent of which each individual is by nature capable. And, as a matter of fact, even the worst of civilized mankind will appear virtuous and just, if we compare them with savages. (5) The error of Socrates lies in supposing that there are no teachers of virtue, whereas all men are teachers in a degree. Some, like Protagoras, are better than others, and with this result we ought to be satisfied. Socrates is highly delighted with the explanation of Protagoras. But he has still a doubt lingering in his mind. Protagoras has spoken of the virtues: are they many, or one? are they parts of a whole, or different names of the same thing? Protagoras replies that they are parts, like the parts of a face, which have their several functions, and no one part is like any other part. This admission, which has been somewhat hastily made, is now taken up and cross-examined by Socrates:-- 'Is justice just, and is holiness holy? And are justice and holiness opposed to one another?'--'Then justice is unholy.' Protagoras would rather say that justice is different from holiness, and yet in a certain point of view nearly the same. He does not, however, escape in this way from the cunning of Socrates, who inveigles him into an admission that everything has but one opposite. Folly, for example, is opposed to wisdom; and folly is also opposed to temperance; and therefore temperance and wisdom are the same. And holiness has been already admitted to be nearly the same as justice. Temperance, therefore, has now to be compared with justice. Protagoras, whose temper begins to get a little ruffled at the process to which he has been subjected, is aware that he will soon be compelled by the dialectics of Socrates to admit that the temperate is the just. He therefore defends himself with his favourite weapon; that is to say, he makes a long speech not much to the point, which elicits the applause of the audience. Here occurs a sort of interlude, which commences with a declaration on the part of Socrates that he cannot follow a long speech, and therefore he must beg Protagoras to speak shorter. As Protagoras declines to accommodate him, he rises to depart, but is detained by Callias, who thinks him unreasonable in not allowing Protagoras the liberty which he takes himself of speaking as he likes. But Alcibiades answers that the two cases are not parallel. For Socrates admits his inability to speak long; will Protagoras in like manner acknowledge his inability to speak short? Counsels of moderation are urged first in a few words by Critias, and then by Prodicus in balanced and sententious language: and Hippias proposes an umpire. But who is to be the umpire? rejoins Socrates; he would rather suggest as a compromise that Protagoras shall ask and he will answer, and that when Protagoras is tired of asking he himself will ask and Protagoras shall answer. To this the latter yields a reluctant assent. Protagoras selects as his thesis a poem of Simonides of Ceos, in which he professes to find a contradiction. First the poet says, 'Hard is it to become good,' and then reproaches Pittacus for having said, 'Hard is it to be good.' How is this to be reconciled? Socrates, who is familiar with the poem, is embarrassed at first, and invokes the aid of Prodicus, the countryman of Simonides, but apparently only with the intention of flattering him into absurdities. First a distinction is drawn between (Greek) to be, and (Greek) to become: to become good is difficult; to be good is easy. Then the word difficult or hard is explained to mean 'evil' in the Cean dialect. To all this Prodicus assents; but when Protagoras reclaims, Socrates slily withdraws Prodicus from the fray, under the pretence that his assent was only intended to test the wits of his adversary. He then proceeds to give another and more elaborate explanation of the whole passage. The explanation is as follows:-- The Lacedaemonians are great philosophers (although this is a fact which is not generally known); and the soul of their philosophy is brevity, which was also the style of primitive antiquity and of the seven sages. Now Pittacus had a saying, 'Hard is it to be good:' and Simonides, who was jealous of the fame of this saying, wrote a poem which was designed to controvert it. No, says he, Pittacus; not 'hard to be good,' but 'hard to become good.' Socrates proceeds to argue in a highly impressive manner that the whole composition is intended as an attack upon Pittacus. This, though manifestly absurd, is accepted by the company, and meets with the special approval of Hippias, who has however a favourite interpretation of his own, which he is requested by Alcibiades to defer. The argument is now resumed, not without some disdainful remarks of Socrates on the practice of introducing the poets, who ought not to be allowed, any more than flute-girls, to come into good society. Men's own thoughts should supply them with the materials for discussion. A few soothing flatteries are addressed to Protagoras by Callias and Socrates, and then the old question is repeated, 'Whether the virtues are one or many?' To which Protagoras is now disposed to reply, that four out of the five virtues are in some degree similar; but he still contends that the fifth, courage, is unlike the rest. Socrates proceeds to undermine the last stronghold of the adversary, first obtaining from him the admission that all virtue is in the highest degree good:-- The courageous are the confident; and the confident are those who know their business or profession: those who have no such knowledge and are still confident are madmen. This is admitted. Then, says Socrates, courage is knowledge--an inference which Protagoras evades by drawing a futile distinction between the courageous and the confident in a fluent speech. Socrates renews the attack from another side: he would like to know whether pleasure is not the only good, and pain the only evil? Protagoras seems to doubt the morality or propriety of assenting to this; he would rather say that 'some pleasures are good, some pains are evil,' which is also the opinion of the generality of mankind. What does he think of knowledge? Does he agree with the common opinion that knowledge is overcome by passion? or does he hold that knowledge is power? Protagoras agrees that knowledge is certainly a governing power. This, however, is not the doctrine of men in general, who maintain that many who know what is best, act contrary to their knowledge under the influence of pleasure. But this opposition of good and evil is really the opposition of a greater or lesser amount of pleasure. Pleasures are evils because they end in pain, and pains are goods because they end in pleasures. Thus pleasure is seen to be the only good; and the only evil is the preference of the lesser pleasure to the greater. But then comes in the illusion of distance. Some art of mensuration is required in order to show us pleasures and pains in their true proportion. This art of mensuration is a kind of knowledge, and knowledge is thus proved once more to be the governing principle of human life, and ignorance the origin of all evil: for no one prefers the less pleasure to the greater, or the greater pain to the less, except from ignorance. The argument is drawn out in an imaginary 'dialogue within a dialogue,' conducted by Socrates and Protagoras on the one part, and the rest of the world on the other. Hippias and Prodicus, as well as Protagoras, admit the soundness of the conclusion. Socrates then applies this new conclusion to the case of courage--the only virtue which still holds out against the assaults of the Socratic dialectic. No one chooses the evil or refuses the good except through ignorance. This explains why cowards refuse to go to war:--because they form a wrong estimate of good, and honour, and pleasure. And why are the courageous willing to go to war?--because they form a right estimate of pleasures and pains, of things terrible and not terrible. Courage then is knowledge, and cowardice is ignorance. And the five virtues, which were originally maintained to have five different natures, after having been easily reduced to two only, at last coalesce in one. The assent of Protagoras to this last position is extracted with great difficulty. Socrates concludes by professing his disinterested love of the truth, and remarks on the singular manner in which he and his adversary had changed sides. Protagoras began by asserting, and Socrates by denying, the teachableness of virtue, and now the latter ends by affirming that virtue is knowledge, which is the most teachable of all things, while Protagoras has been striving to show that virtue is not knowledge, and this is almost equivalent to saying that virtue cannot be taught. He is not satisfied with the result, and would like to renew the enquiry with the help of Protagoras in a different order, asking (1) What virtue is, and (2) Whether virtue can be taught. Protagoras declines this offer, but commends Socrates' earnestness and his style of discussion. The Protagoras is often supposed to be full of difficulties. These are partly imaginary and partly real. The imaginary ones are (1) Chronological,--which were pointed out in ancient times by Athenaeus, and are noticed by Schleiermacher and others, and relate to the impossibility of all the persons in the Dialogue meeting at any one time, whether in the year 425 B.C., or in any other. But Plato, like all writers of fiction, aims only at the probable, and shows in many Dialogues (e.g. the Symposium and Republic, and already in the Laches) an extreme disregard of the historical accuracy which is sometimes demanded of him. (2) The exact place of the Protagoras among the Dialogues, and the date of composition, have also been much disputed. But there are no criteria which afford any real grounds for determining the date of composition; and the affinities of the Dialogues, when they are not indicated by Plato himself, must always to a great extent remain uncertain. (3) There is another class of difficulties, which may be ascribed to preconceived notions of commentators, who imagine that Protagoras the Sophist ought always to be in the wrong, and his adversary Socrates in the right; or that in this or that passage--e.g. in the explanation of good as pleasure--Plato is inconsistent with himself; or that the Dialogue fails in unity, and has not a proper beginning, middle, and ending. They seem to forget that Plato is a dramatic writer who throws his thoughts into both sides of the argument, and certainly does not aim at any unity which is inconsistent with freedom, and with a natural or even wild manner of treating his subject; also that his mode of revealing the truth is by lights and shadows, and far-off and opposing points of view, and not by dogmatic statements or definite results. The real difficulties arise out of the extreme subtlety of the work, which, as Socrates says of the poem of Simonides, is a most perfect piece of art. There are dramatic contrasts and interests, threads of philosophy broken and resumed, satirical reflections on mankind, veils thrown over truths which are lightly suggested, and all woven together in a single design, and moving towards one end. In the introductory scene Plato raises the expectation that a 'great personage' is about to appear on the stage; perhaps with a further view of showing that he is destined to be overthrown by a greater still, who makes no pretensions. Before introducing Hippocrates to him, Socrates thinks proper to warn the youth against the dangers of 'influence,' of which the invidious nature is recognized by Protagoras himself. Hippocrates readily adopts the suggestion of Socrates that he shall learn of Protagoras only the accomplishments which befit an Athenian gentleman, and let alone his 'sophistry.' There is nothing however in the introduction which leads to the inference that Plato intended to blacken the character of the Sophists; he only makes a little merry at their expense. The 'great personage' is somewhat ostentatious, but frank and honest. He is introduced on a stage which is worthy of him--at the house of the rich Callias, in which are congregated the noblest and wisest of the Athenians. He considers openness to be the best policy, and particularly mentions his own liberal mode of dealing with his pupils, as if in answer to the favourite accusation of the Sophists that they received pay. He is remarkable for the good temper which he exhibits throughout the discussion under the trying and often sophistical cross-examination of Socrates. Although once or twice ruffled, and reluctant to continue the discussion, he parts company on perfectly good terms, and appears to be, as he says of himself, the 'least jealous of mankind.' Nor is there anything in the sentiments of Protagoras which impairs this pleasing impression of the grave and weighty old man. His real defect is that he is inferior to Socrates in dialectics. The opposition between him and Socrates is not the opposition of good and bad, true and false, but of the old art of rhetoric and the new science of interrogation and argument; also of the irony of Socrates and the self-assertion of the Sophists. There is quite as much truth on the side of Protagoras as of Socrates; but the truth of Protagoras is based on common sense and common maxims of morality, while that of Socrates is paradoxical or transcendental, and though full of meaning and insight, hardly intelligible to the rest of mankind. Here as elsewhere is the usual contrast between the Sophists representing average public opinion and Socrates seeking for increased clearness and unity of ideas. But to a great extent Protagoras has the best of the argument and represents the better mind of man. For example: (1) one of the noblest statements to be found in antiquity about the preventive nature of punishment is put into his mouth; (2) he is clearly right also in maintaining that virtue can be taught (which Socrates himself, at the end of the Dialogue, is disposed to concede); and also (3) in his explanation of the phenomenon that good fathers have bad sons; (4) he is right also in observing that the virtues are not like the arts, gifts or attainments of special individuals, but the common property of all: this, which in all ages has been the strength and weakness of ethics and politics, is deeply seated in human nature; (5) there is a sort of half-truth in the notion that all civilized men are teachers of virtue; and more than a half-truth (6) in ascribing to man, who in his outward conditions is more helpless than the other animals, the power of self-improvement; (7) the religious allegory should be noticed, in which the arts are said to be given by Prometheus (who stole them), whereas justice and reverence and the political virtues could only be imparted by Zeus; (8) in the latter part of the Dialogue, when Socrates is arguing that 'pleasure is the only good,' Protagoras deems it more in accordance with his character to maintain that 'some pleasures only are good;' and admits that 'he, above all other men, is bound to say "that wisdom and knowledge are the highest of human things."' There is no reason to suppose that in all this Plato is depicting an imaginary Protagoras; he seems to be showing us the teaching of the Sophists under the milder aspect under which he once regarded them. Nor is there any reason to doubt that Socrates is equally an historical character, paradoxical, ironical, tiresome, but seeking for the unity of virtue and knowledge as for a precious treasure; willing to rest this even on a calculation of pleasure, and irresistible here, as everywhere in Plato, in his intellectual superiority. The aim of Socrates, and of the Dialogue, is to show the unity of virtue. In the determination of this question the identity of virtue and knowledge is found to be involved. But if virtue and knowledge are one, then virtue can be taught; the end of the Dialogue returns to the beginning. Had Protagoras been allowed by Plato to make the Aristotelian distinction, and say that virtue is not knowledge, but is accompanied with knowledge; or to point out with Aristotle that the same quality may have more than one opposite; or with Plato himself in the Phaedo to deny that good is a mere exchange of a greater pleasure for a less--the unity of virtue and the identity of virtue and knowledge would have required to be proved by other arguments. The victory of Socrates over Protagoras is in every way complete when their minds are fairly brought together. Protagoras falls before him after two or three blows. Socrates partially gains his object in the first part of the Dialogue, and completely in the second. Nor does he appear at any disadvantage when subjected to 'the question' by Protagoras. He succeeds in making his two 'friends,' Prodicus and Hippias, ludicrous by the way; he also makes a long speech in defence of the poem of Simonides, after the manner of the Sophists, showing, as Alcibiades says, that he is only pretending to have a bad memory, and that he and not Protagoras is really a master in the two styles of speaking; and that he can undertake, not one side of the argument only, but both, when Protagoras begins to break down. Against the authority of the poets with whom Protagoras has ingeniously identified himself at the commencement of the Dialogue, Socrates sets up the proverbial philosophers and those masters of brevity the Lacedaemonians. The poets, the Laconizers, and Protagoras are satirized at the same time. Not having the whole of this poem before us, it is impossible for us to answer certainly the question of Protagoras, how the two passages of Simonides are to be reconciled. We can only follow the indications given by Plato himself. But it seems likely that the reconcilement offered by Socrates is a caricature of the methods of interpretation which were practised by the Sophists--for the following reasons: (1) The transparent irony of the previous interpretations given by Socrates. (2) The ludicrous opening of the speech in which the Lacedaemonians are described as the true philosophers, and Laconic brevity as the true form of philosophy, evidently with an allusion to Protagoras' long speeches. (3) The manifest futility and absurdity of the explanation of (Greek), which is hardly consistent with the rational interpretation of the rest of the poem. The opposition of (Greek) and (Greek) seems also intended to express the rival doctrines of Socrates and Protagoras, and is a facetious commentary on their differences. (4) The general treatment in Plato both of the Poets and the Sophists, who are their interpreters, and whom he delights to identify with them. (5) The depreciating spirit in which Socrates speaks of the introduction of the poets as a substitute for original conversation, which is intended to contrast with Protagoras' exaltation of the study of them--this again is hardly consistent with the serious defence of Simonides. (6) the marked approval of Hippias, who is supposed at once to catch the familiar sound, just as in the previous conversation Prodicus is represented as ready to accept any distinctions of language however absurd. At the same time Hippias is desirous of substituting a new interpretation of his own; as if the words might really be made to mean anything, and were only to be regarded as affording a field for the ingenuity of the interpreter. This curious passage is, therefore, to be regarded as Plato's satire on the tedious and hypercritical arts of interpretation which prevailed in his own day, and may be compared with his condemnation of the same arts when applied to mythology in the Phaedrus, and with his other parodies, e.g. with the two first speeches in the Phaedrus and with the Menexenus. Several lesser touches of satire may be observed, such as the claim of philosophy advanced for the Lacedaemonians, which is a parody of the claims advanced for the Poets by Protagoras; the mistake of the Laconizing set in supposing that the Lacedaemonians are a great nation because they bruise their ears; the far-fetched notion, which is 'really too bad,' that Simonides uses the Lesbian (?) word, (Greek), because he is addressing a Lesbian. The whole may also be considered as a satire on those who spin pompous theories out of nothing. As in the arguments of the Euthydemus and of the Cratylus, the veil of irony is never withdrawn; and we are left in doubt at last how far in this interpretation of Simonides Socrates is 'fooling,' how far he is in earnest. All the interests and contrasts of character in a great dramatic work like the Protagoras are not easily exhausted. The impressiveness of the scene should not be lost upon us, or the gradual substitution of Socrates in the second part for Protagoras in the first. The characters to whom we are introduced at the beginning of the Dialogue all play a part more or less conspicuous towards the end. There is Alcibiades, who is compelled by the necessity of his nature to be a partisan, lending effectual aid to Socrates; there is Critias assuming the tone of impartiality; Callias, here as always inclining to the Sophists, but eager for any intellectual repast; Prodicus, who finds an opportunity for displaying his distinctions of language, which are valueless and pedantic, because they are not based on dialectic; Hippias, who has previously exhibited his superficial knowledge of natural philosophy, to which, as in both the Dialogues called by his name, he now adds the profession of an interpreter of the Poets. The two latter personages have been already damaged by the mock heroic description of them in the introduction. It may be remarked that Protagoras is consistently presented to us throughout as the teacher of moral and political virtue; there is no allusion to the theories of sensation which are attributed to him in the Theaetetus and elsewhere, or to his denial of the existence of the gods in a well-known fragment ascribed to him; he is the religious rather than the irreligious teacher in this Dialogue. Also it may be observed that Socrates shows him as much respect as is consistent with his own ironical character; he admits that the dialectic which has overthrown Protagoras has carried himself round to a conclusion opposed to his first thesis. The force of argument, therefore, and not Socrates or Protagoras, has won the day. But is Socrates serious in maintaining (1) that virtue cannot be taught; (2) that the virtues are one; (3) that virtue is the knowledge of pleasures and pains present and future? These propositions to us have an appearance of paradox--they are really moments or aspects of the truth by the help of which we pass from the old conventional morality to a higher conception of virtue and knowledge. That virtue cannot be taught is a paradox of the same sort as the profession of Socrates that he knew nothing. Plato means to say that virtue is not brought to a man, but must be drawn out of him; and cannot be taught by rhetorical discourses or citations from the poets. The second question, whether the virtues are one or many, though at first sight distinct, is really a part of the same subject; for if the virtues are to be taught, they must be reducible to a common principle; and this common principle is found to be knowledge. Here, as Aristotle remarks, Socrates and Plato outstep the truth--they make a part of virtue into the whole. Further, the nature of this knowledge, which is assumed to be a knowledge of pleasures and pains, appears to us too superficial and at variance with the spirit of Plato himself. Yet, in this, Plato is only following the historical Socrates as he is depicted to us in Xenophon's Memorabilia. Like Socrates, he finds on the surface of human life one common bond by which the virtues are united,--their tendency to produce happiness,--though such a principle is afterwards repudiated by him. It remains to be considered in what relation the Protagoras stands to the other Dialogues of Plato. That it is one of the earlier or purely Socratic works--perhaps the last, as it is certainly the greatest of them--is indicated by the absence of any allusion to the doctrine of reminiscence; and also by the different attitude assumed towards the teaching and persons of the Sophists in some of the later Dialogues. The Charmides, Laches, Lysis, all touch on the question of the relation of knowledge to virtue, and may be regarded, if not as preliminary studies or sketches of the more important work, at any rate as closely connected with it. The Io and the lesser Hippias contain discussions of the Poets, which offer a parallel to the ironical criticism of Simonides, and are conceived in a similar spirit. The affinity of the Protagoras to the Meno is more doubtful. For there, although the same question is discussed, 'whether virtue can be taught,' and the relation of Meno to the Sophists is much the same as that of Hippocrates, the answer to the question is supplied out of the doctrine of ideas; the real Socrates is already passing into the Platonic one. At a later stage of the Platonic philosophy we shall find that both the paradox and the solution of it appear to have been retracted. The Phaedo, the Gorgias, and the Philebus offer further corrections of the teaching of the Protagoras; in all of them the doctrine that virtue is pleasure, or that pleasure is the chief or only good, is distinctly renounced. Thus after many preparations and oppositions, both of the characters of men and aspects of the truth, especially of the popular and philosophical aspect; and after many interruptions and detentions by the way, which, as Theodorus says in the Theaetetus, are quite as agreeable as the argument, we arrive at the great Socratic thesis that virtue is knowledge. This is an aspect of the truth which was lost almost as soon as it was found; and yet has to be recovered by every one for himself who would pass the limits of proverbial and popular philosophy. The moral and intellectual are always dividing, yet they must be reunited, and in the highest conception of them are inseparable. The thesis of Socrates is not merely a hasty assumption, but may be also deemed an anticipation of some 'metaphysic of the future,' in which the divided elements of human nature are reconciled. PROTAGORAS PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE: Socrates, who is the narrator of the Dialogue to his Companion. Hippocrates, Alcibiades and Critias. Protagoras, Hippias and Prodicus (Sophists). Callias, a wealthy Athenian. SCENE: The House of Callias. COMPANION: Where do you come from, Socrates? And yet I need hardly ask the question, for I know that you have been in chase of the fair Alcibiades. I saw him the day before yesterday; and he had got a beard like a man,--and he is a man, as I may tell you in your ear. But I thought that he was still very charming. SOCRATES: What of his beard? Are you not of Homer's opinion, who says 'Youth is most charming when the beard first appears'? And that is now the charm of Alcibiades. COMPANION: Well, and how do matters proceed? Have you been visiting him, and was he gracious to you? SOCRATES: Yes, I thought that he was very gracious; and especially to-day, for I have just come from him, and he has been helping me in an argument. But shall I tell you a strange thing? I paid no attention to him, and several times I quite forgot that he was present. COMPANION: What is the meaning of this? Has anything happened between you and him? For surely you cannot have discovered a fairer love than he is; certainly not in this city of Athens. SOCRATES: Yes, much fairer. COMPANION: What do you mean--a citizen or a foreigner? SOCRATES: A foreigner. COMPANION: Of what country? SOCRATES: Of Abdera. COMPANION: And is this stranger really in your opinion a fairer love than the son of Cleinias? SOCRATES: And is not the wiser always the fairer, sweet friend? COMPANION: But have you really met, Socrates, with some wise one? SOCRATES: Say rather, with the wisest of all living men, if you are willing to accord that title to Protagoras. COMPANION: What! Is Protagoras in Athens? SOCRATES: Yes; he has been here two days. COMPANION: And do you just come from an interview with him? SOCRATES: Yes; and I have heard and said many things. COMPANION: Then, if you have no engagement, suppose that you sit down and tell me what passed, and my attendant here shall give up his place to you. SOCRATES: To be sure; and I shall be grateful to you for listening. COMPANION: Thank you, too, for telling us. SOCRATES: That is thank you twice over. Listen then:-- Last night, or rather very early this morning, Hippocrates, the son of Apollodorus and the brother of Phason, gave a tremendous thump with his staff at my door; some one opened to him, and he came rushing in and bawled out: Socrates, are you awake or asleep? I knew his voice, and said: Hippocrates, is that you? and do you bring any news? Good news, he said; nothing but good. Delightful, I said; but what is the news? and why have you come hither at this unearthly hour? He drew nearer to me and said: Protagoras is come. Yes, I replied; he came two days ago: have you only just heard of his arrival? Yes, by the gods, he said; but not until yesterday evening. At the same time he felt for the truckle-bed, and sat down at my feet, and then he said: Yesterday quite late in the evening, on my return from Oenoe whither I had gone in pursuit of my runaway slave Satyrus, as I meant to have told you, if some other matter had not come in the way;--on my return, when we had done supper and were about to retire to rest, my brother said to me: Protagoras is come. I was going to you at once, and then I thought that the night was far spent. But the moment sleep left me after my fatigue, I got up and came hither direct. I, who knew the very courageous madness of the man, said: What is the matter? Has Protagoras robbed you of anything? He replied, laughing: Yes, indeed he has, Socrates, of the wisdom which he keeps from me. But, surely, I said, if you give him money, and make friends with him, he will make you as wise as he is himself. Would to heaven, he replied, that this were the case! He might take all that I have, and all that my friends have, if he pleased. But that is why I have come to you now, in order that you may speak to him on my behalf; for I am young, and also I have never seen nor heard him; (when he visited Athens before I was but a child;) and all men praise him, Socrates; he is reputed to be the most accomplished of speakers. There is no reason why we should not go to him at once, and then we shall find him at home. He lodges, as I hear, with Callias the son of Hipponicus: let us start. I replied: Not yet, my good friend; the hour is too early. But let us rise and take a turn in the court and wait about there until day-break; when the day breaks, then we will go. For Protagoras is generally at home, and we shall be sure to find him; never fear. Upon this we got up and walked about in the court, and I thought that I would make trial of the strength of his resolution. So I examined him and put questions to him. Tell me, Hippocrates, I said, as you are going to Protagoras, and will be paying your money to him, what is he to whom you are going? and what will he make of you? If, for example, you had thought of going to Hippocrates of Cos, the Asclepiad, and were about to give him your money, and some one had said to you: You are paying money to your namesake Hippocrates, O Hippocrates; tell me, what is he that you give him money? how would you have answered? I should say, he replied, that I gave money to him as a physician. And what will he make of you? A physician, he said. And if you were resolved to go to Polycleitus the Argive, or Pheidias the Athenian, and were intending to give them money, and some one had asked you: What are Polycleitus and Pheidias? and why do you give them this money?--how would you have answered? I should have answered, that they were statuaries. And what will they make of you? A statuary, of course. Well now, I said, you and I are going to Protagoras, and we are ready to pay him money on your behalf. If our own means are sufficient, and we can gain him with these, we shall be only too glad; but if not, then we are to spend the money of your friends as well. Now suppose, that while we are thus enthusiastically pursuing our object some one were to say to us: Tell me, Socrates, and you Hippocrates, what is Protagoras, and why are you going to pay him money,--how should we answer? I know that Pheidias is a sculptor, and that Homer is a poet; but what appellation is given to Protagoras? how is he designated? They call him a Sophist, Socrates, he replied. Then we are going to pay our money to him in the character of a Sophist? Certainly. But suppose a person were to ask this further question: And how about yourself? What will Protagoras make of you, if you go to see him? He answered, with a blush upon his face (for the day was just beginning to dawn, so that I could see him): Unless this differs in some way from the former instances, I suppose that he will make a Sophist of me. By the gods, I said, and are you not ashamed at having to appear before the Hellenes in the character of a Sophist? Indeed, Socrates, to confess the truth, I am. But you should not assume, Hippocrates, that the instruction of Protagoras is of this nature: may you not learn of him in the same way that you learned the arts of the grammarian, or musician, or trainer, not with the view of making any of them a profession, but only as a part of education, and because a private gentleman and freeman ought to know them? Just so, he said; and that, in my opinion, is a far truer account of the teaching of Protagoras. I said: I wonder whether you know what you are doing? And what am I doing? You are going to commit your soul to the care of a man whom you call a Sophist. And yet I hardly think that you know what a Sophist is; and if not, then you do not even know to whom you are committing your soul and whether the thing to which you commit yourself be good or evil. I certainly think that I do know, he replied. Then tell me, what do you imagine that he is? I take him to be one who knows wise things, he replied, as his name implies. And might you not, I said, affirm this of the painter and of the carpenter also: Do not they, too, know wise things? But suppose a person were to ask us: In what are the painters wise? We should answer: In what relates to the making of likenesses, and similarly of other things. And if he were further to ask: What is the wisdom of the Sophist, and what is the manufacture over which he presides?--how should we answer him? How should we answer him, Socrates? What other answer could there be but that he presides over the art which makes men eloquent? Yes, I replied, that is very likely true, but not enough; for in the answer a further question is involved: Of what does the Sophist make a man talk eloquently? The player on the lyre may be supposed to make a man talk eloquently about that which he makes him understand, that is about playing the lyre. Is not that true? Yes. Then about what does the Sophist make him eloquent? Must not he make him eloquent in that which he understands? Yes, that may be assumed. And what is that which the Sophist knows and makes his disciple know? Indeed, he said, I cannot tell. Then I proceeded to say: Well, but are you aware of the danger which you are incurring? If you were going to commit your body to some one, who might do good or harm to it, would you not carefully consider and ask the opinion of your friends and kindred, and deliberate many days as to whether you should give him the care of your body? But when the soul is in question, which you hold to be of far more value than the body, and upon the good or evil of which depends the well-being of your all,--about this you never consulted either with your father or with your brother or with any one of us who are your companions. But no sooner does this foreigner appear, than you instantly commit your soul to his keeping. In the evening, as you say, you hear of him, and in the morning you go to him, never deliberating or taking the opinion of any one as to whether you ought to intrust yourself to him or not;--you have quite made up your mind that you will at all hazards be a pupil of Protagoras, and are prepared to expend all the property of yourself and of your friends in carrying out at any price this determination, although, as you admit, you do not know him, and have never spoken with him: and you call him a Sophist, but are manifestly ignorant of what a Sophist is; and yet you are going to commit yourself to his keeping. When he heard me say this, he replied: No other inference, Socrates, can be drawn from your words. I proceeded: Is not a Sophist, Hippocrates, one who deals wholesale or retail in the food of the soul? To me that appears to be his nature. And what, Socrates, is the food of the soul? Surely, I said, knowledge is the food of the soul; and we must take care, my friend, that the Sophist does not deceive us when he praises what he sells, like the dealers wholesale or retail who sell the food of the body; for they praise indiscriminately all their goods, without knowing what are really beneficial or hurtful: neither do their customers know, with the exception of any trainer or physician who may happen to buy of them. In like manner those who carry about the wares of knowledge, and make the round of the cities, and sell or retail them to any customer who is in want of them, praise them all alike; though I should not wonder, O my friend, if many of them were really ignorant of their effect upon the soul; and their customers equally ignorant, unless he who buys of them happens to be a physician of the soul. If, therefore, you have understanding of what is good and evil, you may safely buy knowledge of Protagoras or of any one; but if not, then, O my friend, pause, and do not hazard your dearest interests at a game of chance. For there is far greater peril in buying knowledge than in buying meat and drink: the one you purchase of the wholesale or retail dealer, and carry them away in other vessels, and before you receive them into the body as food, you may deposit them at home and call in any experienced friend who knows what is good to be eaten or drunken, and what not, and how much, and when; and then the danger of purchasing them is not so great. But you cannot buy the wares of knowledge and carry them away in another vessel; when you have paid for them you must receive them into the soul and go your way, either greatly harmed or greatly benefited; and therefore we should deliberate and take counsel with our elders; for we are still young--too young to determine such a matter. And now let us go, as we were intending, and hear Protagoras; and when we have heard what he has to say, we may take counsel of others; for not only is Protagoras at the house of Callias, but there is Hippias of Elis, and, if I am not mistaken, Prodicus of Ceos, and several other wise men. To this we agreed, and proceeded on our way until we reached the vestibule of the house; and there we stopped in order to conclude a discussion which had arisen between us as we were going along; and we stood talking in the vestibule until we had finished and come to an understanding. And I think that the door-keeper, who was a eunuch, and who was probably annoyed at the great inroad of the Sophists, must have heard us talking. At any rate, when we knocked at the door, and he opened and saw us, he grumbled: They are Sophists--he is not at home; and instantly gave the door a hearty bang with both his hands. Again we knocked, and he answered without opening: Did you not hear me say that he is not at home, fellows? But, my friend, I said, you need not be alarmed; for we are not Sophists, and we are not come to see Callias, but we want to see Protagoras; and I must request you to announce us. At last, after a good deal of difficulty, the man was persuaded to open the door. When we entered, we found Protagoras taking a walk in the cloister; and next to him, on one side, were walking Callias, the son of Hipponicus, and Paralus, the son of Pericles, who, by the mother's side, is his half-brother, and Charmides, the son of Glaucon. On the other side of him were Xanthippus, the other son of Pericles, Philippides, the son of Philomelus; also Antimoerus of Mende, who of all the disciples of Protagoras is the most famous, and intends to make sophistry his profession. A train of listeners followed him; the greater part of them appeared to be foreigners, whom Protagoras had brought with him out of the various cities visited by him in his journeys, he, like Orpheus, attracting them his voice, and they following (Compare Rep.). I should mention also that there were some Athenians in the company. Nothing delighted me more than the precision of their movements: they never got into his way at all; but when he and those who were with him turned back, then the band of listeners parted regularly on either side; he was always in front, and they wheeled round and took their places behind him in perfect order. After him, as Homer says (Od.), 'I lifted up my eyes and saw' Hippias the Elean sitting in the opposite cloister on a chair of state, and around him were seated on benches Eryximachus, the son of Acumenus, and Phaedrus the Myrrhinusian, and Andron the son of Androtion, and there were strangers whom he had brought with him from his native city of Elis, and some others: they were putting to Hippias certain physical and astronomical questions, and he, ex cathedra, was determining their several questions to them, and discoursing of them. Also, 'my eyes beheld Tantalus (Od.);' for Prodicus the Cean was at Athens: he had been lodged in a room which, in the days of Hipponicus, was a storehouse; but, as the house was full, Callias had cleared this out and made the room into a guest-chamber. Now Prodicus was still in bed, wrapped up in sheepskins and bedclothes, of which there seemed to be a great heap; and there was sitting by him on the couches near, Pausanias of the deme of Cerameis, and with Pausanias was a youth quite young, who is certainly remarkable for his good looks, and, if I am not mistaken, is also of a fair and gentle nature. I thought that I heard him called Agathon, and my suspicion is that he is the beloved of Pausanias. There was this youth, and also there were the two Adeimantuses, one the son of Cepis, and the other of Leucolophides, and some others. I was very anxious to hear what Prodicus was saying, for he seems to me to be an all-wise and inspired man; but I was not able to get into the inner circle, and his fine deep voice made an echo in the room which rendered his words inaudible. No sooner had we entered than there followed us Alcibiades the beautiful, as you say, and I believe you; and also Critias the son of Callaeschrus. On entering we stopped a little, in order to look about us, and then walked up to Protagoras, and I said: Protagoras, my friend Hippocrates and I have come to see you. Do you wish, he said, to speak with me alone, or in the presence of the company? Whichever you please, I said; you shall determine when you have heard the purpose of our visit. And what is your purpose? he said. I must explain, I said, that my friend Hippocrates is a native Athenian; he is the son of Apollodorus, and of a great and prosperous house, and he is himself in natural ability quite a match for anybody of his own age. I believe that he aspires to political eminence; and this he thinks that conversation with you is most likely to procure for him. And now you can determine whether you would wish to speak to him of your teaching alone or in the presence of the company. Thank you, Socrates, for your consideration of me. For certainly a stranger finding his way into great cities, and persuading the flower of the youth in them to leave company of their kinsmen or any other acquaintances, old or young, and live with him, under the idea that they will be improved by his conversation, ought to be very cautious; great jealousies are aroused by his proceedings, and he is the subject of many enmities and conspiracies. Now the art of the Sophist is, as I believe, of great antiquity; but in ancient times those who practised it, fearing this odium, veiled and disguised themselves under various names, some under that of poets, as Homer, Hesiod, and Simonides, some, of hierophants and prophets, as Orpheus and Musaeus, and some, as I observe, even under the name of gymnastic-masters, like Iccus of Tarentum, or the more recently celebrated Herodicus, now of Selymbria and formerly of Megara, who is a first-rate Sophist. Your own Agathocles pretended to be a musician, but was really an eminent Sophist; also Pythocleides the Cean; and there were many others; and all of them, as I was saying, adopted these arts as veils or disguises because they were afraid of the odium which they would incur. But that is not my way, for I do not believe that they effected their purpose, which was to deceive the government, who were not blinded by them; and as to the people, they have no understanding, and only repeat what their rulers are pleased to tell them. Now to run away, and to be caught in running away, is the very height of folly, and also greatly increases the exasperation of mankind; for they regard him who runs away as a rogue, in addition to any other objections which they have to him; and therefore I take an entirely opposite course, and acknowledge myself to be a Sophist and instructor of mankind; such an open acknowledgement appears to me to be a better sort of caution than concealment. Nor do I neglect other precautions, and therefore I hope, as I may say, by the favour of heaven that no harm will come of the acknowledgment that I am a Sophist. And I have been now many years in the profession--for all my years when added up are many: there is no one here present of whom I might not be the father. Wherefore I should much prefer conversing with you, if you want to speak with me, in the presence of the company. As I suspected that he would like to have a little display and glorification in the presence of Prodicus and Hippias, and would gladly show us to them in the light of his admirers, I said: But why should we not summon Prodicus and Hippias and their friends to hear us? Very good, he said. Suppose, said Callias, that we hold a council in which you may sit and discuss.--This was agreed upon, and great delight was felt at the prospect of hearing wise men talk; we ourselves took the chairs and benches, and arranged them by Hippias, where the other benches had been already placed. Meanwhile Callias and Alcibiades got Prodicus out of bed and brought in him and his companions. When we were all seated, Protagoras said: Now that the company are assembled, Socrates, tell me about the young man of whom you were just now speaking. I replied: I will begin again at the same point, Protagoras, and tell you once more the purport of my visit: this is my friend Hippocrates, who is desirous of making your acquaintance; he would like to know what will happen to him if he associates with you. I have no more to say. Protagoras answered: Young man, if you associate with me, on the very first day you will return home a better man than you came, and better on the second day than on the first, and better every day than you were on the day before. When I heard this, I said: Protagoras, I do not at all wonder at hearing you say this; even at your age, and with all your wisdom, if any one were to teach you what you did not know before, you would become better no doubt: but please to answer in a different way--I will explain how by an example. Let me suppose that Hippocrates, instead of desiring your acquaintance, wished to become acquainted with the young man Zeuxippus of Heraclea, who has lately been in Athens, and he had come to him as he has come to you, and had heard him say, as he has heard you say, that every day he would grow and become better if he associated with him: and then suppose that he were to ask him, 'In what shall I become better, and in what shall I grow?'--Zeuxippus would answer, 'In painting.' And suppose that he went to Orthagoras the Theban, and heard him say the same thing, and asked him, 'In what shall I become better day by day?' he would reply, 'In flute-playing.' Now I want you to make the same sort of answer to this young man and to me, who am asking questions on his account. When you say that on the first day on which he associates with you he will return home a better man, and on every day will grow in like manner,--in what, Protagoras, will he be better? and about what? When Protagoras heard me say this, he replied: You ask questions fairly, and I like to answer a question which is fairly put. If Hippocrates comes to me he will not experience the sort of drudgery with which other Sophists are in the habit of insulting their pupils; who, when they have just escaped from the arts, are taken and driven back into them by these teachers, and made to learn calculation, and astronomy, and geometry, and music (he gave a look at Hippias as he said this); but if he comes to me, he will learn that which he comes to learn. And this is prudence in affairs private as well as public; he will learn to order his own house in the best manner, and he will be able to speak and act for the best in the affairs of the state. Do I understand you, I said; and is your meaning that you teach the art of politics, and that you promise to make men good citizens? That, Socrates, is exactly the profession which I make. Then, I said, you do indeed possess a noble art, if there is no mistake about this; for I will freely confess to you, Protagoras, that I have a doubt whether this art is capable of being taught, and yet I know not how to disbelieve your assertion. And I ought to tell you why I am of opinion that this art cannot be taught or communicated by man to man. I say that the Athenians are an understanding people, and indeed they are esteemed to be such by the other Hellenes. Now I observe that when we are met together in the assembly, and the matter in hand relates to building, the builders are summoned as advisers; when the question is one of ship-building, then the ship-wrights; and the like of other arts which they think capable of being taught and learned. And if some person offers to give them advice who is not supposed by them to have any skill in the art, even though he be good-looking, and rich, and noble, they will not listen to him, but laugh and hoot at him, until either he is clamoured down and retires of himself; or if he persist, he is dragged away or put out by the constables at the command of the prytanes. This is their way of behaving about professors of the arts. But when the question is an affair of state, then everybody is free to have a say--carpenter, tinker, cobbler, sailor, passenger; rich and poor, high and low--any one who likes gets up, and no one reproaches him, as in the former case, with not having learned, and having no teacher, and yet giving advice; evidently because they are under the impression that this sort of knowledge cannot be taught. And not only is this true of the state, but of individuals; the best and wisest of our citizens are unable to impart their political wisdom to others: as for example, Pericles, the father of these young men, who gave them excellent instruction in all that could be learned from masters, in his own department of politics neither taught them, nor gave them teachers; but they were allowed to wander at their own free will in a sort of hope that they would light upon virtue of their own accord. Or take another example: there was Cleinias the younger brother of our friend Alcibiades, of whom this very same Pericles was the guardian; and he being in fact under the apprehension that Cleinias would be corrupted by Alcibiades, took him away, and placed him in the house of Ariphron to be educated; but before six months had elapsed, Ariphron sent him back, not knowing what to do with him. And I could mention numberless other instances of persons who were good themselves, and never yet made any one else good, whether friend or stranger. Now I, Protagoras, having these examples before me, am inclined to think that virtue cannot be taught. But then again, when I listen to your words, I waver; and am disposed to think that there must be something in what you say, because I know that you have great experience, and learning, and invention. And I wish that you would, if possible, show me a little more clearly that virtue can be taught. Will you be so good? That I will, Socrates, and gladly. But what would you like? Shall I, as an elder, speak to you as younger men in an apologue or myth, or shall I argue out the question? To this several of the company answered that he should choose for himself. Well, then, he said, I think that the myth will be more interesting. Once upon a time there were gods only, and no mortal creatures. But when the time came that these also should be created, the gods fashioned them out of earth and fire and various mixtures of both elements in the interior of the earth; and when they were about to bring them into the light of day, they ordered Prometheus and Epimetheus to equip them, and to distribute to them severally their proper qualities. Epimetheus said to Prometheus: 'Let me distribute, and do you inspect.' This was agreed, and Epimetheus made the distribution. There were some to whom he gave strength without swiftness, while he equipped the weaker with swiftness; some he armed, and others he left unarmed; and devised for the latter some other means of preservation, making some large, and having their size as a protection, and others small, whose nature was to fly in the air or burrow in the ground; this was to be their way of escape. Thus did he compensate them with the view of preventing any race from becoming extinct. And when he had provided against their destruction by one another, he contrived also a means of protecting them against the seasons of heaven; clothing them with close hair and thick skins sufficient to defend them against the winter cold and able to resist the summer heat, so that they might have a natural bed of their own when they wanted to rest; also he furnished them with hoofs and hair and hard and callous skins under their feet. Then he gave them varieties of food,--herb of the soil to some, to others fruits of trees, and to others roots, and to some again he gave other animals as food. And some he made to have few young ones, while those who were their prey were very prolific; and in this manner the race was preserved. Thus did Epimetheus, who, not being very wise, forgot that he had distributed among the brute animals all the qualities which he had to give,--and when he came to man, who was still unprovided, he was terribly perplexed. Now while he was in this perplexity, Prometheus came to inspect the distribution, and he found that the other animals were suitably furnished, but that man alone was naked and shoeless, and had neither bed nor arms of defence. The appointed hour was approaching when man in his turn was to go forth into the light of day; and Prometheus, not knowing how he could devise his salvation, stole the mechanical arts of Hephaestus and Athene, and fire with them (they could neither have been acquired nor used without fire), and gave them to man. Thus man had the wisdom necessary to the support of life, but political wisdom he had not; for that was in the keeping of Zeus, and the power of Prometheus did not extend to entering into the citadel of heaven, where Zeus dwelt, who moreover had terrible sentinels; but he did enter by stealth into the common workshop of Athene and Hephaestus, in which they used to practise their favourite arts, and carried off Hephaestus' art of working by fire, and also the art of Athene, and gave them to man. And in this way man was supplied with the means of life. But Prometheus is said to have been afterwards prosecuted for theft, owing to the blunder of Epimetheus. Now man, having a share of the divine attributes, was at first the only one of the animals who had any gods, because he alone was of their kindred; and he would raise altars and images of them. He was not long in inventing articulate speech and names; and he also constructed houses and clothes and shoes and beds, and drew sustenance from the earth. Thus provided, mankind at first lived dispersed, and there were no cities. But the consequence was that they were destroyed by the wild beasts, for they were utterly weak in comparison of them, and their art was only sufficient to provide them with the means of life, and did not enable them to carry on war against the animals: food they had, but not as yet the art of government, of which the art of war is a part. After a while the desire of self-preservation gathered them into cities; but when they were gathered together, having no art of government, they evil intreated one another, and were again in process of dispersion and destruction. Zeus feared that the entire race would be exterminated, and so he sent Hermes to them, bearing reverence and justice to be the ordering principles of cities and the bonds of friendship and conciliation. Hermes asked Zeus how he should impart justice and reverence among men:--Should he distribute them as the arts are distributed; that is to say, to a favoured few only, one skilled individual having enough of medicine or of any other art for many unskilled ones? 'Shall this be the manner in which I am to distribute justice and reverence among men, or shall I give them to all?' 'To all,' said Zeus; 'I should like them all to have a share; for cities cannot exist, if a few only share in the virtues, as in the arts. And further, make a law by my order, that he who has no part in reverence and justice shall be put to death, for he is a plague of the state.' And this is the reason, Socrates, why the Athenians and mankind in general, when the question relates to carpentering or any other mechanical art, allow but a few to share in their deliberations; and when any one else interferes, then, as you say, they object, if he be not of the favoured few; which, as I reply, is very natural. But when they meet to deliberate about political virtue, which proceeds only by way of justice and wisdom, they are patient enough of any man who speaks of them, as is also natural, because they think that every man ought to share in this sort of virtue, and that states could not exist if this were otherwise. I have explained to you, Socrates, the reason of this phenomenon. And that you may not suppose yourself to be deceived in thinking that all men regard every man as having a share of justice or honesty and of every other political virtue, let me give you a further proof, which is this. In other cases, as you are aware, if a man says that he is a good flute-player, or skilful in any other art in which he has no skill, people either laugh at him or are angry with him, and his relations think that he is mad and go and admonish him; but when honesty is in question, or some other political virtue, even if they know that he is dishonest, yet, if the man comes publicly forward and tells the truth about his dishonesty, then, what in the other case was held by them to be good sense, they now deem to be madness. They say that all men ought to profess honesty whether they are honest or not, and that a man is out of his mind who says anything else. Their notion is, that a man must have some degree of honesty; and that if he has none at all he ought not to be in the world. I have been showing that they are right in admitting every man as a counsellor about this sort of virtue, as they are of opinion that every man is a partaker of it. And I will now endeavour to show further that they do not conceive this virtue to be given by nature, or to grow spontaneously, but to be a thing which may be taught; and which comes to a man by taking pains. No one would instruct, no one would rebuke, or be angry with those whose calamities they suppose to be due to nature or chance; they do not try to punish or to prevent them from being what they are; they do but pity them. Who is so foolish as to chastise or instruct the ugly, or the diminutive, or the feeble? And for this reason. Because he knows that good and evil of this kind is the work of nature and of chance; whereas if a man is wanting in those good qualities which are attained by study and exercise and teaching, and has only the contrary evil qualities, other men are angry with him, and punish and reprove him--of these evil qualities one is impiety, another injustice, and they may be described generally as the very opposite of political virtue. In such cases any man will be angry with another, and reprimand him,--clearly because he thinks that by study and learning, the virtue in which the other is deficient may be acquired. If you will think, Socrates, of the nature of punishment, you will see at once that in the opinion of mankind virtue may be acquired; no one punishes the evil-doer under the notion, or for the reason, that he has done wrong,--only the unreasonable fury of a beast acts in that manner. But he who desires to inflict rational punishment does not retaliate for a past wrong which cannot be undone; he has regard to the future, and is desirous that the man who is punished, and he who sees him punished, may be deterred from doing wrong again. He punishes for the sake of prevention, thereby clearly implying that virtue is capable of being taught. This is the notion of all who retaliate upon others either privately or publicly. And the Athenians, too, your own citizens, like other men, punish and take vengeance on all whom they regard as evil doers; and hence, we may infer them to be of the number of those who think that virtue may be acquired and taught. Thus far, Socrates, I have shown you clearly enough, if I am not mistaken, that your countrymen are right in admitting the tinker and the cobbler to advise about politics, and also that they deem virtue to be capable of being taught and acquired. There yet remains one difficulty which has been raised by you about the sons of good men. What is the reason why good men teach their sons the knowledge which is gained from teachers, and make them wise in that, but do nothing towards improving them in the virtues which distinguish themselves? And here, Socrates, I will leave the apologue and resume the argument. Please to consider: Is there or is there not some one quality of which all the citizens must be partakers, if there is to be a city at all? In the answer to this question is contained the only solution of your difficulty; there is no other. For if there be any such quality, and this quality or unity is not the art of the carpenter, or the smith, or the potter, but justice and temperance and holiness and, in a word, manly virtue--if this is the quality of which all men must be partakers, and which is the very condition of their learning or doing anything else, and if he who is wanting in this, whether he be a child only or a grown-up man or woman, must be taught and punished, until by punishment he becomes better, and he who rebels against instruction and punishment is either exiled or condemned to death under the idea that he is incurable--if what I am saying be true, good men have their sons taught other things and not this, do consider how extraordinary their conduct would appear to be. For we have shown that they think virtue capable of being taught and cultivated both in private and public; and, notwithstanding, they have their sons taught lesser matters, ignorance of which does not involve the punishment of death: but greater things, of which the ignorance may cause death and exile to those who have no training or knowledge of them--aye, and confiscation as well as death, and, in a word, may be the ruin of families--those things, I say, they are supposed not to teach them,--not to take the utmost care that they should learn. How improbable is this, Socrates! Education and admonition commence in the first years of childhood, and last to the very end of life. Mother and nurse and father and tutor are vying with one another about the improvement of the child as soon as ever he is able to understand what is being said to him: he cannot say or do anything without their setting forth to him that this is just and that is unjust; this is honourable, that is dishonourable; this is holy, that is unholy; do this and abstain from that. And if he obeys, well and good; if not, he is straightened by threats and blows, like a piece of bent or warped wood. At a later stage they send him to teachers, and enjoin them to see to his manners even more than to his reading and music; and the teachers do as they are desired. And when the boy has learned his letters and is beginning to understand what is written, as before he understood only what was spoken, they put into his hands the works of great poets, which he reads sitting on a bench at school; in these are contained many admonitions, and many tales, and praises, and encomia of ancient famous men, which he is required to learn by heart, in order that he may imitate or emulate them and desire to become like them. Then, again, the teachers of the lyre take similar care that their young disciple is temperate and gets into no mischief; and when they have taught him the use of the lyre, they introduce him to the poems of other excellent poets, who are the lyric poets; and these they set to music, and make their harmonies and rhythms quite familiar to the children's souls, in order that they may learn to be more gentle, and harmonious, and rhythmical, and so more fitted for speech and action; for the life of man in every part has need of harmony and rhythm. Then they send them to the master of gymnastic, in order that their bodies may better minister to the virtuous mind, and that they may not be compelled through bodily weakness to play the coward in war or on any other occasion. This is what is done by those who have the means, and those who have the means are the rich; their children begin to go to school soonest and leave off latest. When they have done with masters, the state again compels them to learn the laws, and live after the pattern which they furnish, and not after their own fancies; and just as in learning to write, the writing-master first draws lines with a style for the use of the young beginner, and gives him the tablet and makes him follow the lines, so the city draws the laws, which were the invention of good lawgivers living in the olden time; these are given to the young man, in order to guide him in his conduct whether he is commanding or obeying; and he who transgresses them is to be corrected, or, in other words, called to account, which is a term used not only in your country, but also in many others, seeing that justice calls men to account. Now when there is all this care about virtue private and public, why, Socrates, do you still wonder and doubt whether virtue can be taught? Cease to wonder, for the opposite would be far more surprising. But why then do the sons of good fathers often turn out ill? There is nothing very wonderful in this; for, as I have been saying, the existence of a state implies that virtue is not any man's private possession. If so--and nothing can be truer--then I will further ask you to imagine, as an illustration, some other pursuit or branch of knowledge which may be assumed equally to be the condition of the existence of a state. Suppose that there could be no state unless we were all flute-players, as far as each had the capacity, and everybody was freely teaching everybody the art, both in private and public, and reproving the bad player as freely and openly as every man now teaches justice and the laws, not concealing them as he would conceal the other arts, but imparting them--for all of us have a mutual interest in the justice and virtue of one another, and this is the reason why every one is so ready to teach justice and the laws;--suppose, I say, that there were the same readiness and liberality among us in teaching one another flute-playing, do you imagine, Socrates, that the sons of good flute-players would be more likely to be good than the sons of bad ones? I think not. Would not their sons grow up to be distinguished or undistinguished according to their own natural capacities as flute-players, and the son of a good player would often turn out to be a bad one, and the son of a bad player to be a good one, all flute-players would be good enough in comparison of those who were ignorant and unacquainted with the art of flute-playing? In like manner I would have you consider that he who appears to you to be the worst of those who have been brought up in laws and humanities, would appear to be a just man and a master of justice if he were to be compared with men who had no education, or courts of justice, or laws, or any restraints upon them which compelled them to practise virtue--with the savages, for example, whom the poet Pherecrates exhibited on the stage at the last year's Lenaean festival. If you were living among men such as the man-haters in his Chorus, you would be only too glad to meet with Eurybates and Phrynondas, and you would sorrowfully long to revisit the rascality of this part of the world. You, Socrates, are discontented, and why? Because all men are teachers of virtue, each one according to his ability; and you say Where are the teachers? You might as well ask, Who teaches Greek? For of that too there will not be any teachers found. Or you might ask, Who is to teach the sons of our artisans this same art which they have learned of their fathers? He and his fellow-workmen have taught them to the best of their ability,--but who will carry them further in their arts? And you would certainly have a difficulty, Socrates, in finding a teacher of them; but there would be no difficulty in finding a teacher of those who are wholly ignorant. And this is true of virtue or of anything else; if a man is better able than we are to promote virtue ever so little, we must be content with the result. A teacher of this sort I believe myself to be, and above all other men to have the knowledge which makes a man noble and good; and I give my pupils their money's-worth, and even more, as they themselves confess. And therefore I have introduced the following mode of payment:--When a man has been my pupil, if he likes he pays my price, but there is no compulsion; and if he does not like, he has only to go into a temple and take an oath of the value of the instructions, and he pays no more than he declares to be their value. Such is my Apologue, Socrates, and such is the argument by which I endeavour to show that virtue may be taught, and that this is the opinion of the Athenians. And I have also attempted to show that you are not to wonder at good fathers having bad sons, or at good sons having bad fathers, of which the sons of Polycleitus afford an example, who are the companions of our friends here, Paralus and Xanthippus, but are nothing in comparison with their father; and this is true of the sons of many other artists. As yet I ought not to say the same of Paralus and Xanthippus themselves, for they are young and there is still hope of them. Protagoras ended, and in my ear 'So charming left his voice, that I the while Thought him still speaking; still stood fixed to hear (Borrowed by Milton, "Paradise Lost".).' At length, when the truth dawned upon me, that he had really finished, not without difficulty I began to collect myself, and looking at Hippocrates, I said to him: O son of Apollodorus, how deeply grateful I am to you for having brought me hither; I would not have missed the speech of Protagoras for a great deal. For I used to imagine that no human care could make men good; but I know better now. Yet I have still one very small difficulty which I am sure that Protagoras will easily explain, as he has already explained so much. If a man were to go and consult Pericles or any of our great speakers about these matters, he might perhaps hear as fine a discourse; but then when one has a question to ask of any of them, like books, they can neither answer nor ask; and if any one challenges the least particular of their speech, they go ringing on in a long harangue, like brazen pots, which when they are struck continue to sound unless some one puts his hand upon them; whereas our friend Protagoras can not only make a good speech, as he has already shown, but when he is asked a question he can answer briefly; and when he asks he will wait and hear the answer; and this is a very rare gift. Now I, Protagoras, want to ask of you a little question, which if you will only answer, I shall be quite satisfied. You were saying that virtue can be taught;--that I will take upon your authority, and there is no one to whom I am more ready to trust. But I marvel at one thing about which I should like to have my mind set at rest. You were speaking of Zeus sending justice and reverence to men; and several times while you were speaking, justice, and temperance, and holiness, and all these qualities, were described by you as if together they made up virtue. Now I want you to tell me truly whether virtue is one whole, of which justice and temperance and holiness are parts; or whether all these are only the names of one and the same thing: that is the doubt which still lingers in my mind. There is no difficulty, Socrates, in answering that the qualities of which you are speaking are the parts of virtue which is one. And are they parts, I said, in the same sense in which mouth, nose, and eyes, and ears, are the parts of a face; or are they like the parts of gold, which differ from the whole and from one another only in being larger or smaller? I should say that they differed, Socrates, in the first way; they are related to one another as the parts of a face are related to the whole face. And do men have some one part and some another part of virtue? Or if a man has one part, must he also have all the others? By no means, he said; for many a man is brave and not just, or just and not wise. You would not deny, then, that courage and wisdom are also parts of virtue? Most undoubtedly they are, he answered; and wisdom is the noblest of the parts. And they are all different from one another? I said. Yes. And has each of them a distinct function like the parts of the face;--the eye, for example, is not like the ear, and has not the same functions; and the other parts are none of them like one another, either in their functions, or in any other way? I want to know whether the comparison holds concerning the parts of virtue. Do they also differ from one another in themselves and in their functions? For that is clearly what the simile would imply. Yes, Socrates, you are right in supposing that they differ. Then, I said, no other part of virtue is like knowledge, or like justice, or like courage, or like temperance, or like holiness? No, he answered. Well then, I said, suppose that you and I enquire into their natures. And first, you would agree with me that justice is of the nature of a thing, would you not? That is my opinion: would it not be yours also? Mine also, he said. And suppose that some one were to ask us, saying, 'O Protagoras, and you, Socrates, what about this thing which you were calling justice, is it just or unjust?'--and I were to answer, just: would you vote with me or against me? With you, he said. Thereupon I should answer to him who asked me, that justice is of the nature of the just: would not you? Yes, he said. And suppose that he went on to say: 'Well now, is there also such a thing as holiness?'--we should answer, 'Yes,' if I am not mistaken? Yes, he said. Which you would also acknowledge to be a thing--should we not say so? He assented. 'And is this a sort of thing which is of the nature of the holy, or of the nature of the unholy?' I should be angry at his putting such a question, and should say, 'Peace, man; nothing can be holy if holiness is not holy.' What would you say? Would you not answer in the same way? Certainly, he said. And then after this suppose that he came and asked us, 'What were you saying just now? Perhaps I may not have heard you rightly, but you seemed to me to be saying that the parts of virtue were not the same as one another.' I should reply, 'You certainly heard that said, but not, as you imagine, by me; for I only asked the question; Protagoras gave the answer.' And suppose that he turned to you and said, 'Is this true, Protagoras? and do you maintain that one part of virtue is unlike another, and is this your position?'--how would you answer him? I could not help acknowledging the truth of what he said, Socrates. Well then, Protagoras, we will assume this; and now supposing that he proceeded to say further, 'Then holiness is not of the nature of justice, nor justice of the nature of holiness, but of the nature of unholiness; and holiness is of the nature of the not just, and therefore of the unjust, and the unjust is the unholy': how shall we answer him? I should certainly answer him on my own behalf that justice is holy, and that holiness is just; and I would say in like manner on your behalf also, if you would allow me, that justice is either the same with holiness, or very nearly the same; and above all I would assert that justice is like holiness and holiness is like justice; and I wish that you would tell me whether I may be permitted to give this answer on your behalf, and whether you would agree with me. He replied, I cannot simply agree, Socrates, to the proposition that justice is holy and that holiness is just, for there appears to me to be a difference between them. But what matter? if you please I please; and let us assume, if you will I, that justice is holy, and that holiness is just. Pardon me, I replied; I do not want this 'if you wish' or 'if you will' sort of conclusion to be proven, but I want you and me to be proven: I mean to say that the conclusion will be best proven if there be no 'if.' Well, he said, I admit that justice bears a resemblance to holiness, for there is always some point of view in which everything is like every other thing; white is in a certain way like black, and hard is like soft, and the most extreme opposites have some qualities in common; even the parts of the face which, as we were saying before, are distinct and have different functions, are still in a certain point of view similar, and one of them is like another of them. And you may prove that they are like one another on the same principle that all things are like one another; and yet things which are like in some particular ought not to be called alike, nor things which are unlike in some particular, however slight, unlike. And do you think, I said in a tone of surprise, that justice and holiness have but a small degree of likeness? Certainly not; any more than I agree with what I understand to be your view. Well, I said, as you appear to have a difficulty about this, let us take another of the examples which you mentioned instead. Do you admit the existence of folly? I do. And is not wisdom the very opposite of folly? That is true, he said. And when men act rightly and advantageously they seem to you to be temperate? Yes, he said. And temperance makes them temperate? Certainly. And they who do not act rightly act foolishly, and in acting thus are not temperate? I agree, he said. Then to act foolishly is the opposite of acting temperately? He assented. And foolish actions are done by folly, and temperate actions by temperance? He agreed. And that is done strongly which is done by strength, and that which is weakly done, by weakness? He assented. And that which is done with swiftness is done swiftly, and that which is done with slowness, slowly? He assented again. And that which is done in the same manner, is done by the same; and that which is done in an opposite manner by the opposite? He agreed. Once more, I said, is there anything beautiful? Yes. To which the only opposite is the ugly? There is no other. And is there anything good? There is. To which the only opposite is the evil? There is no other. And there is the acute in sound? True. To which the only opposite is the grave? There is no other, he said, but that. Then every opposite has one opposite only and no more? He assented. Then now, I said, let us recapitulate our admissions. First of all we admitted that everything has one opposite and not more than one? We did so. And we admitted also that what was done in opposite ways was done by opposites? Yes. And that which was done foolishly, as we further admitted, was done in the opposite way to that which was done temperately? Yes. And that which was done temperately was done by temperance, and that which was done foolishly by folly? He agreed. And that which is done in opposite ways is done by opposites? Yes. And one thing is done by temperance, and quite another thing by folly? Yes. And in opposite ways? Certainly. And therefore by opposites:--then folly is the opposite of temperance? Clearly. And do you remember that folly has already been acknowledged by us to be the opposite of wisdom? He assented. And we said that everything has only one opposite? Yes. Then, Protagoras, which of the two assertions shall we renounce? One says that everything has but one opposite; the other that wisdom is distinct from temperance, and that both of them are parts of virtue; and that they are not only distinct, but dissimilar, both in themselves and in their functions, like the parts of a face. Which of these two assertions shall we renounce? For both of them together are certainly not in harmony; they do not accord or agree: for how can they be said to agree if everything is assumed to have only one opposite and not more than one, and yet folly, which is one, has clearly the two opposites--wisdom and temperance? Is not that true, Protagoras? What else would you say? He assented, but with great reluctance. Then temperance and wisdom are the same, as before justice and holiness appeared to us to be nearly the same. And now, Protagoras, I said, we must finish the enquiry, and not faint. Do you think that an unjust man can be temperate in his injustice? I should be ashamed, Socrates, he said, to acknowledge this, which nevertheless many may be found to assert. And shall I argue with them or with you? I replied. I would rather, he said, that you should argue with the many first, if you will. Whichever you please, if you will only answer me and say whether you are of their opinion or not. My object is to test the validity of the argument; and yet the result may be that I who ask and you who answer may both be put on our trial. Protagoras at first made a show of refusing, as he said that the argument was not encouraging; at length, he consented to answer. Now then, I said, begin at the beginning and answer me. You think that some men are temperate, and yet unjust? Yes, he said; let that be admitted. And temperance is good sense? Yes. And good sense is good counsel in doing injustice? Granted. If they succeed, I said, or if they do not succeed? If they succeed. And you would admit the existence of goods? Yes. And is the good that which is expedient for man? Yes, indeed, he said: and there are some things which may be inexpedient, and yet I call them good. I thought that Protagoras was getting ruffled and excited; he seemed to be setting himself in an attitude of war. Seeing this, I minded my business, and gently said:-- When you say, Protagoras, that things inexpedient are good, do you mean inexpedient for man only, or inexpedient altogether? and do you call the latter good? Certainly not the last, he replied; for I know of many things--meats, drinks, medicines, and ten thousand other things, which are inexpedient for man, and some which are expedient; and some which are neither expedient nor inexpedient for man, but only for horses; and some for oxen only, and some for dogs; and some for no animals, but only for trees; and some for the roots of trees and not for their branches, as for example, manure, which is a good thing when laid about the roots of a tree, but utterly destructive if thrown upon the shoots and young branches; or I may instance olive oil, which is mischievous to all plants, and generally most injurious to the hair of every animal with the exception of man, but beneficial to human hair and to the human body generally; and even in this application (so various and changeable is the nature of the benefit), that which is the greatest good to the outward parts of a man, is a very great evil to his inward parts: and for this reason physicians always forbid their patients the use of oil in their food, except in very small quantities, just enough to extinguish the disagreeable sensation of smell in meats and sauces. When he had given this answer, the company cheered him. And I said: Protagoras, I have a wretched memory, and when any one makes a long speech to me I never remember what he is talking about. As then, if I had been deaf, and you were going to converse with me, you would have had to raise your voice; so now, having such a bad memory, I will ask you to cut your answers shorter, if you would take me with you. What do you mean? he said: how am I to shorten my answers? shall I make them too short? Certainly not, I said. But short enough? Yes, I said. Shall I answer what appears to me to be short enough, or what appears to you to be short enough? I have heard, I said, that you can speak and teach others to speak about the same things at such length that words never seemed to fail, or with such brevity that no one could use fewer of them. Please therefore, if you talk with me, to adopt the latter or more compendious method. Socrates, he replied, many a battle of words have I fought, and if I had followed the method of disputation which my adversaries desired, as you want me to do, I should have been no better than another, and the name of Protagoras would have been nowhere. I saw that he was not satisfied with his previous answers, and that he would not play the part of answerer any more if he could help; and I considered that there was no call upon me to continue the conversation; so I said: Protagoras, I do not wish to force the conversation upon you if you had rather not, but when you are willing to argue with me in such a way that I can follow you, then I will argue with you. Now you, as is said of you by others and as you say of yourself, are able to have discussions in shorter forms of speech as well as in longer, for you are a master of wisdom; but I cannot manage these long speeches: I only wish that I could. You, on the other hand, who are capable of either, ought to speak shorter as I beg you, and then we might converse. But I see that you are disinclined, and as I have an engagement which will prevent my staying to hear you at greater length (for I have to be in another place), I will depart; although I should have liked to have heard you. Thus I spoke, and was rising from my seat, when Callias seized me by the right hand, and in his left hand caught hold of this old cloak of mine. He said: We cannot let you go, Socrates, for if you leave us there will be an end of our discussions: I must therefore beg you to remain, as there is nothing in the world that I should like better than to hear you and Protagoras discourse. Do not deny the company this pleasure. Now I had got up, and was in the act of departure. Son of Hipponicus, I replied, I have always admired, and do now heartily applaud and love your philosophical spirit, and I would gladly comply with your request, if I could. But the truth is that I cannot. And what you ask is as great an impossibility to me, as if you bade me run a race with Crison of Himera, when in his prime, or with some one of the long or day course runners. To such a request I should reply that I would fain ask the same of my own legs; but they refuse to comply. And therefore if you want to see Crison and me in the same stadium, you must bid him slacken his speed to mine, for I cannot run quickly, and he can run slowly. And in like manner if you want to hear me and Protagoras discoursing, you must ask him to shorten his answers, and keep to the point, as he did at first; if not, how can there be any discussion? For discussion is one thing, and making an oration is quite another, in my humble opinion. But you see, Socrates, said Callias, that Protagoras may fairly claim to speak in his own way, just as you claim to speak in yours. Here Alcibiades interposed, and said: That, Callias, is not a true statement of the case. For our friend Socrates admits that he cannot make a speech--in this he yields the palm to Protagoras: but I should be greatly surprised if he yielded to any living man in the power of holding and apprehending an argument. Now if Protagoras will make a similar admission, and confess that he is inferior to Socrates in argumentative skill, that is enough for Socrates; but if he claims a superiority in argument as well, let him ask and answer--not, when a question is asked, slipping away from the point, and instead of answering, making a speech at such length that most of his hearers forget the question at issue (not that Socrates is likely to forget--I will be bound for that, although he may pretend in fun that he has a bad memory). And Socrates appears to me to be more in the right than Protagoras; that is my view, and every man ought to say what he thinks. When Alcibiades had done speaking, some one--Critias, I believe--went on to say: O Prodicus and Hippias, Callias appears to me to be a partisan of Protagoras: and this led Alcibiades, who loves opposition, to take the other side. But we should not be partisans either of Socrates or of Protagoras; let us rather unite in entreating both of them not to break up the discussion. Prodicus added: That, Critias, seems to me to be well said, for those who are present at such discussions ought to be impartial hearers of both the speakers; remembering, however, that impartiality is not the same as equality, for both sides should be impartially heard, and yet an equal meed should not be assigned to both of them; but to the wiser a higher meed should be given, and a lower to the less wise. And I as well as Critias would beg you, Protagoras and Socrates, to grant our request, which is, that you will argue with one another and not wrangle; for friends argue with friends out of good-will, but only adversaries and enemies wrangle. And then our meeting will be delightful; for in this way you, who are the speakers, will be most likely to win esteem, and not praise only, among us who are your audience; for esteem is a sincere conviction of the hearers' souls, but praise is often an insincere expression of men uttering falsehoods contrary to their conviction. And thus we who are the hearers will be gratified and not pleased; for gratification is of the mind when receiving wisdom and knowledge, but pleasure is of the body when eating or experiencing some other bodily delight. Thus spoke Prodicus, and many of the company applauded his words. Hippias the sage spoke next. He said: All of you who are here present I reckon to be kinsmen and friends and fellow-citizens, by nature and not by law; for by nature like is akin to like, whereas law is the tyrant of mankind, and often compels us to do many things which are against nature. How great would be the disgrace then, if we, who know the nature of things, and are the wisest of the Hellenes, and as such are met together in this city, which is the metropolis of wisdom, and in the greatest and most glorious house of this city, should have nothing to show worthy of this height of dignity, but should only quarrel with one another like the meanest of mankind! I do pray and advise you, Protagoras, and you, Socrates, to agree upon a compromise. Let us be your peacemakers. And do not you, Socrates, aim at this precise and extreme brevity in discourse, if Protagoras objects, but loosen and let go the reins of speech, that your words may be grander and more becoming to you. Neither do you, Protagoras, go forth on the gale with every sail set out of sight of land into an ocean of words, but let there be a mean observed by both of you. Do as I say. And let me also persuade you to choose an arbiter or overseer or president; he will keep watch over your words and will prescribe their proper length. This proposal was received by the company with universal approval; Callias said that he would not let me off, and they begged me to choose an arbiter. But I said that to choose an umpire of discourse would be unseemly; for if the person chosen was inferior, then the inferior or worse ought not to preside over the better; or if he was equal, neither would that be well; for he who is our equal will do as we do, and what will be the use of choosing him? And if you say, 'Let us have a better then,'--to that I answer that you cannot have any one who is wiser than Protagoras. And if you choose another who is not really better, and whom you only say is better, to put another over him as though he were an inferior person would be an unworthy reflection on him; not that, as far as I am concerned, any reflection is of much consequence to me. Let me tell you then what I will do in order that the conversation and discussion may go on as you desire. If Protagoras is not disposed to answer, let him ask and I will answer; and I will endeavour to show at the same time how, as I maintain, he ought to answer: and when I have answered as many questions as he likes to ask, let him in like manner answer me; and if he seems to be not very ready at answering the precise question asked of him, you and I will unite in entreating him, as you entreated me, not to spoil the discussion. And this will require no special arbiter--all of you shall be arbiters. This was generally approved, and Protagoras, though very much against his will, was obliged to agree that he would ask questions; and when he had put a sufficient number of them, that he would answer in his turn those which he was asked in short replies. He began to put his questions as follows:-- I am of opinion, Socrates, he said, that skill in poetry is the principal part of education; and this I conceive to be the power of knowing what compositions of the poets are correct, and what are not, and how they are to be distinguished, and of explaining when asked the reason of the difference. And I propose to transfer the question which you and I have been discussing to the domain of poetry; we will speak as before of virtue, but in reference to a passage of a poet. Now Simonides says to Scopas the son of Creon the Thessalian: 'Hardly on the one hand can a man become truly good, built four-square in hands and feet and mind, a work without a flaw.' Do you know the poem? or shall I repeat the whole? There is no need, I said; for I am perfectly well acquainted with the ode,--I have made a careful study of it. Very well, he said. And do you think that the ode is a good composition, and true? Yes, I said, both good and true. But if there is a contradiction, can the composition be good or true? No, not in that case, I replied. And is there not a contradiction? he asked. Reflect. Well, my friend, I have reflected. And does not the poet proceed to say, 'I do not agree with the word of Pittacus, albeit the utterance of a wise man: Hardly can a man be good'? Now you will observe that this is said by the same poet. I know it. And do you think, he said, that the two sayings are consistent? Yes, I said, I think so (at the same time I could not help fearing that there might be something in what he said). And you think otherwise? Why, he said, how can he be consistent in both? First of all, premising as his own thought, 'Hardly can a man become truly good'; and then a little further on in the poem, forgetting, and blaming Pittacus and refusing to agree with him, when he says, 'Hardly can a man be good,' which is the very same thing. And yet when he blames him who says the same with himself, he blames himself; so that he must be wrong either in his first or his second assertion. Many of the audience cheered and applauded this. And I felt at first giddy and faint, as if I had received a blow from the hand of an expert boxer, when I heard his words and the sound of the cheering; and to confess the truth, I wanted to get time to think what the meaning of the poet really was. So I turned to Prodicus and called him. Prodicus, I said, Simonides is a countryman of yours, and you ought to come to his aid. I must appeal to you, like the river Scamander in Homer, who, when beleaguered by Achilles, summons the Simois to aid him, saying: 'Brother dear, let us both together stay the force of the hero (Il.).' And I summon you, for I am afraid that Protagoras will make an end of Simonides. Now is the time to rehabilitate Simonides, by the application of your philosophy of synonyms, which enables you to distinguish 'will' and 'wish,' and make other charming distinctions like those which you drew just now. And I should like to know whether you would agree with me; for I am of opinion that there is no contradiction in the words of Simonides. And first of all I wish that you would say whether, in your opinion, Prodicus, 'being' is the same as 'becoming.' Not the same, certainly, replied Prodicus. Did not Simonides first set forth, as his own view, that 'Hardly can a man become truly good'? Quite right, said Prodicus. And then he blames Pittacus, not, as Protagoras imagines, for repeating that which he says himself, but for saying something different from himself. Pittacus does not say as Simonides says, that hardly can a man become good, but hardly can a man be good: and our friend Prodicus would maintain that being, Protagoras, is not the same as becoming; and if they are not the same, then Simonides is not inconsistent with himself. I dare say that Prodicus and many others would say, as Hesiod says, 'On the one hand, hardly can a man become good, For the gods have made virtue the reward of toil, But on the other hand, when you have climbed the height, Then, to retain virtue, however difficult the acquisition, is easy --(Works and Days).' Prodicus heard and approved; but Protagoras said: Your correction, Socrates, involves a greater error than is contained in the sentence which you are correcting. Alas! I said, Protagoras; then I am a sorry physician, and do but aggravate a disorder which I am seeking to cure. Such is the fact, he said. How so? I asked. The poet, he replied, could never have made such a mistake as to say that virtue, which in the opinion of all men is the hardest of all things, can be easily retained. Well, I said, and how fortunate are we in having Prodicus among us, at the right moment; for he has a wisdom, Protagoras, which, as I imagine, is more than human and of very ancient date, and may be as old as Simonides or even older. Learned as you are in many things, you appear to know nothing of this; but I know, for I am a disciple of his. And now, if I am not mistaken, you do not understand the word 'hard' (chalepon) in the sense which Simonides intended; and I must correct you, as Prodicus corrects me when I use the word 'awful' (deinon) as a term of praise. If I say that Protagoras or any one else is an 'awfully' wise man, he asks me if I am not ashamed of calling that which is good 'awful'; and then he explains to me that the term 'awful' is always taken in a bad sense, and that no one speaks of being 'awfully' healthy or wealthy, or of 'awful' peace, but of 'awful' disease, 'awful' war, 'awful' poverty, meaning by the term 'awful,' evil. And I think that Simonides and his countrymen the Ceans, when they spoke of 'hard' meant 'evil,' or something which you do not understand. Let us ask Prodicus, for he ought to be able to answer questions about the dialect of Simonides. What did he mean, Prodicus, by the term 'hard'? Evil, said Prodicus. And therefore, I said, Prodicus, he blames Pittacus for saying, 'Hard is the good,' just as if that were equivalent to saying, Evil is the good. Yes, he said, that was certainly his meaning; and he is twitting Pittacus with ignorance of the use of terms, which in a Lesbian, who has been accustomed to speak a barbarous language, is natural. Do you hear, Protagoras, I asked, what our friend Prodicus is saying? And have you an answer for him? You are entirely mistaken, Prodicus, said Protagoras; and I know very well that Simonides in using the word 'hard' meant what all of us mean, not evil, but that which is not easy--that which takes a great deal of trouble: of this I am positive. I said: I also incline to believe, Protagoras, that this was the meaning of Simonides, of which our friend Prodicus was very well aware, but he thought that he would make fun, and try if you could maintain your thesis; for that Simonides could never have meant the other is clearly proved by the context, in which he says that God only has this gift. Now he cannot surely mean to say that to be good is evil, when he afterwards proceeds to say that God only has this gift, and that this is the attribute of him and of no other. For if this be his meaning, Prodicus would impute to Simonides a character of recklessness which is very unlike his countrymen. And I should like to tell you, I said, what I imagine to be the real meaning of Simonides in this poem, if you will test what, in your way of speaking, would be called my skill in poetry; or if you would rather, I will be the listener. To this proposal Protagoras replied: As you please;--and Hippias, Prodicus, and the others told me by all means to do as I proposed. Then now, I said, I will endeavour to explain to you my opinion about this poem of Simonides. There is a very ancient philosophy which is more cultivated in Crete and Lacedaemon than in any other part of Hellas, and there are more philosophers in those countries than anywhere else in the world. This, however, is a secret which the Lacedaemonians deny; and they pretend to be ignorant, just because they do not wish to have it thought that they rule the world by wisdom, like the Sophists of whom Protagoras was speaking, and not by valour of arms; considering that if the reason of their superiority were disclosed, all men would be practising their wisdom. And this secret of theirs has never been discovered by the imitators of Lacedaemonian fashions in other cities, who go about with their ears bruised in imitation of them, and have the caestus bound on their arms, and are always in training, and wear short cloaks; for they imagine that these are the practices which have enabled the Lacedaemonians to conquer the other Hellenes. Now when the Lacedaemonians want to unbend and hold free conversation with their wise men, and are no longer satisfied with mere secret intercourse, they drive out all these laconizers, and any other foreigners who may happen to be in their country, and they hold a philosophical seance unknown to strangers; and they themselves forbid their young men to go out into other cities--in this they are like the Cretans--in order that they may not unlearn the lessons which they have taught them. And in Lacedaemon and Crete not only men but also women have a pride in their high cultivation. And hereby you may know that I am right in attributing to the Lacedaemonians this excellence in philosophy and speculation: If a man converses with the most ordinary Lacedaemonian, he will find him seldom good for much in general conversation, but at any point in the discourse he will be darting out some notable saying, terse and full of meaning, with unerring aim; and the person with whom he is talking seems to be like a child in his hands. And many of our own age and of former ages have noted that the true Lacedaemonian type of character has the love of philosophy even stronger than the love of gymnastics; they are conscious that only a perfectly educated man is capable of uttering such expressions. Such were Thales of Miletus, and Pittacus of Mitylene, and Bias of Priene, and our own Solon, and Cleobulus the Lindian, and Myson the Chenian; and seventh in the catalogue of wise men was the Lacedaemonian Chilo. All these were lovers and emulators and disciples of the culture of the Lacedaemonians, and any one may perceive that their wisdom was of this character; consisting of short memorable sentences, which they severally uttered. And they met together and dedicated in the temple of Apollo at Delphi, as the first-fruits of their wisdom, the far-famed inscriptions, which are in all men's mouths--'Know thyself,' and 'Nothing too much.' Why do I say all this? I am explaining that this Lacedaemonian brevity was the style of primitive philosophy. Now there was a saying of Pittacus which was privately circulated and received the approbation of the wise, 'Hard is it to be good.' And Simonides, who was ambitious of the fame of wisdom, was aware that if he could overthrow this saying, then, as if he had won a victory over some famous athlete, he would carry off the palm among his contemporaries. And if I am not mistaken, he composed the entire poem with the secret intention of damaging Pittacus and his saying. Let us all unite in examining his words, and see whether I am speaking the truth. Simonides must have been a lunatic, if, in the very first words of the poem, wanting to say only that to become good is hard, he inserted (Greek) 'on the one hand' ('on the one hand to become good is hard'); there would be no reason for the introduction of (Greek), unless you suppose him to speak with a hostile reference to the words of Pittacus. Pittacus is saying 'Hard is it to be good,' and he, in refutation of this thesis, rejoins that the truly hard thing, Pittacus, is to become good, not joining 'truly' with 'good,' but with 'hard.' Not, that the hard thing is to be truly good, as though there were some truly good men, and there were others who were good but not truly good (this would be a very simple observation, and quite unworthy of Simonides); but you must suppose him to make a trajection of the word 'truly' (Greek), construing the saying of Pittacus thus (and let us imagine Pittacus to be speaking and Simonides answering him): 'O my friends,' says Pittacus, 'hard is it to be good,' and Simonides answers, 'In that, Pittacus, you are mistaken; the difficulty is not to be good, but on the one hand, to become good, four-square in hands and feet and mind, without a flaw--that is hard truly.' This way of reading the passage accounts for the insertion of (Greek) 'on the one hand,' and for the position at the end of the clause of the word 'truly,' and all that follows shows this to be the meaning. A great deal might be said in praise of the details of the poem, which is a charming piece of workmanship, and very finished, but such minutiae would be tedious. I should like, however, to point out the general intention of the poem, which is certainly designed in every part to be a refutation of the saying of Pittacus. For he speaks in what follows a little further on as if he meant to argue that although there is a difficulty in becoming good, yet this is possible for a time, and only for a time. But having become good, to remain in a good state and be good, as you, Pittacus, affirm, is not possible, and is not granted to man; God only has this blessing; 'but man cannot help being bad when the force of circumstances overpowers him.' Now whom does the force of circumstance overpower in the command of a vessel?--not the private individual, for he is always overpowered; and as one who is already prostrate cannot be overthrown, and only he who is standing upright but not he who is prostrate can be laid prostrate, so the force of circumstances can only overpower him who, at some time or other, has resources, and not him who is at all times helpless. The descent of a great storm may make the pilot helpless, or the severity of the season the husbandman or the physician; for the good may become bad, as another poet witnesses:-- 'The good are sometimes good and sometimes bad.' But the bad does not become bad; he is always bad. So that when the force of circumstances overpowers the man of resources and skill and virtue, then he cannot help being bad. And you, Pittacus, are saying, 'Hard is it to be good.' Now there is a difficulty in becoming good; and yet this is possible: but to be good is an impossibility-- 'For he who does well is the good man, and he who does ill is the bad.' But what sort of doing is good in letters? and what sort of doing makes a man good in letters? Clearly the knowing of them. And what sort of well-doing makes a man a good physician? Clearly the knowledge of the art of healing the sick. 'But he who does ill is the bad.' Now who becomes a bad physician? Clearly he who is in the first place a physician, and in the second place a good physician; for he may become a bad one also: but none of us unskilled individuals can by any amount of doing ill become physicians, any more than we can become carpenters or anything of that sort; and he who by doing ill cannot become a physician at all, clearly cannot become a bad physician. In like manner the good may become deteriorated by time, or toil, or disease, or other accident (the only real doing ill is to be deprived of knowledge), but the bad man will never become bad, for he is always bad; and if he were to become bad, he must previously have been good. Thus the words of the poem tend to show that on the one hand a man cannot be continuously good, but that he may become good and may also become bad; and again that 'They are the best for the longest time whom the gods love.' All this relates to Pittacus, as is further proved by the sequel. For he adds:-- 'Therefore I will not throw away my span of life to no purpose in searching after the impossible, hoping in vain to find a perfectly faultless man among those who partake of the fruit of the broad-bosomed earth: if I find him, I will send you word.' (this is the vehement way in which he pursues his attack upon Pittacus throughout the whole poem): 'But him who does no evil, voluntarily I praise and love;--not even the gods war against necessity.' All this has a similar drift, for Simonides was not so ignorant as to say that he praised those who did no evil voluntarily, as though there were some who did evil voluntarily. For no wise man, as I believe, will allow that any human being errs voluntarily, or voluntarily does evil and dishonourable actions; but they are very well aware that all who do evil and dishonourable things do them against their will. And Simonides never says that he praises him who does no evil voluntarily; the word 'voluntarily' applies to himself. For he was under the impression that a good man might often compel himself to love and praise another, and to be the friend and approver of another; and that there might be an involuntary love, such as a man might feel to an unnatural father or mother, or country, or the like. Now bad men, when their parents or country have any defects, look on them with malignant joy, and find fault with them and expose and denounce them to others, under the idea that the rest of mankind will be less likely to take themselves to task and accuse them of neglect; and they blame their defects far more than they deserve, in order that the odium which is necessarily incurred by them may be increased: but the good man dissembles his feelings, and constrains himself to praise them; and if they have wronged him and he is angry, he pacifies his anger and is reconciled, and compels himself to love and praise his own flesh and blood. And Simonides, as is probable, considered that he himself had often had to praise and magnify a tyrant or the like, much against his will, and he also wishes to imply to Pittacus that he does not censure him because he is censorious. 'For I am satisfied' he says, 'when a man is neither bad nor very stupid; and when he knows justice (which is the health of states), and is of sound mind, I will find no fault with him, for I am not given to finding fault, and there are innumerable fools' (implying that if he delighted in censure he might have abundant opportunity of finding fault). 'All things are good with which evil is unmingled.' In these latter words he does not mean to say that all things are good which have no evil in them, as you might say 'All things are white which have no black in them,' for that would be ridiculous; but he means to say that he accepts and finds no fault with the moderate or intermediate state. ('I do not hope' he says, 'to find a perfectly blameless man among those who partake of the fruits of the broad-bosomed earth (if I find him, I will send you word); in this sense I praise no man. But he who is moderately good, and does no evil, is good enough for me, who love and approve every one') (and here observe that he uses a Lesbian word, epainemi (approve), because he is addressing Pittacus, 'Who love and APPROVE every one VOLUNTARILY, who does no evil:' and that the stop should be put after 'voluntarily'); 'but there are some whom I involuntarily praise and love. And you, Pittacus, I would never have blamed, if you had spoken what was moderately good and true; but I do blame you because, putting on the appearance of truth, you are speaking falsely about the highest matters.'--And this, I said, Prodicus and Protagoras, I take to be the meaning of Simonides in this poem. Hippias said: I think, Socrates, that you have given a very good explanation of the poem; but I have also an excellent interpretation of my own which I will propound to you, if you will allow me. Nay, Hippias, said Alcibiades; not now, but at some other time. At present we must abide by the compact which was made between Socrates and Protagoras, to the effect that as long as Protagoras is willing to ask, Socrates should answer; or that if he would rather answer, then that Socrates should ask. I said: I wish Protagoras either to ask or answer as he is inclined; but I would rather have done with poems and odes, if he does not object, and come back to the question about which I was asking you at first, Protagoras, and by your help make an end of that. The talk about the poets seems to me like a commonplace entertainment to which a vulgar company have recourse; who, because they are not able to converse or amuse one another, while they are drinking, with the sound of their own voices and conversation, by reason of their stupidity, raise the price of flute-girls in the market, hiring for a great sum the voice of a flute instead of their own breath, to be the medium of intercourse among them: but where the company are real gentlemen and men of education, you will see no flute-girls, nor dancing-girls, nor harp-girls; and they have no nonsense or games, but are contented with one another's conversation, of which their own voices are the medium, and which they carry on by turns and in an orderly manner, even though they are very liberal in their potations. And a company like this of ours, and men such as we profess to be, do not require the help of another's voice, or of the poets whom you cannot interrogate about the meaning of what they are saying; people who cite them declaring, some that the poet has one meaning, and others that he has another, and the point which is in dispute can never be decided. This sort of entertainment they decline, and prefer to talk with one another, and put one another to the proof in conversation. And these are the models which I desire that you and I should imitate. Leaving the poets, and keeping to ourselves, let us try the mettle of one another and make proof of the truth in conversation. If you have a mind to ask, I am ready to answer; or if you would rather, do you answer, and give me the opportunity of resuming and completing our unfinished argument. I made these and some similar observations; but Protagoras would not distinctly say which he would do. Thereupon Alcibiades turned to Callias, and said:--Do you think, Callias, that Protagoras is fair in refusing to say whether he will or will not answer? for I certainly think that he is unfair; he ought either to proceed with the argument, or distinctly refuse to proceed, that we may know his intention; and then Socrates will be able to discourse with some one else, and the rest of the company will be free to talk with one another. I think that Protagoras was really made ashamed by these words of Alcibiades, and when the prayers of Callias and the company were superadded, he was at last induced to argue, and said that I might ask and he would answer. So I said: Do not imagine, Protagoras, that I have any other interest in asking questions of you but that of clearing up my own difficulties. For I think that Homer was very right in saying that 'When two go together, one sees before the other (Il.),' for all men who have a companion are readier in deed, word, or thought; but if a man 'Sees a thing when he is alone,' he goes about straightway seeking until he finds some one to whom he may show his discoveries, and who may confirm him in them. And I would rather hold discourse with you than with any one, because I think that no man has a better understanding of most things which a good man may be expected to understand, and in particular of virtue. For who is there, but you?--who not only claim to be a good man and a gentleman, for many are this, and yet have not the power of making others good--whereas you are not only good yourself, but also the cause of goodness in others. Moreover such confidence have you in yourself, that although other Sophists conceal their profession, you proclaim in the face of Hellas that you are a Sophist or teacher of virtue and education, and are the first who demanded pay in return. How then can I do otherwise than invite you to the examination of these subjects, and ask questions and consult with you? I must, indeed. And I should like once more to have my memory refreshed by you about the questions which I was asking you at first, and also to have your help in considering them. If I am not mistaken the question was this: Are wisdom and temperance and courage and justice and holiness five names of the same thing? or has each of the names a separate underlying essence and corresponding thing having a peculiar function, no one of them being like any other of them? And you replied that the five names were not the names of the same thing, but that each of them had a separate object, and that all these objects were parts of virtue, not in the same way that the parts of gold are like each other and the whole of which they are parts, but as the parts of the face are unlike the whole of which they are parts and one another, and have each of them a distinct function. I should like to know whether this is still your opinion; or if not, I will ask you to define your meaning, and I shall not take you to task if you now make a different statement. For I dare say that you may have said what you did only in order to make trial of me. I answer, Socrates, he said, that all these qualities are parts of virtue, and that four out of the five are to some extent similar, and that the fifth of them, which is courage, is very different from the other four, as I prove in this way: You may observe that many men are utterly unrighteous, unholy, intemperate, ignorant, who are nevertheless remarkable for their courage. Stop, I said; I should like to think about that. When you speak of brave men, do you mean the confident, or another sort of nature? Yes, he said; I mean the impetuous, ready to go at that which others are afraid to approach. In the next place, you would affirm virtue to be a good thing, of which good thing you assert yourself to be a teacher. Yes, he said; I should say the best of all things, if I am in my right mind. And is it partly good and partly bad, I said, or wholly good? Wholly good, and in the highest degree. Tell me then; who are they who have confidence when diving into a well? I should say, the divers. And the reason of this is that they have knowledge? Yes, that is the reason. And who have confidence when fighting on horseback--the skilled horseman or the unskilled? The skilled. And who when fighting with light shields--the peltasts or the nonpeltasts? The peltasts. And that is true of all other things, he said, if that is your point: those who have knowledge are more confident than those who have no knowledge, and they are more confident after they have learned than before. And have you not seen persons utterly ignorant, I said, of these things, and yet confident about them? Yes, he said, I have seen such persons far too confident. And are not these confident persons also courageous? In that case, he replied, courage would be a base thing, for the men of whom we are speaking are surely madmen. Then who are the courageous? Are they not the confident? Yes, he said; to that statement I adhere. And those, I said, who are thus confident without knowledge are really not courageous, but mad; and in that case the wisest are also the most confident, and being the most confident are also the bravest, and upon that view again wisdom will be courage. Nay, Socrates, he replied, you are mistaken in your remembrance of what was said by me. When you asked me, I certainly did say that the courageous are the confident; but I was never asked whether the confident are the courageous; if you had asked me, I should have answered 'Not all of them': and what I did answer you have not proved to be false, although you proceeded to show that those who have knowledge are more courageous than they were before they had knowledge, and more courageous than others who have no knowledge, and were then led on to think that courage is the same as wisdom. But in this way of arguing you might come to imagine that strength is wisdom. You might begin by asking whether the strong are able, and I should say 'Yes'; and then whether those who know how to wrestle are not more able to wrestle than those who do not know how to wrestle, and more able after than before they had learned, and I should assent. And when I had admitted this, you might use my admissions in such a way as to prove that upon my view wisdom is strength; whereas in that case I should not have admitted, any more than in the other, that the able are strong, although I have admitted that the strong are able. For there is a difference between ability and strength; the former is given by knowledge as well as by madness or rage, but strength comes from nature and a healthy state of the body. And in like manner I say of confidence and courage, that they are not the same; and I argue that the courageous are confident, but not all the confident courageous. For confidence may be given to men by art, and also, like ability, by madness and rage; but courage comes to them from nature and the healthy state of the soul. I said: You would admit, Protagoras, that some men live well and others ill? He assented. And do you think that a man lives well who lives in pain and grief? He does not. But if he lives pleasantly to the end of his life, will he not in that case have lived well? He will. Then to live pleasantly is a good, and to live unpleasantly an evil? Yes, he said, if the pleasure be good and honourable. And do you, Protagoras, like the rest of the world, call some pleasant things evil and some painful things good?--for I am rather disposed to say that things are good in as far as they are pleasant, if they have no consequences of another sort, and in as far as they are painful they are bad. I do not know, Socrates, he said, whether I can venture to assert in that unqualified manner that the pleasant is the good and the painful the evil. Having regard not only to my present answer, but also to the whole of my life, I shall be safer, if I am not mistaken, in saying that there are some pleasant things which are not good, and that there are some painful things which are good, and some which are not good, and that there are some which are neither good nor evil. And you would call pleasant, I said, the things which participate in pleasure or create pleasure? Certainly, he said. Then my meaning is, that in as far as they are pleasant they are good; and my question would imply that pleasure is a good in itself. According to your favourite mode of speech, Socrates, 'Let us reflect about this,' he said; and if the reflection is to the point, and the result proves that pleasure and good are really the same, then we will agree; but if not, then we will argue. And would you wish to begin the enquiry? I said; or shall I begin? You ought to take the lead, he said; for you are the author of the discussion. May I employ an illustration? I said. Suppose some one who is enquiring into the health or some other bodily quality of another:--he looks at his face and at the tips of his fingers, and then he says, Uncover your chest and back to me that I may have a better view:--that is the sort of thing which I desire in this speculation. Having seen what your opinion is about good and pleasure, I am minded to say to you: Uncover your mind to me, Protagoras, and reveal your opinion about knowledge, that I may know whether you agree with the rest of the world. Now the rest of the world are of opinion that knowledge is a principle not of strength, or of rule, or of command: their notion is that a man may have knowledge, and yet that the knowledge which is in him may be overmastered by anger, or pleasure, or pain, or love, or perhaps by fear,--just as if knowledge were a slave, and might be dragged about anyhow. Now is that your view? or do you think that knowledge is a noble and commanding thing, which cannot be overcome, and will not allow a man, if he only knows the difference of good and evil, to do anything which is contrary to knowledge, but that wisdom will have strength to help him? I agree with you, Socrates, said Protagoras; and not only so, but I, above all other men, am bound to say that wisdom and knowledge are the highest of human things. Good, I said, and true. But are you aware that the majority of the world are of another mind; and that men are commonly supposed to know the things which are best, and not to do them when they might? And most persons whom I have asked the reason of this have said that when men act contrary to knowledge they are overcome by pain, or pleasure, or some of those affections which I was just now mentioning. Yes, Socrates, he replied; and that is not the only point about which mankind are in error. Suppose, then, that you and I endeavour to instruct and inform them what is the nature of this affection which they call 'being overcome by pleasure,' and which they affirm to be the reason why they do not always do what is best. When we say to them: Friends, you are mistaken, and are saying what is not true, they would probably reply: Socrates and Protagoras, if this affection of the soul is not to be called 'being overcome by pleasure,' pray, what is it, and by what name would you describe it? But why, Socrates, should we trouble ourselves about the opinion of the many, who just say anything that happens to occur to them? I believe, I said, that they may be of use in helping us to discover how courage is related to the other parts of virtue. If you are disposed to abide by our agreement, that I should show the way in which, as I think, our recent difficulty is most likely to be cleared up, do you follow; but if not, never mind. You are quite right, he said; and I would have you proceed as you have begun. Well then, I said, let me suppose that they repeat their question, What account do you give of that which, in our way of speaking, is termed being overcome by pleasure? I should answer thus: Listen, and Protagoras and I will endeavour to show you. When men are overcome by eating and drinking and other sensual desires which are pleasant, and they, knowing them to be evil, nevertheless indulge in them, would you not say that they were overcome by pleasure? They will not deny this. And suppose that you and I were to go on and ask them again: 'In what way do you say that they are evil,--in that they are pleasant and give pleasure at the moment, or because they cause disease and poverty and other like evils in the future? Would they still be evil, if they had no attendant evil consequences, simply because they give the consciousness of pleasure of whatever nature?'--Would they not answer that they are not evil on account of the pleasure which is immediately given by them, but on account of the after consequences--diseases and the like? I believe, said Protagoras, that the world in general would answer as you do. And in causing diseases do they not cause pain? and in causing poverty do they not cause pain;--they would agree to that also, if I am not mistaken? Protagoras assented. Then I should say to them, in my name and yours: Do you think them evil for any other reason, except because they end in pain and rob us of other pleasures:--there again they would agree? We both of us thought that they would. And then I should take the question from the opposite point of view, and say: 'Friends, when you speak of goods being painful, do you not mean remedial goods, such as gymnastic exercises, and military service, and the physician's use of burning, cutting, drugging, and starving? Are these the things which are good but painful?'--they would assent to me? He agreed. 'And do you call them good because they occasion the greatest immediate suffering and pain; or because, afterwards, they bring health and improvement of the bodily condition and the salvation of states and power over others and wealth?'--they would agree to the latter alternative, if I am not mistaken? He assented. 'Are these things good for any other reason except that they end in pleasure, and get rid of and avert pain? Are you looking to any other standard but pleasure and pain when you call them good?'--they would acknowledge that they were not? I think so, said Protagoras. 'And do you not pursue after pleasure as a good, and avoid pain as an evil?' He assented. 'Then you think that pain is an evil and pleasure is a good: and even pleasure you deem an evil, when it robs you of greater pleasures than it gives, or causes pains greater than the pleasure. If, however, you call pleasure an evil in relation to some other end or standard, you will be able to show us that standard. But you have none to show.' I do not think that they have, said Protagoras. 'And have you not a similar way of speaking about pain? You call pain a good when it takes away greater pains than those which it has, or gives pleasures greater than the pains: then if you have some standard other than pleasure and pain to which you refer when you call actual pain a good, you can show what that is. But you cannot.' True, said Protagoras. Suppose again, I said, that the world says to me: 'Why do you spend many words and speak in many ways on this subject?' Excuse me, friends, I should reply; but in the first place there is a difficulty in explaining the meaning of the expression 'overcome by pleasure'; and the whole argument turns upon this. And even now, if you see any possible way in which evil can be explained as other than pain, or good as other than pleasure, you may still retract. Are you satisfied, then, at having a life of pleasure which is without pain? If you are, and if you are unable to show any good or evil which does not end in pleasure and pain, hear the consequences:--If what you say is true, then the argument is absurd which affirms that a man often does evil knowingly, when he might abstain, because he is seduced and overpowered by pleasure; or again, when you say that a man knowingly refuses to do what is good because he is overcome at the moment by pleasure. And that this is ridiculous will be evident if only we give up the use of various names, such as pleasant and painful, and good and evil. As there are two things, let us call them by two names--first, good and evil, and then pleasant and painful. Assuming this, let us go on to say that a man does evil knowing that he does evil. But some one will ask, Why? Because he is overcome, is the first answer. And by what is he overcome? the enquirer will proceed to ask. And we shall not be able to reply 'By pleasure,' for the name of pleasure has been exchanged for that of good. In our answer, then, we shall only say that he is overcome. 'By what?' he will reiterate. By the good, we shall have to reply; indeed we shall. Nay, but our questioner will rejoin with a laugh, if he be one of the swaggering sort, 'That is too ridiculous, that a man should do what he knows to be evil when he ought not, because he is overcome by good. Is that, he will ask, because the good was worthy or not worthy of conquering the evil'? And in answer to that we shall clearly reply, Because it was not worthy; for if it had been worthy, then he who, as we say, was overcome by pleasure, would not have been wrong. 'But how,' he will reply, 'can the good be unworthy of the evil, or the evil of the good'? Is not the real explanation that they are out of proportion to one another, either as greater and smaller, or more and fewer? This we cannot deny. And when you speak of being overcome--'what do you mean,' he will say, 'but that you choose the greater evil in exchange for the lesser good?' Admitted. And now substitute the names of pleasure and pain for good and evil, and say, not as before, that a man does what is evil knowingly, but that he does what is painful knowingly, and because he is overcome by pleasure, which is unworthy to overcome. What measure is there of the relations of pleasure to pain other than excess and defect, which means that they become greater and smaller, and more and fewer, and differ in degree? For if any one says: 'Yes, Socrates, but immediate pleasure differs widely from future pleasure and pain'--To that I should reply: And do they differ in anything but in pleasure and pain? There can be no other measure of them. And do you, like a skilful weigher, put into the balance the pleasures and the pains, and their nearness and distance, and weigh them, and then say which outweighs the other. If you weigh pleasures against pleasures, you of course take the more and greater; or if you weigh pains against pains, you take the fewer and the less; or if pleasures against pains, then you choose that course of action in which the painful is exceeded by the pleasant, whether the distant by the near or the near by the distant; and you avoid that course of action in which the pleasant is exceeded by the painful. Would you not admit, my friends, that this is true? I am confident that they cannot deny this. He agreed with me. Well then, I shall say, if you agree so far, be so good as to answer me a question: Do not the same magnitudes appear larger to your sight when near, and smaller when at a distance? They will acknowledge that. And the same holds of thickness and number; also sounds, which are in themselves equal, are greater when near, and lesser when at a distance. They will grant that also. Now suppose happiness to consist in doing or choosing the greater, and in not doing or in avoiding the less, what would be the saving principle of human life? Would not the art of measuring be the saving principle; or would the power of appearance? Is not the latter that deceiving art which makes us wander up and down and take the things at one time of which we repent at another, both in our actions and in our choice of things great and small? But the art of measurement would do away with the effect of appearances, and, showing the truth, would fain teach the soul at last to find rest in the truth, and would thus save our life. Would not mankind generally acknowledge that the art which accomplishes this result is the art of measurement? Yes, he said, the art of measurement. Suppose, again, the salvation of human life to depend on the choice of odd and even, and on the knowledge of when a man ought to choose the greater or less, either in reference to themselves or to each other, and whether near or at a distance; what would be the saving principle of our lives? Would not knowledge?--a knowledge of measuring, when the question is one of excess and defect, and a knowledge of number, when the question is of odd and even? The world will assent, will they not? Protagoras himself thought that they would. Well then, my friends, I say to them; seeing that the salvation of human life has been found to consist in the right choice of pleasures and pains,--in the choice of the more and the fewer, and the greater and the less, and the nearer and remoter, must not this measuring be a consideration of their excess and defect and equality in relation to each other? This is undeniably true. And this, as possessing measure, must undeniably also be an art and science? They will agree, he said. The nature of that art or science will be a matter of future consideration; but the existence of such a science furnishes a demonstrative answer to the question which you asked of me and Protagoras. At the time when you asked the question, if you remember, both of us were agreeing that there was nothing mightier than knowledge, and that knowledge, in whatever existing, must have the advantage over pleasure and all other things; and then you said that pleasure often got the advantage even over a man who has knowledge; and we refused to allow this, and you rejoined: O Protagoras and Socrates, what is the meaning of being overcome by pleasure if not this?--tell us what you call such a state:--if we had immediately and at the time answered 'Ignorance,' you would have laughed at us. But now, in laughing at us, you will be laughing at yourselves: for you also admitted that men err in their choice of pleasures and pains; that is, in their choice of good and evil, from defect of knowledge; and you admitted further, that they err, not only from defect of knowledge in general, but of that particular knowledge which is called measuring. And you are also aware that the erring act which is done without knowledge is done in ignorance. This, therefore, is the meaning of being overcome by pleasure;--ignorance, and that the greatest. And our friends Protagoras and Prodicus and Hippias declare that they are the physicians of ignorance; but you, who are under the mistaken impression that ignorance is not the cause, and that the art of which I am speaking cannot be taught, neither go yourselves, nor send your children, to the Sophists, who are the teachers of these things--you take care of your money and give them none; and the result is, that you are the worse off both in public and private life:--Let us suppose this to be our answer to the world in general: And now I should like to ask you, Hippias, and you, Prodicus, as well as Protagoras (for the argument is to be yours as well as ours), whether you think that I am speaking the truth or not? They all thought that what I said was entirely true. Then you agree, I said, that the pleasant is the good, and the painful evil. And here I would beg my friend Prodicus not to introduce his distinction of names, whether he is disposed to say pleasurable, delightful, joyful. However, by whatever name he prefers to call them, I will ask you, most excellent Prodicus, to answer in my sense of the words. Prodicus laughed and assented, as did the others. Then, my friends, what do you say to this? Are not all actions honourable and useful, of which the tendency is to make life painless and pleasant? The honourable work is also useful and good? This was admitted. Then, I said, if the pleasant is the good, nobody does anything under the idea or conviction that some other thing would be better and is also attainable, when he might do the better. And this inferiority of a man to himself is merely ignorance, as the superiority of a man to himself is wisdom. They all assented. And is not ignorance the having a false opinion and being deceived about important matters? To this also they unanimously assented. Then, I said, no man voluntarily pursues evil, or that which he thinks to be evil. To prefer evil to good is not in human nature; and when a man is compelled to choose one of two evils, no one will choose the greater when he may have the less. All of us agreed to every word of this. Well, I said, there is a certain thing called fear or terror; and here, Prodicus, I should particularly like to know whether you would agree with me in defining this fear or terror as expectation of evil. Protagoras and Hippias agreed, but Prodicus said that this was fear and not terror. Never mind, Prodicus, I said; but let me ask whether, if our former assertions are true, a man will pursue that which he fears when he is not compelled? Would not this be in flat contradiction to the admission which has been already made, that he thinks the things which he fears to be evil; and no one will pursue or voluntarily accept that which he thinks to be evil? That also was universally admitted. Then, I said, these, Hippias and Prodicus, are our premisses; and I would beg Protagoras to explain to us how he can be right in what he said at first. I do not mean in what he said quite at first, for his first statement, as you may remember, was that whereas there were five parts of virtue none of them was like any other of them; each of them had a separate function. To this, however, I am not referring, but to the assertion which he afterwards made that of the five virtues four were nearly akin to each other, but that the fifth, which was courage, differed greatly from the others. And of this he gave me the following proof. He said: You will find, Socrates, that some of the most impious, and unrighteous, and intemperate, and ignorant of men are among the most courageous; which proves that courage is very different from the other parts of virtue. I was surprised at his saying this at the time, and I am still more surprised now that I have discussed the matter with you. So I asked him whether by the brave he meant the confident. Yes, he replied, and the impetuous or goers. (You may remember, Protagoras, that this was your answer.) He assented. Well then, I said, tell us against what are the courageous ready to go--against the same dangers as the cowards? No, he answered. Then against something different? Yes, he said. Then do cowards go where there is safety, and the courageous where there is danger? Yes, Socrates, so men say. Very true, I said. But I want to know against what do you say that the courageous are ready to go--against dangers, believing them to be dangers, or not against dangers? No, said he; the former case has been proved by you in the previous argument to be impossible. That, again, I replied, is quite true. And if this has been rightly proven, then no one goes to meet what he thinks to be dangers, since the want of self-control, which makes men rush into dangers, has been shown to be ignorance. He assented. And yet the courageous man and the coward alike go to meet that about which they are confident; so that, in this point of view, the cowardly and the courageous go to meet the same things. And yet, Socrates, said Protagoras, that to which the coward goes is the opposite of that to which the courageous goes; the one, for example, is ready to go to battle, and the other is not ready. And is going to battle honourable or disgraceful? I said. Honourable, he replied. And if honourable, then already admitted by us to be good; for all honourable actions we have admitted to be good. That is true; and to that opinion I shall always adhere. True, I said. But which of the two are they who, as you say, are unwilling to go to war, which is a good and honourable thing? The cowards, he replied. And what is good and honourable, I said, is also pleasant? It has certainly been acknowledged to be so, he replied. And do the cowards knowingly refuse to go to the nobler, and pleasanter, and better? The admission of that, he replied, would belie our former admissions. But does not the courageous man also go to meet the better, and pleasanter, and nobler? That must be admitted. And the courageous man has no base fear or base confidence? True, he replied. And if not base, then honourable? He admitted this. And if honourable, then good? Yes. But the fear and confidence of the coward or foolhardy or madman, on the contrary, are base? He assented. And these base fears and confidences originate in ignorance and uninstructedness? True, he said. Then as to the motive from which the cowards act, do you call it cowardice or courage? I should say cowardice, he replied. And have they not been shown to be cowards through their ignorance of dangers? Assuredly, he said. And because of that ignorance they are cowards? He assented. And the reason why they are cowards is admitted by you to be cowardice? He again assented. Then the ignorance of what is and is not dangerous is cowardice? He nodded assent. But surely courage, I said, is opposed to cowardice? Yes. Then the wisdom which knows what are and are not dangers is opposed to the ignorance of them? To that again he nodded assent. And the ignorance of them is cowardice? To that he very reluctantly nodded assent. And the knowledge of that which is and is not dangerous is courage, and is opposed to the ignorance of these things? At this point he would no longer nod assent, but was silent. And why, I said, do you neither assent nor dissent, Protagoras? Finish the argument by yourself, he said. I only want to ask one more question, I said. I want to know whether you still think that there are men who are most ignorant and yet most courageous? You seem to have a great ambition to make me answer, Socrates, and therefore I will gratify you, and say, that this appears to me to be impossible consistently with the argument. My only object, I said, in continuing the discussion, has been the desire to ascertain the nature and relations of virtue; for if this were clear, I am very sure that the other controversy which has been carried on at great length by both of us--you affirming and I denying that virtue can be taught--would also become clear. The result of our discussion appears to me to be singular. For if the argument had a human voice, that voice would be heard laughing at us and saying: 'Protagoras and Socrates, you are strange beings; there are you, Socrates, who were saying that virtue cannot be taught, contradicting yourself now by your attempt to prove that all things are knowledge, including justice, and temperance, and courage,--which tends to show that virtue can certainly be taught; for if virtue were other than knowledge, as Protagoras attempted to prove, then clearly virtue cannot be taught; but if virtue is entirely knowledge, as you are seeking to show, then I cannot but suppose that virtue is capable of being taught. Protagoras, on the other hand, who started by saying that it might be taught, is now eager to prove it to be anything rather than knowledge; and if this is true, it must be quite incapable of being taught.' Now I, Protagoras, perceiving this terrible confusion of our ideas, have a great desire that they should be cleared up. And I should like to carry on the discussion until we ascertain what virtue is, whether capable of being taught or not, lest haply Epimetheus should trip us up and deceive us in the argument, as he forgot us in the story; I prefer your Prometheus to your Epimetheus, for of him I make use, whenever I am busy about these questions, in Promethean care of my own life. And if you have no objection, as I said at first, I should like to have your help in the enquiry. Protagoras replied: Socrates, I am not of a base nature, and I am the last man in the world to be envious. I cannot but applaud your energy and your conduct of an argument. As I have often said, I admire you above all men whom I know, and far above all men of your age; and I believe that you will become very eminent in philosophy. Let us come back to the subject at some future time; at present we had better turn to something else. By all means, I said, if that is your wish; for I too ought long since to have kept the engagement of which I spoke before, and only tarried because I could not refuse the request of the noble Callias. So the conversation ended, and we went our way. 
1643	----	MENO by Plato Translated by Benjamin Jowett INTRODUCTION. This Dialogue begins abruptly with a question of Meno, who asks, 'whether virtue can be taught.' Socrates replies that he does not as yet know what virtue is, and has never known anyone who did. 'Then he cannot have met Gorgias when he was at Athens.' Yes, Socrates had met him, but he has a bad memory, and has forgotten what Gorgias said. Will Meno tell him his own notion, which is probably not very different from that of Gorgias? 'O yes--nothing easier: there is the virtue of a man, of a woman, of an old man, and of a child; there is a virtue of every age and state of life, all of which may be easily described.' Socrates reminds Meno that this is only an enumeration of the virtues and not a definition of the notion which is common to them all. In a second attempt Meno defines virtue to be 'the power of command.' But to this, again, exceptions are taken. For there must be a virtue of those who obey, as well as of those who command; and the power of command must be justly or not unjustly exercised. Meno is very ready to admit that justice is virtue: 'Would you say virtue or a virtue, for there are other virtues, such as courage, temperance, and the like; just as round is a figure, and black and white are colours, and yet there are other figures and other colours. Let Meno take the examples of figure and colour, and try to define them.' Meno confesses his inability, and after a process of interrogation, in which Socrates explains to him the nature of a 'simile in multis,' Socrates himself defines figure as 'the accompaniment of colour.' But some one may object that he does not know the meaning of the word 'colour;' and if he is a candid friend, and not a mere disputant, Socrates is willing to furnish him with a simpler and more philosophical definition, into which no disputed word is allowed to intrude: 'Figure is the limit of form.' Meno imperiously insists that he must still have a definition of colour. Some raillery follows; and at length Socrates is induced to reply, 'that colour is the effluence of form, sensible, and in due proportion to the sight.' This definition is exactly suited to the taste of Meno, who welcomes the familiar language of Gorgias and Empedocles. Socrates is of opinion that the more abstract or dialectical definition of figure is far better. Now that Meno has been made to understand the nature of a general definition, he answers in the spirit of a Greek gentleman, and in the words of a poet, 'that virtue is to delight in things honourable, and to have the power of getting them.' This is a nearer approximation than he has yet made to a complete definition, and, regarded as a piece of proverbial or popular morality, is not far from the truth. But the objection is urged, 'that the honourable is the good,' and as every one equally desires the good, the point of the definition is contained in the words, 'the power of getting them.' 'And they must be got justly or with justice.' The definition will then stand thus: 'Virtue is the power of getting good with justice.' But justice is a part of virtue, and therefore virtue is the getting of good with a part of virtue. The definition repeats the word defined. Meno complains that the conversation of Socrates has the effect of a torpedo's shock upon him. When he talks with other persons he has plenty to say about virtue; in the presence of Socrates, his thoughts desert him. Socrates replies that he is only the cause of perplexity in others, because he is himself perplexed. He proposes to continue the enquiry. But how, asks Meno, can he enquire either into what he knows or into what he does not know? This is a sophistical puzzle, which, as Socrates remarks, saves a great deal of trouble to him who accepts it. But the puzzle has a real difficulty latent under it, to which Socrates will endeavour to find a reply. The difficulty is the origin of knowledge:-- He has heard from priests and priestesses, and from the poet Pindar, of an immortal soul which is born again and again in successive periods of existence, returning into this world when she has paid the penalty of ancient crime, and, having wandered over all places of the upper and under world, and seen and known all things at one time or other, is by association out of one thing capable of recovering all. For nature is of one kindred; and every soul has a seed or germ which may be developed into all knowledge. The existence of this latent knowledge is further proved by the interrogation of one of Meno's slaves, who, in the skilful hands of Socrates, is made to acknowledge some elementary relations of geometrical figures. The theorem that the square of the diagonal is double the square of the side--that famous discovery of primitive mathematics, in honour of which the legendary Pythagoras is said to have sacrificed a hecatomb--is elicited from him. The first step in the process of teaching has made him conscious of his own ignorance. He has had the 'torpedo's shock' given him, and is the better for the operation. But whence had the uneducated man this knowledge? He had never learnt geometry in this world; nor was it born with him; he must therefore have had it when he was not a man. And as he always either was or was not a man, he must have always had it. (Compare Phaedo.) After Socrates has given this specimen of the true nature of teaching, the original question of the teachableness of virtue is renewed. Again he professes a desire to know 'what virtue is' first. But he is willing to argue the question, as mathematicians say, under an hypothesis. He will assume that if virtue is knowledge, then virtue can be taught. (This was the stage of the argument at which the Protagoras concluded.) Socrates has no difficulty in showing that virtue is a good, and that goods, whether of body or mind, must be under the direction of knowledge. Upon the assumption just made, then, virtue is teachable. But where are the teachers? There are none to be found. This is extremely discouraging. Virtue is no sooner discovered to be teachable, than the discovery follows that it is not taught. Virtue, therefore, is and is not teachable. In this dilemma an appeal is made to Anytus, a respectable and well-to-do citizen of the old school, and a family friend of Meno, who happens to be present. He is asked 'whether Meno shall go to the Sophists and be taught.' The suggestion throws him into a rage. 'To whom, then, shall Meno go?' asks Socrates. To any Athenian gentleman--to the great Athenian statesmen of past times. Socrates replies here, as elsewhere (Laches, Prot.), that Themistocles, Pericles, and other great men, had sons to whom they would surely, if they could have done so, have imparted their own political wisdom; but no one ever heard that these sons of theirs were remarkable for anything except riding and wrestling and similar accomplishments. Anytus is angry at the imputation which is cast on his favourite statesmen, and on a class to which he supposes himself to belong; he breaks off with a significant hint. The mention of another opportunity of talking with him, and the suggestion that Meno may do the Athenian people a service by pacifying him, are evident allusions to the trial of Socrates. Socrates returns to the consideration of the question 'whether virtue is teachable,' which was denied on the ground that there are no teachers of it: (for the Sophists are bad teachers, and the rest of the world do not profess to teach). But there is another point which we failed to observe, and in which Gorgias has never instructed Meno, nor Prodicus Socrates. This is the nature of right opinion. For virtue may be under the guidance of right opinion as well as of knowledge; and right opinion is for practical purposes as good as knowledge, but is incapable of being taught, and is also liable, like the images of Daedalus, to 'walk off,' because not bound by the tie of the cause. This is the sort of instinct which is possessed by statesmen, who are not wise or knowing persons, but only inspired or divine. The higher virtue, which is identical with knowledge, is an ideal only. If the statesman had this knowledge, and could teach what he knew, he would be like Tiresias in the world below,--'he alone has wisdom, but the rest flit like shadows.' This Dialogue is an attempt to answer the question, Can virtue be taught? No one would either ask or answer such a question in modern times. But in the age of Socrates it was only by an effort that the mind could rise to a general notion of virtue as distinct from the particular virtues of courage, liberality, and the like. And when a hazy conception of this ideal was attained, it was only by a further effort that the question of the teachableness of virtue could be resolved. The answer which is given by Plato is paradoxical enough, and seems rather intended to stimulate than to satisfy enquiry. Virtue is knowledge, and therefore virtue can be taught. But virtue is not taught, and therefore in this higher and ideal sense there is no virtue and no knowledge. The teaching of the Sophists is confessedly inadequate, and Meno, who is their pupil, is ignorant of the very nature of general terms. He can only produce out of their armoury the sophism, 'that you can neither enquire into what you know nor into what you do not know;' to which Socrates replies by his theory of reminiscence. To the doctrine that virtue is knowledge, Plato has been constantly tending in the previous Dialogues. But the new truth is no sooner found than it vanishes away. 'If there is knowledge, there must be teachers; and where are the teachers?' There is no knowledge in the higher sense of systematic, connected, reasoned knowledge, such as may one day be attained, and such as Plato himself seems to see in some far off vision of a single science. And there are no teachers in the higher sense of the word; that is to say, no real teachers who will arouse the spirit of enquiry in their pupils, and not merely instruct them in rhetoric or impart to them ready-made information for a fee of 'one' or of 'fifty drachms.' Plato is desirous of deepening the notion of education, and therefore he asserts the paradox that there are no educators. This paradox, though different in form, is not really different from the remark which is often made in modern times by those who would depreciate either the methods of education commonly employed, or the standard attained--that 'there is no true education among us.' There remains still a possibility which must not be overlooked. Even if there be no true knowledge, as is proved by 'the wretched state of education,' there may be right opinion, which is a sort of guessing or divination resting on no knowledge of causes, and incommunicable to others. This is the gift which our statesmen have, as is proved by the circumstance that they are unable to impart their knowledge to their sons. Those who are possessed of it cannot be said to be men of science or philosophers, but they are inspired and divine. There may be some trace of irony in this curious passage, which forms the concluding portion of the Dialogue. But Plato certainly does not mean to intimate that the supernatural or divine is the true basis of human life. To him knowledge, if only attainable in this world, is of all things the most divine. Yet, like other philosophers, he is willing to admit that 'probability is the guide of life (Butler's Analogy.);' and he is at the same time desirous of contrasting the wisdom which governs the world with a higher wisdom. There are many instincts, judgments, and anticipations of the human mind which cannot be reduced to rule, and of which the grounds cannot always be given in words. A person may have some skill or latent experience which he is able to use himself and is yet unable to teach others, because he has no principles, and is incapable of collecting or arranging his ideas. He has practice, but not theory; art, but not science. This is a true fact of psychology, which is recognized by Plato in this passage. But he is far from saying, as some have imagined, that inspiration or divine grace is to be regarded as higher than knowledge. He would not have preferred the poet or man of action to the philosopher, or the virtue of custom to the virtue based upon ideas. Also here, as in the Ion and Phaedrus, Plato appears to acknowledge an unreasoning element in the higher nature of man. The philosopher only has knowledge, and yet the statesman and the poet are inspired. There may be a sort of irony in regarding in this way the gifts of genius. But there is no reason to suppose that he is deriding them, any more than he is deriding the phenomena of love or of enthusiasm in the Symposium, or of oracles in the Apology, or of divine intimations when he is speaking of the daemonium of Socrates. He recognizes the lower form of right opinion, as well as the higher one of science, in the spirit of one who desires to include in his philosophy every aspect of human life; just as he recognizes the existence of popular opinion as a fact, and the Sophists as the expression of it. This Dialogue contains the first intimation of the doctrine of reminiscence and of the immortality of the soul. The proof is very slight, even slighter than in the Phaedo and Republic. Because men had abstract ideas in a previous state, they must have always had them, and their souls therefore must have always existed. For they must always have been either men or not men. The fallacy of the latter words is transparent. And Socrates himself appears to be conscious of their weakness; for he adds immediately afterwards, 'I have said some things of which I am not altogether confident.' (Compare Phaedo.) It may be observed, however, that the fanciful notion of pre-existence is combined with a true but partial view of the origin and unity of knowledge, and of the association of ideas. Knowledge is prior to any particular knowledge, and exists not in the previous state of the individual, but of the race. It is potential, not actual, and can only be appropriated by strenuous exertion. The idealism of Plato is here presented in a less developed form than in the Phaedo and Phaedrus. Nothing is said of the pre-existence of ideas of justice, temperance, and the like. Nor is Socrates positive of anything but the duty of enquiry. The doctrine of reminiscence too is explained more in accordance with fact and experience as arising out of the affinities of nature (ate tes thuseos oles suggenous ouses). Modern philosophy says that all things in nature are dependent on one another; the ancient philosopher had the same truth latent in his mind when he affirmed that out of one thing all the rest may be recovered. The subjective was converted by him into an objective; the mental phenomenon of the association of ideas (compare Phaedo) became a real chain of existences. The germs of two valuable principles of education may also be gathered from the 'words of priests and priestesses:' (1) that true knowledge is a knowledge of causes (compare Aristotle's theory of episteme); and (2) that the process of learning consists not in what is brought to the learner, but in what is drawn out of him. Some lesser points of the dialogue may be noted, such as (1) the acute observation that Meno prefers the familiar definition, which is embellished with poetical language, to the better and truer one; or (2) the shrewd reflection, which may admit of an application to modern as well as to ancient teachers, that the Sophists having made large fortunes; this must surely be a criterion of their powers of teaching, for that no man could get a living by shoemaking who was not a good shoemaker; or (3) the remark conveyed, almost in a word, that the verbal sceptic is saved the labour of thought and enquiry (ouden dei to toiouto zeteseos). Characteristic also of the temper of the Socratic enquiry is, (4) the proposal to discuss the teachableness of virtue under an hypothesis, after the manner of the mathematicians; and (5) the repetition of the favourite doctrine which occurs so frequently in the earlier and more Socratic Dialogues, and gives a colour to all of them--that mankind only desire evil through ignorance; (6) the experiment of eliciting from the slave-boy the mathematical truth which is latent in him, and (7) the remark that he is all the better for knowing his ignorance. The character of Meno, like that of Critias, has no relation to the actual circumstances of his life. Plato is silent about his treachery to the ten thousand Greeks, which Xenophon has recorded, as he is also silent about the crimes of Critias. He is a Thessalian Alcibiades, rich and luxurious--a spoilt child of fortune, and is described as the hereditary friend of the great king. Like Alcibiades he is inspired with an ardent desire of knowledge, and is equally willing to learn of Socrates and of the Sophists. He may be regarded as standing in the same relation to Gorgias as Hippocrates in the Protagoras to the other great Sophist. He is the sophisticated youth on whom Socrates tries his cross-examining powers, just as in the Charmides, the Lysis, and the Euthydemus, ingenuous boyhood is made the subject of a similar experiment. He is treated by Socrates in a half-playful manner suited to his character; at the same time he appears not quite to understand the process to which he is being subjected. For he is exhibited as ignorant of the very elements of dialectics, in which the Sophists have failed to instruct their disciple. His definition of virtue as 'the power and desire of attaining things honourable,' like the first definition of justice in the Republic, is taken from a poet. His answers have a sophistical ring, and at the same time show the sophistical incapacity to grasp a general notion. Anytus is the type of the narrow-minded man of the world, who is indignant at innovation, and equally detests the popular teacher and the true philosopher. He seems, like Aristophanes, to regard the new opinions, whether of Socrates or the Sophists, as fatal to Athenian greatness. He is of the same class as Callicles in the Gorgias, but of a different variety; the immoral and sophistical doctrines of Callicles are not attributed to him. The moderation with which he is described is remarkable, if he be the accuser of Socrates, as is apparently indicated by his parting words. Perhaps Plato may have been desirous of showing that the accusation of Socrates was not to be attributed to badness or malevolence, but rather to a tendency in men's minds. Or he may have been regardless of the historical truth of the characters of his dialogue, as in the case of Meno and Critias. Like Chaerephon (Apol.) the real Anytus was a democrat, and had joined Thrasybulus in the conflict with the thirty. The Protagoras arrived at a sort of hypothetical conclusion, that if 'virtue is knowledge, it can be taught.' In the Euthydemus, Socrates himself offered an example of the manner in which the true teacher may draw out the mind of youth; this was in contrast to the quibbling follies of the Sophists. In the Meno the subject is more developed; the foundations of the enquiry are laid deeper, and the nature of knowledge is more distinctly explained. There is a progression by antagonism of two opposite aspects of philosophy. But at the moment when we approach nearest, the truth doubles upon us and passes out of our reach. We seem to find that the ideal of knowledge is irreconcilable with experience. In human life there is indeed the profession of knowledge, but right opinion is our actual guide. There is another sort of progress from the general notions of Socrates, who asked simply, 'what is friendship?' 'what is temperance?' 'what is courage?' as in the Lysis, Charmides, Laches, to the transcendentalism of Plato, who, in the second stage of his philosophy, sought to find the nature of knowledge in a prior and future state of existence. The difficulty in framing general notions which has appeared in this and in all the previous Dialogues recurs in the Gorgias and Theaetetus as well as in the Republic. In the Gorgias too the statesmen reappear, but in stronger opposition to the philosopher. They are no longer allowed to have a divine insight, but, though acknowledged to have been clever men and good speakers, are denounced as 'blind leaders of the blind.' The doctrine of the immortality of the soul is also carried further, being made the foundation not only of a theory of knowledge, but of a doctrine of rewards and punishments. In the Republic the relation of knowledge to virtue is described in a manner more consistent with modern distinctions. The existence of the virtues without the possession of knowledge in the higher or philosophical sense is admitted to be possible. Right opinion is again introduced in the Theaetetus as an account of knowledge, but is rejected on the ground that it is irrational (as here, because it is not bound by the tie of the cause), and also because the conception of false opinion is given up as hopeless. The doctrines of Plato are necessarily different at different times of his life, as new distinctions are realized, or new stages of thought attained by him. We are not therefore justified, in order to take away the appearance of inconsistency, in attributing to him hidden meanings or remote allusions. There are no external criteria by which we can determine the date of the Meno. There is no reason to suppose that any of the Dialogues of Plato were written before the death of Socrates; the Meno, which appears to be one of the earliest of them, is proved to have been of a later date by the allusion of Anytus. We cannot argue that Plato was more likely to have written, as he has done, of Meno before than after his miserable death; for we have already seen, in the examples of Charmides and Critias, that the characters in Plato are very far from resembling the same characters in history. The repulsive picture which is given of him in the Anabasis of Xenophon, where he also appears as the friend of Aristippus 'and a fair youth having lovers,' has no other trait of likeness to the Meno of Plato. The place of the Meno in the series is doubtfully indicated by internal evidence. The main character of the Dialogue is Socrates; but to the 'general definitions' of Socrates is added the Platonic doctrine of reminiscence. The problems of virtue and knowledge have been discussed in the Lysis, Laches, Charmides, and Protagoras; the puzzle about knowing and learning has already appeared in the Euthydemus. The doctrines of immortality and pre-existence are carried further in the Phaedrus and Phaedo; the distinction between opinion and knowledge is more fully developed in the Theaetetus. The lessons of Prodicus, whom he facetiously calls his master, are still running in the mind of Socrates. Unlike the later Platonic Dialogues, the Meno arrives at no conclusion. Hence we are led to place the Dialogue at some point of time later than the Protagoras, and earlier than the Phaedrus and Gorgias. The place which is assigned to it in this work is due mainly to the desire to bring together in a single volume all the Dialogues which contain allusions to the trial and death of Socrates. ***** ON THE IDEAS OF PLATO. Plato's doctrine of ideas has attained an imaginary clearness and definiteness which is not to be found in his own writings. The popular account of them is partly derived from one or two passages in his Dialogues interpreted without regard to their poetical environment. It is due also to the misunderstanding of him by the Aristotelian school; and the erroneous notion has been further narrowed and has become fixed by the realism of the schoolmen. This popular view of the Platonic ideas may be summed up in some such formula as the following: 'Truth consists not in particulars, but in universals, which have a place in the mind of God, or in some far-off heaven. These were revealed to men in a former state of existence, and are recovered by reminiscence (anamnesis) or association from sensible things. The sensible things are not realities, but shadows only, in relation to the truth.' These unmeaning propositions are hardly suspected to be a caricature of a great theory of knowledge, which Plato in various ways and under many figures of speech is seeking to unfold. Poetry has been converted into dogma; and it is not remarked that the Platonic ideas are to be found only in about a third of Plato's writings and are not confined to him. The forms which they assume are numerous, and if taken literally, inconsistent with one another. At one time we are in the clouds of mythology, at another among the abstractions of mathematics or metaphysics; we pass imperceptibly from one to the other. Reason and fancy are mingled in the same passage. The ideas are sometimes described as many, coextensive with the universals of sense and also with the first principles of ethics; or again they are absorbed into the single idea of good, and subordinated to it. They are not more certain than facts, but they are equally certain (Phaedo). They are both personal and impersonal. They are abstract terms: they are also the causes of things; and they are even transformed into the demons or spirits by whose help God made the world. And the idea of good (Republic) may without violence be converted into the Supreme Being, who 'because He was good' created all things (Tim.). It would be a mistake to try and reconcile these differing modes of thought. They are not to be regarded seriously as having a distinct meaning. They are parables, prophecies, myths, symbols, revelations, aspirations after an unknown world. They derive their origin from a deep religious and contemplative feeling, and also from an observation of curious mental phenomena. They gather up the elements of the previous philosophies, which they put together in a new form. Their great diversity shows the tentative character of early endeavours to think. They have not yet settled down into a single system. Plato uses them, though he also criticises them; he acknowledges that both he and others are always talking about them, especially about the Idea of Good; and that they are not peculiar to himself (Phaedo; Republic; Soph.). But in his later writings he seems to have laid aside the old forms of them. As he proceeds he makes for himself new modes of expression more akin to the Aristotelian logic. Yet amid all these varieties and incongruities, there is a common meaning or spirit which pervades his writings, both those in which he treats of the ideas and those in which he is silent about them. This is the spirit of idealism, which in the history of philosophy has had many names and taken many forms, and has in a measure influenced those who seemed to be most averse to it. It has often been charged with inconsistency and fancifulness, and yet has had an elevating effect on human nature, and has exercised a wonderful charm and interest over a few spirits who have been lost in the thought of it. It has been banished again and again, but has always returned. It has attempted to leave the earth and soar heavenwards, but soon has found that only in experience could any solid foundation of knowledge be laid. It has degenerated into pantheism, but has again emerged. No other knowledge has given an equal stimulus to the mind. It is the science of sciences, which are also ideas, and under either aspect require to be defined. They can only be thought of in due proportion when conceived in relation to one another. They are the glasses through which the kingdoms of science are seen, but at a distance. All the greatest minds, except when living in an age of reaction against them, have unconsciously fallen under their power. The account of the Platonic ideas in the Meno is the simplest and clearest, and we shall best illustrate their nature by giving this first and then comparing the manner in which they are described elsewhere, e.g. in the Phaedrus, Phaedo, Republic; to which may be added the criticism of them in the Parmenides, the personal form which is attributed to them in the Timaeus, the logical character which they assume in the Sophist and Philebus, and the allusion to them in the Laws. In the Cratylus they dawn upon him with the freshness of a newly-discovered thought. The Meno goes back to a former state of existence, in which men did and suffered good and evil, and received the reward or punishment of them until their sin was purged away and they were allowed to return to earth. This is a tradition of the olden time, to which priests and poets bear witness. The souls of men returning to earth bring back a latent memory of ideas, which were known to them in a former state. The recollection is awakened into life and consciousness by the sight of the things which resemble them on earth. The soul evidently possesses such innate ideas before she has had time to acquire them. This is proved by an experiment tried on one of Meno's slaves, from whom Socrates elicits truths of arithmetic and geometry, which he had never learned in this world. He must therefore have brought them with him from another. The notion of a previous state of existence is found in the verses of Empedocles and in the fragments of Heracleitus. It was the natural answer to two questions, 'Whence came the soul? What is the origin of evil?' and prevailed far and wide in the east. It found its way into Hellas probably through the medium of Orphic and Pythagorean rites and mysteries. It was easier to think of a former than of a future life, because such a life has really existed for the race though not for the individual, and all men come into the world, if not 'trailing clouds of glory,' at any rate able to enter into the inheritance of the past. In the Phaedrus, as well as in the Meno, it is this former rather than a future life on which Plato is disposed to dwell. There the Gods, and men following in their train, go forth to contemplate the heavens, and are borne round in the revolutions of them. There they see the divine forms of justice, temperance, and the like, in their unchangeable beauty, but not without an effort more than human. The soul of man is likened to a charioteer and two steeds, one mortal, the other immortal. The charioteer and the mortal steed are in fierce conflict; at length the animal principle is finally overpowered, though not extinguished, by the combined energies of the passionate and rational elements. This is one of those passages in Plato which, partaking both of a philosophical and poetical character, is necessarily indistinct and inconsistent. The magnificent figure under which the nature of the soul is described has not much to do with the popular doctrine of the ideas. Yet there is one little trait in the description which shows that they are present to Plato's mind, namely, the remark that the soul, which had seen truths in the form of the universal, cannot again return to the nature of an animal. In the Phaedo, as in the Meno, the origin of ideas is sought for in a previous state of existence. There was no time when they could have been acquired in this life, and therefore they must have been recovered from another. The process of recovery is no other than the ordinary law of association, by which in daily life the sight of one thing or person recalls another to our minds, and by which in scientific enquiry from any part of knowledge we may be led on to infer the whole. It is also argued that ideas, or rather ideals, must be derived from a previous state of existence because they are more perfect than the sensible forms of them which are given by experience. But in the Phaedo the doctrine of ideas is subordinate to the proof of the immortality of the soul. 'If the soul existed in a previous state, then it will exist in a future state, for a law of alternation pervades all things.' And, 'If the ideas exist, then the soul exists; if not, not.' It is to be observed, both in the Meno and the Phaedo, that Socrates expresses himself with diffidence. He speaks in the Phaedo of the words with which he has comforted himself and his friends, and will not be too confident that the description which he has given of the soul and her mansions is exactly true, but he 'ventures to think that something of the kind is true.' And in the Meno, after dwelling upon the immortality of the soul, he adds, 'Of some things which I have said I am not altogether confident' (compare Apology; Gorgias). From this class of uncertainties he exempts the difference between truth and appearance, of which he is absolutely convinced. In the Republic the ideas are spoken of in two ways, which though not contradictory are different. In the tenth book they are represented as the genera or general ideas under which individuals having a common name are contained. For example, there is the bed which the carpenter makes, the picture of the bed which is drawn by the painter, the bed existing in nature of which God is the author. Of the latter all visible beds are only the shadows or reflections. This and similar illustrations or explanations are put forth, not for their own sake, or as an exposition of Plato's theory of ideas, but with a view of showing that poetry and the mimetic arts are concerned with an inferior part of the soul and a lower kind of knowledge. On the other hand, in the 6th and 7th books of the Republic we reach the highest and most perfect conception, which Plato is able to attain, of the nature of knowledge. The ideas are now finally seen to be one as well as many, causes as well as ideas, and to have a unity which is the idea of good and the cause of all the rest. They seem, however, to have lost their first aspect of universals under which individuals are contained, and to have been converted into forms of another kind, which are inconsistently regarded from the one side as images or ideals of justice, temperance, holiness and the like; from the other as hypotheses, or mathematical truths or principles. In the Timaeus, which in the series of Plato's works immediately follows the Republic, though probably written some time afterwards, no mention occurs of the doctrine of ideas. Geometrical forms and arithmetical ratios furnish the laws according to which the world is created. But though the conception of the ideas as genera or species is forgotten or laid aside, the distinction of the visible and intellectual is as firmly maintained as ever. The IDEA of good likewise disappears and is superseded by the conception of a personal God, who works according to a final cause or principle of goodness which he himself is. No doubt is expressed by Plato, either in the Timaeus or in any other dialogue, of the truths which he conceives to be the first and highest. It is not the existence of God or the idea of good which he approaches in a tentative or hesitating manner, but the investigations of physiology. These he regards, not seriously, as a part of philosophy, but as an innocent recreation (Tim.). Passing on to the Parmenides, we find in that dialogue not an exposition or defence of the doctrine of ideas, but an assault upon them, which is put into the mouth of the veteran Parmenides, and might be ascribed to Aristotle himself, or to one of his disciples. The doctrine which is assailed takes two or three forms, but fails in any of them to escape the dialectical difficulties which are urged against it. It is admitted that there are ideas of all things, but the manner in which individuals partake of them, whether of the whole or of the part, and in which they become like them, or how ideas can be either within or without the sphere of human knowledge, or how the human and divine can have any relation to each other, is held to be incapable of explanation. And yet, if there are no universal ideas, what becomes of philosophy? (Parmenides.) In the Sophist the theory of ideas is spoken of as a doctrine held not by Plato, but by another sect of philosophers, called 'the Friends of Ideas,' probably the Megarians, who were very distinct from him, if not opposed to him (Sophist). Nor in what may be termed Plato's abridgement of the history of philosophy (Soph.), is any mention made such as we find in the first book of Aristotle's Metaphysics, of the derivation of such a theory or of any part of it from the Pythagoreans, the Eleatics, the Heracleiteans, or even from Socrates. In the Philebus, probably one of the latest of the Platonic Dialogues, the conception of a personal or semi-personal deity expressed under the figure of mind, the king of all, who is also the cause, is retained. The one and many of the Phaedrus and Theaetetus is still working in the mind of Plato, and the correlation of ideas, not of 'all with all,' but of 'some with some,' is asserted and explained. But they are spoken of in a different manner, and are not supposed to be recovered from a former state of existence. The metaphysical conception of truth passes into a psychological one, which is continued in the Laws, and is the final form of the Platonic philosophy, so far as can be gathered from his own writings (see especially Laws). In the Laws he harps once more on the old string, and returns to general notions:--these he acknowledges to be many, and yet he insists that they are also one. The guardian must be made to recognize the truth, for which he has contended long ago in the Protagoras, that the virtues are four, but they are also in some sense one (Laws; compare Protagoras). So various, and if regarded on the surface only, inconsistent, are the statements of Plato respecting the doctrine of ideas. If we attempted to harmonize or to combine them, we should make out of them, not a system, but the caricature of a system. They are the ever-varying expression of Plato's Idealism. The terms used in them are in their substance and general meaning the same, although they seem to be different. They pass from the subject to the object, from earth (diesseits) to heaven (jenseits) without regard to the gulf which later theology and philosophy have made between them. They are also intended to supplement or explain each other. They relate to a subject of which Plato himself would have said that 'he was not confident of the precise form of his own statements, but was strong in the belief that something of the kind was true.' It is the spirit, not the letter, in which they agree--the spirit which places the divine above the human, the spiritual above the material, the one above the many, the mind before the body. The stream of ancient philosophy in the Alexandrian and Roman times widens into a lake or sea, and then disappears underground to reappear after many ages in a distant land. It begins to flow again under new conditions, at first confined between high and narrow banks, but finally spreading over the continent of Europe. It is and is not the same with ancient philosophy. There is a great deal in modern philosophy which is inspired by ancient. There is much in ancient philosophy which was 'born out of due time; and before men were capable of understanding it. To the fathers of modern philosophy, their own thoughts appeared to be new and original, but they carried with them an echo or shadow of the past, coming back by recollection from an elder world. Of this the enquirers of the seventeenth century, who to themselves appeared to be working out independently the enquiry into all truth, were unconscious. They stood in a new relation to theology and natural philosophy, and for a time maintained towards both an attitude of reserve and separation. Yet the similarities between modern and ancient thought are greater far than the differences. All philosophy, even that part of it which is said to be based upon experience, is really ideal; and ideas are not only derived from facts, but they are also prior to them and extend far beyond them, just as the mind is prior to the senses. Early Greek speculation culminates in the ideas of Plato, or rather in the single idea of good. His followers, and perhaps he himself, having arrived at this elevation, instead of going forwards went backwards from philosophy to psychology, from ideas to numbers. But what we perceive to be the real meaning of them, an explanation of the nature and origin of knowledge, will always continue to be one of the first problems of philosophy. Plato also left behind him a most potent instrument, the forms of logic--arms ready for use, but not yet taken out of their armoury. They were the late birth of the early Greek philosophy, and were the only part of it which has had an uninterrupted hold on the mind of Europe. Philosophies come and go; but the detection of fallacies, the framing of definitions, the invention of methods still continue to be the main elements of the reasoning process. Modern philosophy, like ancient, begins with very simple conceptions. It is almost wholly a reflection on self. It might be described as a quickening into life of old words and notions latent in the semi-barbarous Latin, and putting a new meaning into them. Unlike ancient philosophy, it has been unaffected by impressions derived from outward nature: it arose within the limits of the mind itself. From the time of Descartes to Hume and Kant it has had little or nothing to do with facts of science. On the other hand, the ancient and mediaeval logic retained a continuous influence over it, and a form like that of mathematics was easily impressed upon it; the principle of ancient philosophy which is most apparent in it is scepticism; we must doubt nearly every traditional or received notion, that we may hold fast one or two. The being of God in a personal or impersonal form was a mental necessity to the first thinkers of modern times: from this alone all other ideas could be deduced. There had been an obscure presentiment of 'cognito, ergo sum' more than 2000 years previously. The Eleatic notion that being and thought were the same was revived in a new form by Descartes. But now it gave birth to consciousness and self-reflection: it awakened the 'ego' in human nature. The mind naked and abstract has no other certainty but the conviction of its own existence. 'I think, therefore I am;' and this thought is God thinking in me, who has also communicated to the reason of man his own attributes of thought and extension--these are truly imparted to him because God is true (compare Republic). It has been often remarked that Descartes, having begun by dismissing all presuppositions, introduces several: he passes almost at once from scepticism to dogmatism. It is more important for the illustration of Plato to observe that he, like Plato, insists that God is true and incapable of deception (Republic)--that he proceeds from general ideas, that many elements of mathematics may be found in him. A certain influence of mathematics both on the form and substance of their philosophy is discernible in both of them. After making the greatest opposition between thought and extension, Descartes, like Plato, supposes them to be reunited for a time, not in their own nature but by a special divine act (compare Phaedrus), and he also supposes all the parts of the human body to meet in the pineal gland, that alone affording a principle of unity in the material frame of man. It is characteristic of the first period of modern philosophy, that having begun (like the Presocratics) with a few general notions, Descartes first falls absolutely under their influence, and then quickly discards them. At the same time he is less able to observe facts, because they are too much magnified by the glasses through which they are seen. The common logic says 'the greater the extension, the less the comprehension,' and we may put the same thought in another way and say of abstract or general ideas, that the greater the abstraction of them, the less are they capable of being applied to particular and concrete natures. Not very different from Descartes in his relation to ancient philosophy is his successor Spinoza, who lived in the following generation. The system of Spinoza is less personal and also less dualistic than that of Descartes. In this respect the difference between them is like that between Xenophanes and Parmenides. The teaching of Spinoza might be described generally as the Jewish religion reduced to an abstraction and taking the form of the Eleatic philosophy. Like Parmenides, he is overpowered and intoxicated with the idea of Being or God. The greatness of both philosophies consists in the immensity of a thought which excludes all other thoughts; their weakness is the necessary separation of this thought from actual existence and from practical life. In neither of them is there any clear opposition between the inward and outward world. The substance of Spinoza has two attributes, which alone are cognizable by man, thought and extension; these are in extreme opposition to one another, and also in inseparable identity. They may be regarded as the two aspects or expressions under which God or substance is unfolded to man. Here a step is made beyond the limits of the Eleatic philosophy. The famous theorem of Spinoza, 'Omnis determinatio est negatio,' is already contained in the 'negation is relation' of Plato's Sophist. The grand description of the philosopher in Republic VI, as the spectator of all time and all existence, may be paralleled with another famous expression of Spinoza, 'Contemplatio rerum sub specie eternitatis.' According to Spinoza finite objects are unreal, for they are conditioned by what is alien to them, and by one another. Human beings are included in the number of them. Hence there is no reality in human action and no place for right and wrong. Individuality is accident. The boasted freedom of the will is only a consciousness of necessity. Truth, he says, is the direction of the reason towards the infinite, in which all things repose; and herein lies the secret of man's well-being. In the exaltation of the reason or intellect, in the denial of the voluntariness of evil (Timaeus; Laws) Spinoza approaches nearer to Plato than in his conception of an infinite substance. As Socrates said that virtue is knowledge, so Spinoza would have maintained that knowledge alone is good, and what contributes to knowledge useful. Both are equally far from any real experience or observation of nature. And the same difficulty is found in both when we seek to apply their ideas to life and practice. There is a gulf fixed between the infinite substance and finite objects or individuals of Spinoza, just as there is between the ideas of Plato and the world of sense. Removed from Spinoza by less than a generation is the philosopher Leibnitz, who after deepening and intensifying the opposition between mind and matter, reunites them by his preconcerted harmony (compare again Phaedrus). To him all the particles of matter are living beings which reflect on one another, and in the least of them the whole is contained. Here we catch a reminiscence both of the omoiomere, or similar particles of Anaxagoras, and of the world-animal of the Timaeus. In Bacon and Locke we have another development in which the mind of man is supposed to receive knowledge by a new method and to work by observation and experience. But we may remark that it is the idea of experience, rather than experience itself, with which the mind is filled. It is a symbol of knowledge rather than the reality which is vouchsafed to us. The Organon of Bacon is not much nearer to actual facts than the Organon of Aristotle or the Platonic idea of good. Many of the old rags and ribbons which defaced the garment of philosophy have been stripped off, but some of them still adhere. A crude conception of the ideas of Plato survives in the 'forms' of Bacon. And on the other hand, there are many passages of Plato in which the importance of the investigation of facts is as much insisted upon as by Bacon. Both are almost equally superior to the illusions of language, and are constantly crying out against them, as against other idols. Locke cannot be truly regarded as the author of sensationalism any more than of idealism. His system is based upon experience, but with him experience includes reflection as well as sense. His analysis and construction of ideas has no foundation in fact; it is only the dialectic of the mind 'talking to herself.' The philosophy of Berkeley is but the transposition of two words. For objects of sense he would substitute sensations. He imagines himself to have changed the relation of the human mind towards God and nature; they remain the same as before, though he has drawn the imaginary line by which they are divided at a different point. He has annihilated the outward world, but it instantly reappears governed by the same laws and described under the same names. A like remark applies to David Hume, of whose philosophy the central principle is the denial of the relation of cause and effect. He would deprive men of a familiar term which they can ill afford to lose; but he seems not to have observed that this alteration is merely verbal and does not in any degree affect the nature of things. Still less did he remark that he was arguing from the necessary imperfection of language against the most certain facts. And here, again, we may find a parallel with the ancients. He goes beyond facts in his scepticism, as they did in their idealism. Like the ancient Sophists, he relegates the more important principles of ethics to custom and probability. But crude and unmeaning as this philosophy is, it exercised a great influence on his successors, not unlike that which Locke exercised upon Berkeley and Berkeley upon Hume himself. All three were both sceptical and ideal in almost equal degrees. Neither they nor their predecessors had any true conception of language or of the history of philosophy. Hume's paradox has been forgotten by the world, and did not any more than the scepticism of the ancients require to be seriously refuted. Like some other philosophical paradoxes, it would have been better left to die out. It certainly could not be refuted by a philosophy such as Kant's, in which, no less than in the previously mentioned systems, the history of the human mind and the nature of language are almost wholly ignored, and the certainty of objective knowledge is transferred to the subject; while absolute truth is reduced to a figment, more abstract and narrow than Plato's ideas, of 'thing in itself,' to which, if we reason strictly, no predicate can be applied. The question which Plato has raised respecting the origin and nature of ideas belongs to the infancy of philosophy; in modern times it would no longer be asked. Their origin is only their history, so far as we know it; there can be no other. We may trace them in language, in philosophy, in mythology, in poetry, but we cannot argue a priori about them. We may attempt to shake them off, but they are always returning, and in every sphere of science and human action are tending to go beyond facts. They are thought to be innate, because they have been familiar to us all our lives, and we can no longer dismiss them from our mind. Many of them express relations of terms to which nothing exactly or nothing at all in rerum natura corresponds. We are not such free agents in the use of them as we sometimes imagine. Fixed ideas have taken the most complete possession of some thinkers who have been most determined to renounce them, and have been vehemently affirmed when they could be least explained and were incapable of proof. The world has often been led away by a word to which no distinct meaning could be attached. Abstractions such as 'authority,' 'equality,' 'utility,' 'liberty,' 'pleasure,' 'experience,' 'consciousness,' 'chance,' 'substance,' 'matter,' 'atom,' and a heap of other metaphysical and theological terms, are the source of quite as much error and illusion and have as little relation to actual facts as the ideas of Plato. Few students of theology or philosophy have sufficiently reflected how quickly the bloom of a philosophy passes away; or how hard it is for one age to understand the writings of another; or how nice a judgment is required of those who are seeking to express the philosophy of one age in the terms of another. The 'eternal truths' of which metaphysicians speak have hardly ever lasted more than a generation. In our own day schools or systems of philosophy which have once been famous have died before the founders of them. We are still, as in Plato's age, groping about for a new method more comprehensive than any of those which now prevail; and also more permanent. And we seem to see at a distance the promise of such a method, which can hardly be any other than the method of idealized experience, having roots which strike far down into the history of philosophy. It is a method which does not divorce the present from the past, or the part from the whole, or the abstract from the concrete, or theory from fact, or the divine from the human, or one science from another, but labours to connect them. Along such a road we have proceeded a few steps, sufficient, perhaps, to make us reflect on the want of method which prevails in our own day. In another age, all the branches of knowledge, whether relating to God or man or nature, will become the knowledge of 'the revelation of a single science' (Symp.), and all things, like the stars in heaven, will shed their light upon one another. MENO PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE: Meno, Socrates, A Slave of Meno (Boy), Anytus. MENO: Can you tell me, Socrates, whether virtue is acquired by teaching or by practice; or if neither by teaching nor by practice, then whether it comes to man by nature, or in what other way? SOCRATES: O Meno, there was a time when the Thessalians were famous among the other Hellenes only for their riches and their riding; but now, if I am not mistaken, they are equally famous for their wisdom, especially at Larisa, which is the native city of your friend Aristippus. And this is Gorgias' doing; for when he came there, the flower of the Aleuadae, among them your admirer Aristippus, and the other chiefs of the Thessalians, fell in love with his wisdom. And he has taught you the habit of answering questions in a grand and bold style, which becomes those who know, and is the style in which he himself answers all comers; and any Hellene who likes may ask him anything. How different is our lot! my dear Meno. Here at Athens there is a dearth of the commodity, and all wisdom seems to have emigrated from us to you. I am certain that if you were to ask any Athenian whether virtue was natural or acquired, he would laugh in your face, and say: 'Stranger, you have far too good an opinion of me, if you think that I can answer your question. For I literally do not know what virtue is, and much less whether it is acquired by teaching or not.' And I myself, Meno, living as I do in this region of poverty, am as poor as the rest of the world; and I confess with shame that I know literally nothing about virtue; and when I do not know the 'quid' of anything how can I know the 'quale'? How, if I knew nothing at all of Meno, could I tell if he was fair, or the opposite of fair; rich and noble, or the reverse of rich and noble? Do you think that I could? MENO: No, indeed. But are you in earnest, Socrates, in saying that you do not know what virtue is? And am I to carry back this report of you to Thessaly? SOCRATES: Not only that, my dear boy, but you may say further that I have never known of any one else who did, in my judgment. MENO: Then you have never met Gorgias when he was at Athens? SOCRATES: Yes, I have. MENO: And did you not think that he knew? SOCRATES: I have not a good memory, Meno, and therefore I cannot now tell what I thought of him at the time. And I dare say that he did know, and that you know what he said: please, therefore, to remind me of what he said; or, if you would rather, tell me your own view; for I suspect that you and he think much alike. MENO: Very true. SOCRATES: Then as he is not here, never mind him, and do you tell me: By the gods, Meno, be generous, and tell me what you say that virtue is; for I shall be truly delighted to find that I have been mistaken, and that you and Gorgias do really have this knowledge; although I have been just saying that I have never found anybody who had. MENO: There will be no difficulty, Socrates, in answering your question. Let us take first the virtue of a man--he should know how to administer the state, and in the administration of it to benefit his friends and harm his enemies; and he must also be careful not to suffer harm himself. A woman's virtue, if you wish to know about that, may also be easily described: her duty is to order her house, and keep what is indoors, and obey her husband. Every age, every condition of life, young or old, male or female, bond or free, has a different virtue: there are virtues numberless, and no lack of definitions of them; for virtue is relative to the actions and ages of each of us in all that we do. And the same may be said of vice, Socrates (Compare Arist. Pol.). SOCRATES: How fortunate I am, Meno! When I ask you for one virtue, you present me with a swarm of them (Compare Theaet.), which are in your keeping. Suppose that I carry on the figure of the swarm, and ask of you, What is the nature of the bee? and you answer that there are many kinds of bees, and I reply: But do bees differ as bees, because there are many and different kinds of them; or are they not rather to be distinguished by some other quality, as for example beauty, size, or shape? How would you answer me? MENO: I should answer that bees do not differ from one another, as bees. SOCRATES: And if I went on to say: That is what I desire to know, Meno; tell me what is the quality in which they do not differ, but are all alike;--would you be able to answer? MENO: I should. SOCRATES: And so of the virtues, however many and different they may be, they have all a common nature which makes them virtues; and on this he who would answer the question, 'What is virtue?' would do well to have his eye fixed: Do you understand? MENO: I am beginning to understand; but I do not as yet take hold of the question as I could wish. SOCRATES: When you say, Meno, that there is one virtue of a man, another of a woman, another of a child, and so on, does this apply only to virtue, or would you say the same of health, and size, and strength? Or is the nature of health always the same, whether in man or woman? MENO: I should say that health is the same, both in man and woman. SOCRATES: And is not this true of size and strength? If a woman is strong, she will be strong by reason of the same form and of the same strength subsisting in her which there is in the man. I mean to say that strength, as strength, whether of man or woman, is the same. Is there any difference? MENO: I think not. SOCRATES: And will not virtue, as virtue, be the same, whether in a child or in a grown-up person, in a woman or in a man? MENO: I cannot help feeling, Socrates, that this case is different from the others. SOCRATES: But why? Were you not saying that the virtue of a man was to order a state, and the virtue of a woman was to order a house? MENO: I did say so. SOCRATES: And can either house or state or anything be well ordered without temperance and without justice? MENO: Certainly not. SOCRATES: Then they who order a state or a house temperately or justly order them with temperance and justice? MENO: Certainly. SOCRATES: Then both men and women, if they are to be good men and women, must have the same virtues of temperance and justice? MENO: True. SOCRATES: And can either a young man or an elder one be good, if they are intemperate and unjust? MENO: They cannot. SOCRATES: They must be temperate and just? MENO: Yes. SOCRATES: Then all men are good in the same way, and by participation in the same virtues? MENO: Such is the inference. SOCRATES: And they surely would not have been good in the same way, unless their virtue had been the same? MENO: They would not. SOCRATES: Then now that the sameness of all virtue has been proven, try and remember what you and Gorgias say that virtue is. MENO: Will you have one definition of them all? SOCRATES: That is what I am seeking. MENO: If you want to have one definition of them all, I know not what to say, but that virtue is the power of governing mankind. SOCRATES: And does this definition of virtue include all virtue? Is virtue the same in a child and in a slave, Meno? Can the child govern his father, or the slave his master; and would he who governed be any longer a slave? MENO: I think not, Socrates. SOCRATES: No, indeed; there would be small reason in that. Yet once more, fair friend; according to you, virtue is 'the power of governing;' but do you not add 'justly and not unjustly'? MENO: Yes, Socrates; I agree there; for justice is virtue. SOCRATES: Would you say 'virtue,' Meno, or 'a virtue'? MENO: What do you mean? SOCRATES: I mean as I might say about anything; that a round, for example, is 'a figure' and not simply 'figure,' and I should adopt this mode of speaking, because there are other figures. MENO: Quite right; and that is just what I am saying about virtue--that there are other virtues as well as justice. SOCRATES: What are they? tell me the names of them, as I would tell you the names of the other figures if you asked me. MENO: Courage and temperance and wisdom and magnanimity are virtues; and there are many others. SOCRATES: Yes, Meno; and again we are in the same case: in searching after one virtue we have found many, though not in the same way as before; but we have been unable to find the common virtue which runs through them all. MENO: Why, Socrates, even now I am not able to follow you in the attempt to get at one common notion of virtue as of other things. SOCRATES: No wonder; but I will try to get nearer if I can, for you know that all things have a common notion. Suppose now that some one asked you the question which I asked before: Meno, he would say, what is figure? And if you answered 'roundness,' he would reply to you, in my way of speaking, by asking whether you would say that roundness is 'figure' or 'a figure;' and you would answer 'a figure.' MENO: Certainly. SOCRATES: And for this reason--that there are other figures? MENO: Yes. SOCRATES: And if he proceeded to ask, What other figures are there? you would have told him. MENO: I should. SOCRATES: And if he similarly asked what colour is, and you answered whiteness, and the questioner rejoined, Would you say that whiteness is colour or a colour? you would reply, A colour, because there are other colours as well. MENO: I should. SOCRATES: And if he had said, Tell me what they are?--you would have told him of other colours which are colours just as much as whiteness. MENO: Yes. SOCRATES: And suppose that he were to pursue the matter in my way, he would say: Ever and anon we are landed in particulars, but this is not what I want; tell me then, since you call them by a common name, and say that they are all figures, even when opposed to one another, what is that common nature which you designate as figure--which contains straight as well as round, and is no more one than the other--that would be your mode of speaking? MENO: Yes. SOCRATES: And in speaking thus, you do not mean to say that the round is round any more than straight, or the straight any more straight than round? MENO: Certainly not. SOCRATES: You only assert that the round figure is not more a figure than the straight, or the straight than the round? MENO: Very true. SOCRATES: To what then do we give the name of figure? Try and answer. Suppose that when a person asked you this question either about figure or colour, you were to reply, Man, I do not understand what you want, or know what you are saying; he would look rather astonished and say: Do you not understand that I am looking for the 'simile in multis'? And then he might put the question in another form: Meno, he might say, what is that 'simile in multis' which you call figure, and which includes not only round and straight figures, but all? Could you not answer that question, Meno? I wish that you would try; the attempt will be good practice with a view to the answer about virtue. MENO: I would rather that you should answer, Socrates. SOCRATES: Shall I indulge you? MENO: By all means. SOCRATES: And then you will tell me about virtue? MENO: I will. SOCRATES: Then I must do my best, for there is a prize to be won. MENO: Certainly. SOCRATES: Well, I will try and explain to you what figure is. What do you say to this answer?--Figure is the only thing which always follows colour. Will you be satisfied with it, as I am sure that I should be, if you would let me have a similar definition of virtue? MENO: But, Socrates, it is such a simple answer. SOCRATES: Why simple? MENO: Because, according to you, figure is that which always follows colour. (SOCRATES: Granted.) MENO: But if a person were to say that he does not know what colour is, any more than what figure is--what sort of answer would you have given him? SOCRATES: I should have told him the truth. And if he were a philosopher of the eristic and antagonistic sort, I should say to him: You have my answer, and if I am wrong, your business is to take up the argument and refute me. But if we were friends, and were talking as you and I are now, I should reply in a milder strain and more in the dialectician's vein; that is to say, I should not only speak the truth, but I should make use of premises which the person interrogated would be willing to admit. And this is the way in which I shall endeavour to approach you. You will acknowledge, will you not, that there is such a thing as an end, or termination, or extremity?--all which words I use in the same sense, although I am aware that Prodicus might draw distinctions about them: but still you, I am sure, would speak of a thing as ended or terminated--that is all which I am saying--not anything very difficult. MENO: Yes, I should; and I believe that I understand your meaning. SOCRATES: And you would speak of a surface and also of a solid, as for example in geometry. MENO: Yes. SOCRATES: Well then, you are now in a condition to understand my definition of figure. I define figure to be that in which the solid ends; or, more concisely, the limit of solid. MENO: And now, Socrates, what is colour? SOCRATES: You are outrageous, Meno, in thus plaguing a poor old man to give you an answer, when you will not take the trouble of remembering what is Gorgias' definition of virtue. MENO: When you have told me what I ask, I will tell you, Socrates. SOCRATES: A man who was blindfolded has only to hear you talking, and he would know that you are a fair creature and have still many lovers. MENO: Why do you think so? SOCRATES: Why, because you always speak in imperatives: like all beauties when they are in their prime, you are tyrannical; and also, as I suspect, you have found out that I have weakness for the fair, and therefore to humour you I must answer. MENO: Please do. SOCRATES: Would you like me to answer you after the manner of Gorgias, which is familiar to you? MENO: I should like nothing better. SOCRATES: Do not he and you and Empedocles say that there are certain effluences of existence? MENO: Certainly. SOCRATES: And passages into which and through which the effluences pass? MENO: Exactly. SOCRATES: And some of the effluences fit into the passages, and some of them are too small or too large? MENO: True. SOCRATES: And there is such a thing as sight? MENO: Yes. SOCRATES: And now, as Pindar says, 'read my meaning:'--colour is an effluence of form, commensurate with sight, and palpable to sense. MENO: That, Socrates, appears to me to be an admirable answer. SOCRATES: Why, yes, because it happens to be one which you have been in the habit of hearing: and your wit will have discovered, I suspect, that you may explain in the same way the nature of sound and smell, and of many other similar phenomena. MENO: Quite true. SOCRATES: The answer, Meno, was in the orthodox solemn vein, and therefore was more acceptable to you than the other answer about figure. MENO: Yes. SOCRATES: And yet, O son of Alexidemus, I cannot help thinking that the other was the better; and I am sure that you would be of the same opinion, if you would only stay and be initiated, and were not compelled, as you said yesterday, to go away before the mysteries. MENO: But I will stay, Socrates, if you will give me many such answers. SOCRATES: Well then, for my own sake as well as for yours, I will do my very best; but I am afraid that I shall not be able to give you very many as good: and now, in your turn, you are to fulfil your promise, and tell me what virtue is in the universal; and do not make a singular into a plural, as the facetious say of those who break a thing, but deliver virtue to me whole and sound, and not broken into a number of pieces: I have given you the pattern. MENO: Well then, Socrates, virtue, as I take it, is when he, who desires the honourable, is able to provide it for himself; so the poet says, and I say too-- 'Virtue is the desire of things honourable and the power of attaining them.' SOCRATES: And does he who desires the honourable also desire the good? MENO: Certainly. SOCRATES: Then are there some who desire the evil and others who desire the good? Do not all men, my dear sir, desire good? MENO: I think not. SOCRATES: There are some who desire evil? MENO: Yes. SOCRATES: Do you mean that they think the evils which they desire, to be good; or do they know that they are evil and yet desire them? MENO: Both, I think. SOCRATES: And do you really imagine, Meno, that a man knows evils to be evils and desires them notwithstanding? MENO: Certainly I do. SOCRATES: And desire is of possession? MENO: Yes, of possession. SOCRATES: And does he think that the evils will do good to him who possesses them, or does he know that they will do him harm? MENO: There are some who think that the evils will do them good, and others who know that they will do them harm. SOCRATES: And, in your opinion, do those who think that they will do them good know that they are evils? MENO: Certainly not. SOCRATES: Is it not obvious that those who are ignorant of their nature do not desire them; but they desire what they suppose to be goods although they are really evils; and if they are mistaken and suppose the evils to be goods they really desire goods? MENO: Yes, in that case. SOCRATES: Well, and do those who, as you say, desire evils, and think that evils are hurtful to the possessor of them, know that they will be hurt by them? MENO: They must know it. SOCRATES: And must they not suppose that those who are hurt are miserable in proportion to the hurt which is inflicted upon them? MENO: How can it be otherwise? SOCRATES: But are not the miserable ill-fated? MENO: Yes, indeed. SOCRATES: And does any one desire to be miserable and ill-fated? MENO: I should say not, Socrates. SOCRATES: But if there is no one who desires to be miserable, there is no one, Meno, who desires evil; for what is misery but the desire and possession of evil? MENO: That appears to be the truth, Socrates, and I admit that nobody desires evil. SOCRATES: And yet, were you not saying just now that virtue is the desire and power of attaining good? MENO: Yes, I did say so. SOCRATES: But if this be affirmed, then the desire of good is common to all, and one man is no better than another in that respect? MENO: True. SOCRATES: And if one man is not better than another in desiring good, he must be better in the power of attaining it? MENO: Exactly. SOCRATES: Then, according to your definition, virtue would appear to be the power of attaining good? MENO: I entirely approve, Socrates, of the manner in which you now view this matter. SOCRATES: Then let us see whether what you say is true from another point of view; for very likely you may be right:--You affirm virtue to be the power of attaining goods? MENO: Yes. SOCRATES: And the goods which you mean are such as health and wealth and the possession of gold and silver, and having office and honour in the state--those are what you would call goods? MENO: Yes, I should include all those. SOCRATES: Then, according to Meno, who is the hereditary friend of the great king, virtue is the power of getting silver and gold; and would you add that they must be gained piously, justly, or do you deem this to be of no consequence? And is any mode of acquisition, even if unjust and dishonest, equally to be deemed virtue? MENO: Not virtue, Socrates, but vice. SOCRATES: Then justice or temperance or holiness, or some other part of virtue, as would appear, must accompany the acquisition, and without them the mere acquisition of good will not be virtue. MENO: Why, how can there be virtue without these? SOCRATES: And the non-acquisition of gold and silver in a dishonest manner for oneself or another, or in other words the want of them, may be equally virtue? MENO: True. SOCRATES: Then the acquisition of such goods is no more virtue than the non-acquisition and want of them, but whatever is accompanied by justice or honesty is virtue, and whatever is devoid of justice is vice. MENO: It cannot be otherwise, in my judgment. SOCRATES: And were we not saying just now that justice, temperance, and the like, were each of them a part of virtue? MENO: Yes. SOCRATES: And so, Meno, this is the way in which you mock me. MENO: Why do you say that, Socrates? SOCRATES: Why, because I asked you to deliver virtue into my hands whole and unbroken, and I gave you a pattern according to which you were to frame your answer; and you have forgotten already, and tell me that virtue is the power of attaining good justly, or with justice; and justice you acknowledge to be a part of virtue. MENO: Yes. SOCRATES: Then it follows from your own admissions, that virtue is doing what you do with a part of virtue; for justice and the like are said by you to be parts of virtue. MENO: What of that? SOCRATES: What of that! Why, did not I ask you to tell me the nature of virtue as a whole? And you are very far from telling me this; but declare every action to be virtue which is done with a part of virtue; as though you had told me and I must already know the whole of virtue, and this too when frittered away into little pieces. And, therefore, my dear Meno, I fear that I must begin again and repeat the same question: What is virtue? for otherwise, I can only say, that every action done with a part of virtue is virtue; what else is the meaning of saying that every action done with justice is virtue? Ought I not to ask the question over again; for can any one who does not know virtue know a part of virtue? MENO: No; I do not say that he can. SOCRATES: Do you remember how, in the example of figure, we rejected any answer given in terms which were as yet unexplained or unadmitted? MENO: Yes, Socrates; and we were quite right in doing so. SOCRATES: But then, my friend, do not suppose that we can explain to any one the nature of virtue as a whole through some unexplained portion of virtue, or anything at all in that fashion; we should only have to ask over again the old question, What is virtue? Am I not right? MENO: I believe that you are. SOCRATES: Then begin again, and answer me, What, according to you and your friend Gorgias, is the definition of virtue? MENO: O Socrates, I used to be told, before I knew you, that you were always doubting yourself and making others doubt; and now you are casting your spells over me, and I am simply getting bewitched and enchanted, and am at my wits' end. And if I may venture to make a jest upon you, you seem to me both in your appearance and in your power over others to be very like the flat torpedo fish, who torpifies those who come near him and touch him, as you have now torpified me, I think. For my soul and my tongue are really torpid, and I do not know how to answer you; and though I have been delivered of an infinite variety of speeches about virtue before now, and to many persons--and very good ones they were, as I thought--at this moment I cannot even say what virtue is. And I think that you are very wise in not voyaging and going away from home, for if you did in other places as you do in Athens, you would be cast into prison as a magician. SOCRATES: You are a rogue, Meno, and had all but caught me. MENO: What do you mean, Socrates? SOCRATES: I can tell why you made a simile about me. MENO: Why? SOCRATES: In order that I might make another simile about you. For I know that all pretty young gentlemen like to have pretty similes made about them--as well they may--but I shall not return the compliment. As to my being a torpedo, if the torpedo is torpid as well as the cause of torpidity in others, then indeed I am a torpedo, but not otherwise; for I perplex others, not because I am clear, but because I am utterly perplexed myself. And now I know not what virtue is, and you seem to be in the same case, although you did once perhaps know before you touched me. However, I have no objection to join with you in the enquiry. MENO: And how will you enquire, Socrates, into that which you do not know? What will you put forth as the subject of enquiry? And if you find what you want, how will you ever know that this is the thing which you did not know? SOCRATES: I know, Meno, what you mean; but just see what a tiresome dispute you are introducing. You argue that a man cannot enquire either about that which he knows, or about that which he does not know; for if he knows, he has no need to enquire; and if not, he cannot; for he does not know the very subject about which he is to enquire (Compare Aristot. Post. Anal.). MENO: Well, Socrates, and is not the argument sound? SOCRATES: I think not. MENO: Why not? SOCRATES: I will tell you why: I have heard from certain wise men and women who spoke of things divine that-- MENO: What did they say? SOCRATES: They spoke of a glorious truth, as I conceive. MENO: What was it? and who were they? SOCRATES: Some of them were priests and priestesses, who had studied how they might be able to give a reason of their profession: there have been poets also, who spoke of these things by inspiration, like Pindar, and many others who were inspired. And they say--mark, now, and see whether their words are true--they say that the soul of man is immortal, and at one time has an end, which is termed dying, and at another time is born again, but is never destroyed. And the moral is, that a man ought to live always in perfect holiness. 'For in the ninth year Persephone sends the souls of those from whom she has received the penalty of ancient crime back again from beneath into the light of the sun above, and these are they who become noble kings and mighty men and great in wisdom and are called saintly heroes in after ages.' The soul, then, as being immortal, and having been born again many times, and having seen all things that exist, whether in this world or in the world below, has knowledge of them all; and it is no wonder that she should be able to call to remembrance all that she ever knew about virtue, and about everything; for as all nature is akin, and the soul has learned all things; there is no difficulty in her eliciting or as men say learning, out of a single recollection all the rest, if a man is strenuous and does not faint; for all enquiry and all learning is but recollection. And therefore we ought not to listen to this sophistical argument about the impossibility of enquiry: for it will make us idle; and is sweet only to the sluggard; but the other saying will make us active and inquisitive. In that confiding, I will gladly enquire with you into the nature of virtue. MENO: Yes, Socrates; but what do you mean by saying that we do not learn, and that what we call learning is only a process of recollection? Can you teach me how this is? SOCRATES: I told you, Meno, just now that you were a rogue, and now you ask whether I can teach you, when I am saying that there is no teaching, but only recollection; and thus you imagine that you will involve me in a contradiction. MENO: Indeed, Socrates, I protest that I had no such intention. I only asked the question from habit; but if you can prove to me that what you say is true, I wish that you would. SOCRATES: It will be no easy matter, but I will try to please you to the utmost of my power. Suppose that you call one of your numerous attendants, that I may demonstrate on him. MENO: Certainly. Come hither, boy. SOCRATES: He is Greek, and speaks Greek, does he not? MENO: Yes, indeed; he was born in the house. SOCRATES: Attend now to the questions which I ask him, and observe whether he learns of me or only remembers. MENO: I will. SOCRATES: Tell me, boy, do you know that a figure like this is a square? BOY: I do. SOCRATES: And you know that a square figure has these four lines equal? BOY: Certainly. SOCRATES: And these lines which I have drawn through the middle of the square are also equal? BOY: Yes. SOCRATES: A square may be of any size? BOY: Certainly. SOCRATES: And if one side of the figure be of two feet, and the other side be of two feet, how much will the whole be? Let me explain: if in one direction the space was of two feet, and in the other direction of one foot, the whole would be of two feet taken once? BOY: Yes. SOCRATES: But since this side is also of two feet, there are twice two feet? BOY: There are. SOCRATES: Then the square is of twice two feet? BOY: Yes. SOCRATES: And how many are twice two feet? count and tell me. BOY: Four, Socrates. SOCRATES: And might there not be another square twice as large as this, and having like this the lines equal? BOY: Yes. SOCRATES: And of how many feet will that be? BOY: Of eight feet. SOCRATES: And now try and tell me the length of the line which forms the side of that double square: this is two feet--what will that be? BOY: Clearly, Socrates, it will be double. SOCRATES: Do you observe, Meno, that I am not teaching the boy anything, but only asking him questions; and now he fancies that he knows how long a line is necessary in order to produce a figure of eight square feet; does he not? MENO: Yes. SOCRATES: And does he really know? MENO: Certainly not. SOCRATES: He only guesses that because the square is double, the line is double. MENO: True. SOCRATES: Observe him while he recalls the steps in regular order. (To the Boy:) Tell me, boy, do you assert that a double space comes from a double line? Remember that I am not speaking of an oblong, but of a figure equal every way, and twice the size of this--that is to say of eight feet; and I want to know whether you still say that a double square comes from double line? BOY: Yes. SOCRATES: But does not this line become doubled if we add another such line here? BOY: Certainly. SOCRATES: And four such lines will make a space containing eight feet? BOY: Yes. SOCRATES: Let us describe such a figure: Would you not say that this is the figure of eight feet? BOY: Yes. SOCRATES: And are there not these four divisions in the figure, each of which is equal to the figure of four feet? BOY: True. SOCRATES: And is not that four times four? BOY: Certainly. SOCRATES: And four times is not double? BOY: No, indeed. SOCRATES: But how much? BOY: Four times as much. SOCRATES: Therefore the double line, boy, has given a space, not twice, but four times as much. BOY: True. SOCRATES: Four times four are sixteen--are they not? BOY: Yes. SOCRATES: What line would give you a space of eight feet, as this gives one of sixteen feet;--do you see? BOY: Yes. SOCRATES: And the space of four feet is made from this half line? BOY: Yes. SOCRATES: Good; and is not a space of eight feet twice the size of this, and half the size of the other? BOY: Certainly. SOCRATES: Such a space, then, will be made out of a line greater than this one, and less than that one? BOY: Yes; I think so. SOCRATES: Very good; I like to hear you say what you think. And now tell me, is not this a line of two feet and that of four? BOY: Yes. SOCRATES: Then the line which forms the side of eight feet ought to be more than this line of two feet, and less than the other of four feet? BOY: It ought. SOCRATES: Try and see if you can tell me how much it will be. BOY: Three feet. SOCRATES: Then if we add a half to this line of two, that will be the line of three. Here are two and there is one; and on the other side, here are two also and there is one: and that makes the figure of which you speak? BOY: Yes. SOCRATES: But if there are three feet this way and three feet that way, the whole space will be three times three feet? BOY: That is evident. SOCRATES: And how much are three times three feet? BOY: Nine. SOCRATES: And how much is the double of four? BOY: Eight. SOCRATES: Then the figure of eight is not made out of a line of three? BOY: No. SOCRATES: But from what line?--tell me exactly; and if you would rather not reckon, try and show me the line. BOY: Indeed, Socrates, I do not know. SOCRATES: Do you see, Meno, what advances he has made in his power of recollection? He did not know at first, and he does not know now, what is the side of a figure of eight feet: but then he thought that he knew, and answered confidently as if he knew, and had no difficulty; now he has a difficulty, and neither knows nor fancies that he knows. MENO: True. SOCRATES: Is he not better off in knowing his ignorance? MENO: I think that he is. SOCRATES: If we have made him doubt, and given him the 'torpedo's shock,' have we done him any harm? MENO: I think not. SOCRATES: We have certainly, as would seem, assisted him in some degree to the discovery of the truth; and now he will wish to remedy his ignorance, but then he would have been ready to tell all the world again and again that the double space should have a double side. MENO: True. SOCRATES: But do you suppose that he would ever have enquired into or learned what he fancied that he knew, though he was really ignorant of it, until he had fallen into perplexity under the idea that he did not know, and had desired to know? MENO: I think not, Socrates. SOCRATES: Then he was the better for the torpedo's touch? MENO: I think so. SOCRATES: Mark now the farther development. I shall only ask him, and not teach him, and he shall share the enquiry with me: and do you watch and see if you find me telling or explaining anything to him, instead of eliciting his opinion. Tell me, boy, is not this a square of four feet which I have drawn? BOY: Yes. SOCRATES: And now I add another square equal to the former one? BOY: Yes. SOCRATES: And a third, which is equal to either of them? BOY: Yes. SOCRATES: Suppose that we fill up the vacant corner? BOY: Very good. SOCRATES: Here, then, there are four equal spaces? BOY: Yes. SOCRATES: And how many times larger is this space than this other? BOY: Four times. SOCRATES: But it ought to have been twice only, as you will remember. BOY: True. SOCRATES: And does not this line, reaching from corner to corner, bisect each of these spaces? BOY: Yes. SOCRATES: And are there not here four equal lines which contain this space? BOY: There are. SOCRATES: Look and see how much this space is. BOY: I do not understand. SOCRATES: Has not each interior line cut off half of the four spaces? BOY: Yes. SOCRATES: And how many spaces are there in this section? BOY: Four. SOCRATES: And how many in this? BOY: Two. SOCRATES: And four is how many times two? BOY: Twice. SOCRATES: And this space is of how many feet? BOY: Of eight feet. SOCRATES: And from what line do you get this figure? BOY: From this. SOCRATES: That is, from the line which extends from corner to corner of the figure of four feet? BOY: Yes. SOCRATES: And that is the line which the learned call the diagonal. And if this is the proper name, then you, Meno's slave, are prepared to affirm that the double space is the square of the diagonal? BOY: Certainly, Socrates. SOCRATES: What do you say of him, Meno? Were not all these answers given out of his own head? MENO: Yes, they were all his own. SOCRATES: And yet, as we were just now saying, he did not know? MENO: True. SOCRATES: But still he had in him those notions of his--had he not? MENO: Yes. SOCRATES: Then he who does not know may still have true notions of that which he does not know? MENO: He has. SOCRATES: And at present these notions have just been stirred up in him, as in a dream; but if he were frequently asked the same questions, in different forms, he would know as well as any one at last? MENO: I dare say. SOCRATES: Without any one teaching him he will recover his knowledge for himself, if he is only asked questions? MENO: Yes. SOCRATES: And this spontaneous recovery of knowledge in him is recollection? MENO: True. SOCRATES: And this knowledge which he now has must he not either have acquired or always possessed? MENO: Yes. SOCRATES: But if he always possessed this knowledge he would always have known; or if he has acquired the knowledge he could not have acquired it in this life, unless he has been taught geometry; for he may be made to do the same with all geometry and every other branch of knowledge. Now, has any one ever taught him all this? You must know about him, if, as you say, he was born and bred in your house. MENO: And I am certain that no one ever did teach him. SOCRATES: And yet he has the knowledge? MENO: The fact, Socrates, is undeniable. SOCRATES: But if he did not acquire the knowledge in this life, then he must have had and learned it at some other time? MENO: Clearly he must. SOCRATES: Which must have been the time when he was not a man? MENO: Yes. SOCRATES: And if there have been always true thoughts in him, both at the time when he was and was not a man, which only need to be awakened into knowledge by putting questions to him, his soul must have always possessed this knowledge, for he always either was or was not a man? MENO: Obviously. SOCRATES: And if the truth of all things always existed in the soul, then the soul is immortal. Wherefore be of good cheer, and try to recollect what you do not know, or rather what you do not remember. MENO: I feel, somehow, that I like what you are saying. SOCRATES: And I, Meno, like what I am saying. Some things I have said of which I am not altogether confident. But that we shall be better and braver and less helpless if we think that we ought to enquire, than we should have been if we indulged in the idle fancy that there was no knowing and no use in seeking to know what we do not know;--that is a theme upon which I am ready to fight, in word and deed, to the utmost of my power. MENO: There again, Socrates, your words seem to me excellent. SOCRATES: Then, as we are agreed that a man should enquire about that which he does not know, shall you and I make an effort to enquire together into the nature of virtue? MENO: By all means, Socrates. And yet I would much rather return to my original question, Whether in seeking to acquire virtue we should regard it as a thing to be taught, or as a gift of nature, or as coming to men in some other way? SOCRATES: Had I the command of you as well as of myself, Meno, I would not have enquired whether virtue is given by instruction or not, until we had first ascertained 'what it is.' But as you think only of controlling me who am your slave, and never of controlling yourself,--such being your notion of freedom, I must yield to you, for you are irresistible. And therefore I have now to enquire into the qualities of a thing of which I do not as yet know the nature. At any rate, will you condescend a little, and allow the question 'Whether virtue is given by instruction, or in any other way,' to be argued upon hypothesis? As the geometrician, when he is asked whether a certain triangle is capable being inscribed in a certain circle (Or, whether a certain area is capable of being inscribed as a triangle in a certain circle.), will reply: 'I cannot tell you as yet; but I will offer a hypothesis which may assist us in forming a conclusion: If the figure be such that when you have produced a given side of it (Or, when you apply it to the given line, i.e. the diameter of the circle (autou).), the given area of the triangle falls short by an area corresponding to the part produced (Or, similar to the area so applied.), then one consequence follows, and if this is impossible then some other; and therefore I wish to assume a hypothesis before I tell you whether this triangle is capable of being inscribed in the circle':--that is a geometrical hypothesis. And we too, as we know not the nature and qualities of virtue, must ask, whether virtue is or is not taught, under a hypothesis: as thus, if virtue is of such a class of mental goods, will it be taught or not? Let the first hypothesis be that virtue is or is not knowledge,--in that case will it be taught or not? or, as we were just now saying, 'remembered'? For there is no use in disputing about the name. But is virtue taught or not? or rather, does not every one see that knowledge alone is taught? MENO: I agree. SOCRATES: Then if virtue is knowledge, virtue will be taught? MENO: Certainly. SOCRATES: Then now we have made a quick end of this question: if virtue is of such a nature, it will be taught; and if not, not? MENO: Certainly. SOCRATES: The next question is, whether virtue is knowledge or of another species? MENO: Yes, that appears to be the question which comes next in order. SOCRATES: Do we not say that virtue is a good?--This is a hypothesis which is not set aside. MENO: Certainly. SOCRATES: Now, if there be any sort of good which is distinct from knowledge, virtue may be that good; but if knowledge embraces all good, then we shall be right in thinking that virtue is knowledge? MENO: True. SOCRATES: And virtue makes us good? MENO: Yes. SOCRATES: And if we are good, then we are profitable; for all good things are profitable? MENO: Yes. SOCRATES: Then virtue is profitable? MENO: That is the only inference. SOCRATES: Then now let us see what are the things which severally profit us. Health and strength, and beauty and wealth--these, and the like of these, we call profitable? MENO: True. SOCRATES: And yet these things may also sometimes do us harm: would you not think so? MENO: Yes. SOCRATES: And what is the guiding principle which makes them profitable or the reverse? Are they not profitable when they are rightly used, and hurtful when they are not rightly used? MENO: Certainly. SOCRATES: Next, let us consider the goods of the soul: they are temperance, justice, courage, quickness of apprehension, memory, magnanimity, and the like? MENO: Surely. SOCRATES: And such of these as are not knowledge, but of another sort, are sometimes profitable and sometimes hurtful; as, for example, courage wanting prudence, which is only a sort of confidence? When a man has no sense he is harmed by courage, but when he has sense he is profited? MENO: True. SOCRATES: And the same may be said of temperance and quickness of apprehension; whatever things are learned or done with sense are profitable, but when done without sense they are hurtful? MENO: Very true. SOCRATES: And in general, all that the soul attempts or endures, when under the guidance of wisdom, ends in happiness; but when she is under the guidance of folly, in the opposite? MENO: That appears to be true. SOCRATES: If then virtue is a quality of the soul, and is admitted to be profitable, it must be wisdom or prudence, since none of the things of the soul are either profitable or hurtful in themselves, but they are all made profitable or hurtful by the addition of wisdom or of folly; and therefore if virtue is profitable, virtue must be a sort of wisdom or prudence? MENO: I quite agree. SOCRATES: And the other goods, such as wealth and the like, of which we were just now saying that they are sometimes good and sometimes evil, do not they also become profitable or hurtful, accordingly as the soul guides and uses them rightly or wrongly; just as the things of the soul herself are benefited when under the guidance of wisdom and harmed by folly? MENO: True. SOCRATES: And the wise soul guides them rightly, and the foolish soul wrongly. MENO: Yes. SOCRATES: And is not this universally true of human nature? All other things hang upon the soul, and the things of the soul herself hang upon wisdom, if they are to be good; and so wisdom is inferred to be that which profits--and virtue, as we say, is profitable? MENO: Certainly. SOCRATES: And thus we arrive at the conclusion that virtue is either wholly or partly wisdom? MENO: I think that what you are saying, Socrates, is very true. SOCRATES: But if this is true, then the good are not by nature good? MENO: I think not. SOCRATES: If they had been, there would assuredly have been discerners of characters among us who would have known our future great men; and on their showing we should have adopted them, and when we had got them, we should have kept them in the citadel out of the way of harm, and set a stamp upon them far rather than upon a piece of gold, in order that no one might tamper with them; and when they grew up they would have been useful to the state? MENO: Yes, Socrates, that would have been the right way. SOCRATES: But if the good are not by nature good, are they made good by instruction? MENO: There appears to be no other alternative, Socrates. On the supposition that virtue is knowledge, there can be no doubt that virtue is taught. SOCRATES: Yes, indeed; but what if the supposition is erroneous? MENO: I certainly thought just now that we were right. SOCRATES: Yes, Meno; but a principle which has any soundness should stand firm not only just now, but always. MENO: Well; and why are you so slow of heart to believe that knowledge is virtue? SOCRATES: I will try and tell you why, Meno. I do not retract the assertion that if virtue is knowledge it may be taught; but I fear that I have some reason in doubting whether virtue is knowledge: for consider now and say whether virtue, and not only virtue but anything that is taught, must not have teachers and disciples? MENO: Surely. SOCRATES: And conversely, may not the art of which neither teachers nor disciples exist be assumed to be incapable of being taught? MENO: True; but do you think that there are no teachers of virtue? SOCRATES: I have certainly often enquired whether there were any, and taken great pains to find them, and have never succeeded; and many have assisted me in the search, and they were the persons whom I thought the most likely to know. Here at the moment when he is wanted we fortunately have sitting by us Anytus, the very person of whom we should make enquiry; to him then let us repair. In the first place, he is the son of a wealthy and wise father, Anthemion, who acquired his wealth, not by accident or gift, like Ismenias the Theban (who has recently made himself as rich as Polycrates), but by his own skill and industry, and who is a well-conditioned, modest man, not insolent, or overbearing, or annoying; moreover, this son of his has received a good education, as the Athenian people certainly appear to think, for they choose him to fill the highest offices. And these are the sort of men from whom you are likely to learn whether there are any teachers of virtue, and who they are. Please, Anytus, to help me and your friend Meno in answering our question, Who are the teachers? Consider the matter thus: If we wanted Meno to be a good physician, to whom should we send him? Should we not send him to the physicians? ANYTUS: Certainly. SOCRATES: Or if we wanted him to be a good cobbler, should we not send him to the cobblers? ANYTUS: Yes. SOCRATES: And so forth? ANYTUS: Yes. SOCRATES: Let me trouble you with one more question. When we say that we should be right in sending him to the physicians if we wanted him to be a physician, do we mean that we should be right in sending him to those who profess the art, rather than to those who do not, and to those who demand payment for teaching the art, and profess to teach it to any one who will come and learn? And if these were our reasons, should we not be right in sending him? ANYTUS: Yes. SOCRATES: And might not the same be said of flute-playing, and of the other arts? Would a man who wanted to make another a flute-player refuse to send him to those who profess to teach the art for money, and be plaguing other persons to give him instruction, who are not professed teachers and who never had a single disciple in that branch of knowledge which he wishes him to acquire--would not such conduct be the height of folly? ANYTUS: Yes, by Zeus, and of ignorance too. SOCRATES: Very good. And now you are in a position to advise with me about my friend Meno. He has been telling me, Anytus, that he desires to attain that kind of wisdom and virtue by which men order the state or the house, and honour their parents, and know when to receive and when to send away citizens and strangers, as a good man should. Now, to whom should he go in order that he may learn this virtue? Does not the previous argument imply clearly that we should send him to those who profess and avouch that they are the common teachers of all Hellas, and are ready to impart instruction to any one who likes, at a fixed price? ANYTUS: Whom do you mean, Socrates? SOCRATES: You surely know, do you not, Anytus, that these are the people whom mankind call Sophists? ANYTUS: By Heracles, Socrates, forbear! I only hope that no friend or kinsman or acquaintance of mine, whether citizen or stranger, will ever be so mad as to allow himself to be corrupted by them; for they are a manifest pest and corrupting influence to those who have to do with them. SOCRATES: What, Anytus? Of all the people who profess that they know how to do men good, do you mean to say that these are the only ones who not only do them no good, but positively corrupt those who are entrusted to them, and in return for this disservice have the face to demand money? Indeed, I cannot believe you; for I know of a single man, Protagoras, who made more out of his craft than the illustrious Pheidias, who created such noble works, or any ten other statuaries. How could that be? A mender of old shoes, or patcher up of clothes, who made the shoes or clothes worse than he received them, could not have remained thirty days undetected, and would very soon have starved; whereas during more than forty years, Protagoras was corrupting all Hellas, and sending his disciples from him worse than he received them, and he was never found out. For, if I am not mistaken, he was about seventy years old at his death, forty of which were spent in the practice of his profession; and during all that time he had a good reputation, which to this day he retains: and not only Protagoras, but many others are well spoken of; some who lived before him, and others who are still living. Now, when you say that they deceived and corrupted the youth, are they to be supposed to have corrupted them consciously or unconsciously? Can those who were deemed by many to be the wisest men of Hellas have been out of their minds? ANYTUS: Out of their minds! No, Socrates; the young men who gave their money to them were out of their minds, and their relations and guardians who entrusted their youth to the care of these men were still more out of their minds, and most of all, the cities who allowed them to come in, and did not drive them out, citizen and stranger alike. SOCRATES: Has any of the Sophists wronged you, Anytus? What makes you so angry with them? ANYTUS: No, indeed, neither I nor any of my belongings has ever had, nor would I suffer them to have, anything to do with them. SOCRATES: Then you are entirely unacquainted with them? ANYTUS: And I have no wish to be acquainted. SOCRATES: Then, my dear friend, how can you know whether a thing is good or bad of which you are wholly ignorant? ANYTUS: Quite well; I am sure that I know what manner of men these are, whether I am acquainted with them or not. SOCRATES: You must be a diviner, Anytus, for I really cannot make out, judging from your own words, how, if you are not acquainted with them, you know about them. But I am not enquiring of you who are the teachers who will corrupt Meno (let them be, if you please, the Sophists); I only ask you to tell him who there is in this great city who will teach him how to become eminent in the virtues which I was just now describing. He is the friend of your family, and you will oblige him. ANYTUS: Why do you not tell him yourself? SOCRATES: I have told him whom I supposed to be the teachers of these things; but I learn from you that I am utterly at fault, and I dare say that you are right. And now I wish that you, on your part, would tell me to whom among the Athenians he should go. Whom would you name? ANYTUS: Why single out individuals? Any Athenian gentleman, taken at random, if he will mind him, will do far more good to him than the Sophists. SOCRATES: And did those gentlemen grow of themselves; and without having been taught by any one, were they nevertheless able to teach others that which they had never learned themselves? ANYTUS: I imagine that they learned of the previous generation of gentlemen. Have there not been many good men in this city? SOCRATES: Yes, certainly, Anytus; and many good statesmen also there always have been and there are still, in the city of Athens. But the question is whether they were also good teachers of their own virtue;--not whether there are, or have been, good men in this part of the world, but whether virtue can be taught, is the question which we have been discussing. Now, do we mean to say that the good men of our own and of other times knew how to impart to others that virtue which they had themselves; or is virtue a thing incapable of being communicated or imparted by one man to another? That is the question which I and Meno have been arguing. Look at the matter in your own way: Would you not admit that Themistocles was a good man? ANYTUS: Certainly; no man better. SOCRATES: And must not he then have been a good teacher, if any man ever was a good teacher, of his own virtue? ANYTUS: Yes certainly,--if he wanted to be so. SOCRATES: But would he not have wanted? He would, at any rate, have desired to make his own son a good man and a gentleman; he could not have been jealous of him, or have intentionally abstained from imparting to him his own virtue. Did you never hear that he made his son Cleophantus a famous horseman; and had him taught to stand upright on horseback and hurl a javelin, and to do many other marvellous things; and in anything which could be learned from a master he was well trained? Have you not heard from our elders of him? ANYTUS: I have. SOCRATES: Then no one could say that his son showed any want of capacity? ANYTUS: Very likely not. SOCRATES: But did any one, old or young, ever say in your hearing that Cleophantus, son of Themistocles, was a wise or good man, as his father was? ANYTUS: I have certainly never heard any one say so. SOCRATES: And if virtue could have been taught, would his father Themistocles have sought to train him in these minor accomplishments, and allowed him who, as you must remember, was his own son, to be no better than his neighbours in those qualities in which he himself excelled? ANYTUS: Indeed, indeed, I think not. SOCRATES: Here was a teacher of virtue whom you admit to be among the best men of the past. Let us take another,--Aristides, the son of Lysimachus: would you not acknowledge that he was a good man? ANYTUS: To be sure I should. SOCRATES: And did not he train his son Lysimachus better than any other Athenian in all that could be done for him by the help of masters? But what has been the result? Is he a bit better than any other mortal? He is an acquaintance of yours, and you see what he is like. There is Pericles, again, magnificent in his wisdom; and he, as you are aware, had two sons, Paralus and Xanthippus. ANYTUS: I know. SOCRATES: And you know, also, that he taught them to be unrivalled horsemen, and had them trained in music and gymnastics and all sorts of arts--in these respects they were on a level with the best--and had he no wish to make good men of them? Nay, he must have wished it. But virtue, as I suspect, could not be taught. And that you may not suppose the incompetent teachers to be only the meaner sort of Athenians and few in number, remember again that Thucydides had two sons, Melesias and Stephanus, whom, besides giving them a good education in other things, he trained in wrestling, and they were the best wrestlers in Athens: one of them he committed to the care of Xanthias, and the other of Eudorus, who had the reputation of being the most celebrated wrestlers of that day. Do you remember them? ANYTUS: I have heard of them. SOCRATES: Now, can there be a doubt that Thucydides, whose children were taught things for which he had to spend money, would have taught them to be good men, which would have cost him nothing, if virtue could have been taught? Will you reply that he was a mean man, and had not many friends among the Athenians and allies? Nay, but he was of a great family, and a man of influence at Athens and in all Hellas, and, if virtue could have been taught, he would have found out some Athenian or foreigner who would have made good men of his sons, if he could not himself spare the time from cares of state. Once more, I suspect, friend Anytus, that virtue is not a thing which can be taught? ANYTUS: Socrates, I think that you are too ready to speak evil of men: and, if you will take my advice, I would recommend you to be careful. Perhaps there is no city in which it is not easier to do men harm than to do them good, and this is certainly the case at Athens, as I believe that you know. SOCRATES: O Meno, think that Anytus is in a rage. And he may well be in a rage, for he thinks, in the first place, that I am defaming these gentlemen; and in the second place, he is of opinion that he is one of them himself. But some day he will know what is the meaning of defamation, and if he ever does, he will forgive me. Meanwhile I will return to you, Meno; for I suppose that there are gentlemen in your region too? MENO: Certainly there are. SOCRATES: And are they willing to teach the young? and do they profess to be teachers? and do they agree that virtue is taught? MENO: No indeed, Socrates, they are anything but agreed; you may hear them saying at one time that virtue can be taught, and then again the reverse. SOCRATES: Can we call those teachers who do not acknowledge the possibility of their own vocation? MENO: I think not, Socrates. SOCRATES: And what do you think of these Sophists, who are the only professors? Do they seem to you to be teachers of virtue? MENO: I often wonder, Socrates, that Gorgias is never heard promising to teach virtue: and when he hears others promising he only laughs at them; but he thinks that men should be taught to speak. SOCRATES: Then do you not think that the Sophists are teachers? MENO: I cannot tell you, Socrates; like the rest of the world, I am in doubt, and sometimes I think that they are teachers and sometimes not. SOCRATES: And are you aware that not you only and other politicians have doubts whether virtue can be taught or not, but that Theognis the poet says the very same thing? MENO: Where does he say so? SOCRATES: In these elegiac verses (Theog.): 'Eat and drink and sit with the mighty, and make yourself agreeable to them; for from the good you will learn what is good, but if you mix with the bad you will lose the intelligence which you already have.' Do you observe that here he seems to imply that virtue can be taught? MENO: Clearly. SOCRATES: But in some other verses he shifts about and says (Theog.): 'If understanding could be created and put into a man, then they' (who were able to perform this feat) 'would have obtained great rewards.' And again:-- 'Never would a bad son have sprung from a good sire, for he would have heard the voice of instruction; but not by teaching will you ever make a bad man into a good one.' And this, as you may remark, is a contradiction of the other. MENO: Clearly. SOCRATES: And is there anything else of which the professors are affirmed not only not to be teachers of others, but to be ignorant themselves, and bad at the knowledge of that which they are professing to teach? or is there anything about which even the acknowledged 'gentlemen' are sometimes saying that 'this thing can be taught,' and sometimes the opposite? Can you say that they are teachers in any true sense whose ideas are in such confusion? MENO: I should say, certainly not. SOCRATES: But if neither the Sophists nor the gentlemen are teachers, clearly there can be no other teachers? MENO: No. SOCRATES: And if there are no teachers, neither are there disciples? MENO: Agreed. SOCRATES: And we have admitted that a thing cannot be taught of which there are neither teachers nor disciples? MENO: We have. SOCRATES: And there are no teachers of virtue to be found anywhere? MENO: There are not. SOCRATES: And if there are no teachers, neither are there scholars? MENO: That, I think, is true. SOCRATES: Then virtue cannot be taught? MENO: Not if we are right in our view. But I cannot believe, Socrates, that there are no good men: And if there are, how did they come into existence? SOCRATES: I am afraid, Meno, that you and I are not good for much, and that Gorgias has been as poor an educator of you as Prodicus has been of me. Certainly we shall have to look to ourselves, and try to find some one who will help in some way or other to improve us. This I say, because I observe that in the previous discussion none of us remarked that right and good action is possible to man under other guidance than that of knowledge (episteme);--and indeed if this be denied, there is no seeing how there can be any good men at all. MENO: How do you mean, Socrates? SOCRATES: I mean that good men are necessarily useful or profitable. Were we not right in admitting this? It must be so. MENO: Yes. SOCRATES: And in supposing that they will be useful only if they are true guides to us of action--there we were also right? MENO: Yes. SOCRATES: But when we said that a man cannot be a good guide unless he have knowledge (phrhonesis), this we were wrong. MENO: What do you mean by the word 'right'? SOCRATES: I will explain. If a man knew the way to Larisa, or anywhere else, and went to the place and led others thither, would he not be a right and good guide? MENO: Certainly. SOCRATES: And a person who had a right opinion about the way, but had never been and did not know, might be a good guide also, might he not? MENO: Certainly. SOCRATES: And while he has true opinion about that which the other knows, he will be just as good a guide if he thinks the truth, as he who knows the truth? MENO: Exactly. SOCRATES: Then true opinion is as good a guide to correct action as knowledge; and that was the point which we omitted in our speculation about the nature of virtue, when we said that knowledge only is the guide of right action; whereas there is also right opinion. MENO: True. SOCRATES: Then right opinion is not less useful than knowledge? MENO: The difference, Socrates, is only that he who has knowledge will always be right; but he who has right opinion will sometimes be right, and sometimes not. SOCRATES: What do you mean? Can he be wrong who has right opinion, so long as he has right opinion? MENO: I admit the cogency of your argument, and therefore, Socrates, I wonder that knowledge should be preferred to right opinion--or why they should ever differ. SOCRATES: And shall I explain this wonder to you? MENO: Do tell me. SOCRATES: You would not wonder if you had ever observed the images of Daedalus (Compare Euthyphro); but perhaps you have not got them in your country? MENO: What have they to do with the question? SOCRATES: Because they require to be fastened in order to keep them, and if they are not fastened they will play truant and run away. MENO: Well, what of that? SOCRATES: I mean to say that they are not very valuable possessions if they are at liberty, for they will walk off like runaway slaves; but when fastened, they are of great value, for they are really beautiful works of art. Now this is an illustration of the nature of true opinions: while they abide with us they are beautiful and fruitful, but they run away out of the human soul, and do not remain long, and therefore they are not of much value until they are fastened by the tie of the cause; and this fastening of them, friend Meno, is recollection, as you and I have agreed to call it. But when they are bound, in the first place, they have the nature of knowledge; and, in the second place, they are abiding. And this is why knowledge is more honourable and excellent than true opinion, because fastened by a chain. MENO: What you are saying, Socrates, seems to be very like the truth. SOCRATES: I too speak rather in ignorance; I only conjecture. And yet that knowledge differs from true opinion is no matter of conjecture with me. There are not many things which I profess to know, but this is most certainly one of them. MENO: Yes, Socrates; and you are quite right in saying so. SOCRATES: And am I not also right in saying that true opinion leading the way perfects action quite as well as knowledge? MENO: There again, Socrates, I think you are right. SOCRATES: Then right opinion is not a whit inferior to knowledge, or less useful in action; nor is the man who has right opinion inferior to him who has knowledge? MENO: True. SOCRATES: And surely the good man has been acknowledged by us to be useful? MENO: Yes. SOCRATES: Seeing then that men become good and useful to states, not only because they have knowledge, but because they have right opinion, and that neither knowledge nor right opinion is given to man by nature or acquired by him--(do you imagine either of them to be given by nature? MENO: Not I.) SOCRATES: Then if they are not given by nature, neither are the good by nature good? MENO: Certainly not. SOCRATES: And nature being excluded, then came the question whether virtue is acquired by teaching? MENO: Yes. SOCRATES: If virtue was wisdom (or knowledge), then, as we thought, it was taught? MENO: Yes. SOCRATES: And if it was taught it was wisdom? MENO: Certainly. SOCRATES: And if there were teachers, it might be taught; and if there were no teachers, not? MENO: True. SOCRATES: But surely we acknowledged that there were no teachers of virtue? MENO: Yes. SOCRATES: Then we acknowledged that it was not taught, and was not wisdom? MENO: Certainly. SOCRATES: And yet we admitted that it was a good? MENO: Yes. SOCRATES: And the right guide is useful and good? MENO: Certainly. SOCRATES: And the only right guides are knowledge and true opinion--these are the guides of man; for things which happen by chance are not under the guidance of man: but the guides of man are true opinion and knowledge. MENO: I think so too. SOCRATES: But if virtue is not taught, neither is virtue knowledge. MENO: Clearly not. SOCRATES: Then of two good and useful things, one, which is knowledge, has been set aside, and cannot be supposed to be our guide in political life. MENO: I think not. SOCRATES: And therefore not by any wisdom, and not because they were wise, did Themistocles and those others of whom Anytus spoke govern states. This was the reason why they were unable to make others like themselves--because their virtue was not grounded on knowledge. MENO: That is probably true, Socrates. SOCRATES: But if not by knowledge, the only alternative which remains is that statesmen must have guided states by right opinion, which is in politics what divination is in religion; for diviners and also prophets say many things truly, but they know not what they say. MENO: So I believe. SOCRATES: And may we not, Meno, truly call those men 'divine' who, having no understanding, yet succeed in many a grand deed and word? MENO: Certainly. SOCRATES: Then we shall also be right in calling divine those whom we were just now speaking of as diviners and prophets, including the whole tribe of poets. Yes, and statesmen above all may be said to be divine and illumined, being inspired and possessed of God, in which condition they say many grand things, not knowing what they say. MENO: Yes. SOCRATES: And the women too, Meno, call good men divine--do they not? and the Spartans, when they praise a good man, say 'that he is a divine man.' MENO: And I think, Socrates, that they are right; although very likely our friend Anytus may take offence at the word. SOCRATES: I do not care; as for Anytus, there will be another opportunity of talking with him. To sum up our enquiry--the result seems to be, if we are at all right in our view, that virtue is neither natural nor acquired, but an instinct given by God to the virtuous. Nor is the instinct accompanied by reason, unless there may be supposed to be among statesmen some one who is capable of educating statesmen. And if there be such an one, he may be said to be among the living what Homer says that Tiresias was among the dead, 'he alone has understanding; but the rest are flitting shades'; and he and his virtue in like manner will be a reality among shadows. MENO: That is excellent, Socrates. SOCRATES: Then, Meno, the conclusion is that virtue comes to the virtuous by the gift of God. But we shall never know the certain truth until, before asking how virtue is given, we enquire into the actual nature of virtue. I fear that I must go away, but do you, now that you are persuaded yourself, persuade our friend Anytus. And do not let him be so exasperated; if you can conciliate him, you will have done good service to the Athenian people. 
1681	----	ERYXIAS By a Platonic Imitator (see Appendix II) Translated by Benjamin Jowett APPENDIX II. The two dialogues which are translated in the second appendix are not mentioned by Aristotle, or by any early authority, and have no claim to be ascribed to Plato. They are examples of Platonic dialogues to be assigned probably to the second or third generation after Plato, when his writings were well known at Athens and Alexandria. They exhibit considerable originality, and are remarkable for containing several thoughts of the sort which we suppose to be modern rather than ancient, and which therefore have a peculiar interest for us. The Second Alcibiades shows that the difficulties about prayer which have perplexed Christian theologians were not unknown among the followers of Plato. The Eryxias was doubted by the ancients themselves: yet it may claim the distinction of being, among all Greek or Roman writings, the one which anticipates in the most striking manner the modern science of political economy and gives an abstract form to some of its principal doctrines. For the translation of these two dialogues I am indebted to my friend and secretary, Mr. Knight. That the Dialogue which goes by the name of the Second Alcibiades is a genuine writing of Plato will not be maintained by any modern critic, and was hardly believed by the ancients themselves. The dialectic is poor and weak. There is no power over language, or beauty of style; and there is a certain abruptness and agroikia in the conversation, which is very un-Platonic. The best passage is probably that about the poets:--the remark that the poet, who is of a reserved disposition, is uncommonly difficult to understand, and the ridiculous interpretation of Homer, are entirely in the spirit of Plato (compare Protag; Ion; Apol.). The characters are ill-drawn. Socrates assumes the 'superior person' and preaches too much, while Alcibiades is stupid and heavy-in-hand. There are traces of Stoic influence in the general tone and phraseology of the Dialogue (compare opos melesei tis...kaka: oti pas aphron mainetai): and the writer seems to have been acquainted with the 'Laws' of Plato (compare Laws). An incident from the Symposium is rather clumsily introduced, and two somewhat hackneyed quotations (Symp., Gorg.) recur. The reference to the death of Archelaus as having occurred 'quite lately' is only a fiction, probably suggested by the Gorgias, where the story of Archelaus is told, and a similar phrase occurs;--ta gar echthes kai proen gegonota tauta, k.t.l. There are several passages which are either corrupt or extremely ill-expressed. But there is a modern interest in the subject of the dialogue; and it is a good example of a short spurious work, which may be attributed to the second or third century before Christ. INTRODUCTION. Much cannot be said in praise of the style or conception of the Eryxias. It is frequently obscure; like the exercise of a student, it is full of small imitations of Plato:--Phaeax returning from an expedition to Sicily (compare Socrates in the Charmides from the army at Potidaea), the figure of the game at draughts, borrowed from the Republic, etc. It has also in many passages the ring of sophistry. On the other hand, the rather unhandsome treatment which is exhibited towards Prodicus is quite unlike the urbanity of Plato. Yet there are some points in the argument which are deserving of attention. (1) That wealth depends upon the need of it or demand for it, is the first anticipation in an abstract form of one of the great principles of modern political economy, and the nearest approach to it to be found in an ancient writer. (2) The resolution of wealth into its simplest implements going on to infinity is a subtle and refined thought. (3) That wealth is relative to circumstances is a sound conception. (4) That the arts and sciences which receive payment are likewise to be comprehended under the notion of wealth, also touches a question of modern political economy. (5) The distinction of post hoc and propter hoc, often lost sight of in modern as well as in ancient times. These metaphysical conceptions and distinctions show considerable power of thought in the writer, whatever we may think of his merits as an imitator of Plato. ERYXIAS PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE: Socrates, Eryxias, Erasistratus, Critias. SCENE: The portico of a temple of Zeus. It happened by chance that Eryxias the Steirian was walking with me in the Portico of Zeus the Deliverer, when there came up to us Critias and Erasistratus, the latter the son of Phaeax, who was the nephew of Erasistratus. Now Erasistratus had just arrived from Sicily and that part of the world. As they approached, he said, Hail, Socrates! SOCRATES: The same to you, I said; have you any good news from Sicily to tell us? ERASISTRATUS: Most excellent. But, if you please, let us first sit down; for I am tired with my yesterday's journey from Megara. SOCRATES: Gladly, if that is your desire. ERASISTRATUS: What would you wish to hear first? he said. What the Sicilians are doing, or how they are disposed towards our city? To my mind, they are very like wasps: so long as you only cause them a little annoyance they are quite unmanageable; you must destroy their nests if you wish to get the better of them. And in a similar way, the Syracusans, unless we set to work in earnest, and go against them with a great expedition, will never submit to our rule. The petty injuries which we at present inflict merely irritate them enough to make them utterly intractable. And now they have sent ambassadors to Athens, and intend, I suspect, to play us some trick.--While we were talking, the Syracusan envoys chanced to go by, and Erasistratus, pointing to one of them, said to me, That, Socrates, is the richest man in all Italy and Sicily. For who has larger estates or more land at his disposal to cultivate if he please? And they are of a quality, too, finer than any other land in Hellas. Moreover, he has all the things which go to make up wealth, slaves and horses innumerable, gold and silver without end. I saw that he was inclined to expatiate on the riches of the man; so I asked him, Well, Erasistratus, and what sort of character does he bear in Sicily? ERASISTRATUS: He is esteemed to be, and really is, the wickedest of all the Sicilians and Italians, and even more wicked than he is rich; indeed, if you were to ask any Sicilian whom he thought to be the worst and the richest of mankind, you would never hear any one else named. I reflected that we were speaking, not of trivial matters, but about wealth and virtue, which are deemed to be of the greatest moment, and I asked Erasistratus whom he considered the wealthier,--he who was the possessor of a talent of silver or he who had a field worth two talents? ERASISTRATUS: The owner of the field. SOCRATES: And on the same principle he who had robes and bedding and such things which are of greater value to him than to a stranger would be richer than the stranger? ERASISTRATUS: True. SOCRATES: And if any one gave you a choice, which of these would you prefer? ERASISTRATUS: That which was most valuable. SOCRATES: In which way do you think you would be the richer? ERASISTRATUS: By choosing as I said. SOCRATES: And he appears to you to be the richest who has goods of the greatest value? ERASISTRATUS: He does. SOCRATES: And are not the healthy richer than the sick, since health is a possession more valuable than riches to the sick? Surely there is no one who would not prefer to be poor and well, rather than to have all the King of Persia's wealth and to be ill. And this proves that men set health above wealth, else they would never choose the one in preference to the other. ERASISTRATUS: True. SOCRATES: And if anything appeared to be more valuable than health, he would be the richest who possessed it? ERASISTRATUS: He would. SOCRATES: Suppose that some one came to us at this moment and were to ask, Well, Socrates and Eryxias and Erasistratus, can you tell me what is of the greatest value to men? Is it not that of which the possession will best enable a man to advise how his own and his friend's affairs should be administered?--What will be our reply? ERASISTRATUS: I should say, Socrates, that happiness was the most precious of human possessions. SOCRATES: Not a bad answer. But do we not deem those men who are most prosperous to be the happiest? ERASISTRATUS: That is my opinion. SOCRATES: And are they not most prosperous who commit the fewest errors in respect either of themselves or of other men? ERASISTRATUS: Certainly. SOCRATES: And they who know what is evil and what is good; what should be done and what should be left undone;--these behave the most wisely and make the fewest mistakes? Erasistratus agreed to this. SOCRATES: Then the wisest and those who do best and the most fortunate and the richest would appear to be all one and the same, if wisdom is really the most valuable of our possessions? Yes, said Eryxias, interposing, but what use would it be if a man had the wisdom of Nestor and wanted the necessaries of life, food and drink and clothes and the like? Where would be the advantage of wisdom then? Or how could he be the richest of men who might even have to go begging, because he had not wherewithal to live? I thought that what Eryxias was saying had some weight, and I replied, Would the wise man really suffer in this way, if he were so ill-provided; whereas if he had the house of Polytion, and the house were full of gold and silver, he would lack nothing? ERYXIAS: Yes; for then he might dispose of his property and obtain in exchange what he needed, or he might sell it for money with which he could supply his wants and in a moment procure abundance of everything. SOCRATES: True, if he could find some one who preferred such a house to the wisdom of Nestor. But if there are persons who set great store by wisdom like Nestor's and the advantages accruing from it, to sell these, if he were so disposed, would be easier still. Or is a house a most useful and necessary possession, and does it make a great difference in the comfort of life to have a mansion like Polytion's instead of living in a shabby little cottage, whereas wisdom is of small use and it is of no importance whether a man is wise or ignorant about the highest matters? Or is wisdom despised of men and can find no buyers, although cypress wood and marble of Pentelicus are eagerly bought by numerous purchasers? Surely the prudent pilot or the skilful physician, or the artist of any kind who is proficient in his art, is more worth than the things which are especially reckoned among riches; and he who can advise well and prudently for himself and others is able also to sell the product of his art, if he so desire. Eryxias looked askance, as if he had received some unfair treatment, and said, I believe, Socrates, that if you were forced to speak the truth, you would declare that you were richer than Callias the son of Hipponicus. And yet, although you claimed to be wiser about things of real importance, you would not any the more be richer than he. I dare say, Eryxias, I said, that you may regard these arguments of ours as a kind of game; you think that they have no relation to facts, but are like the pieces in the game of draughts which the player can move in such a way that his opponents are unable to make any countermove. (Compare Republic.) And perhaps, too, as regards riches you are of opinion that while facts remain the same, there are arguments, no matter whether true or false, which enable the user of them to prove that the wisest and the richest are one and the same, although he is in the wrong and his opponents are in the right. There would be nothing strange in this; it would be as if two persons were to dispute about letters, one declaring that the word Socrates began with an S, the other that it began with an A, and the latter could gain the victory over the former. Eryxias glanced at the audience, laughing and blushing at once, as if he had had nothing to do with what had just been said, and replied,--No, indeed, Socrates, I never supposed that our arguments should be of a kind which would never convince any one of those here present or be of advantage to them. For what man of sense could ever be persuaded that the wisest and the richest are the same? The truth is that we are discussing the subject of riches, and my notion is that we should argue respecting the honest and dishonest means of acquiring them, and, generally, whether they are a good thing or a bad. Very good, I said, and I am obliged to you for the hint: in future we will be more careful. But why do not you yourself, as you introduced the argument, and do not think that the former discussion touched the point at issue, tell us whether you consider riches to be a good or an evil? I am of opinion, he said, that they are a good. He was about to add something more, when Critias interrupted him:--Do you really suppose so, Eryxias? Certainly, replied Eryxias; I should be mad if I did not: and I do not fancy that you would find any one else of a contrary opinion. And I, retorted Critias, should say that there is no one whom I could not compel to admit that riches are bad for some men. But surely, if they were a good, they could not appear bad for any one? Here I interposed and said to them: If you two were having an argument about equitation and what was the best way of riding, supposing that I knew the art myself, I should try to bring you to an agreement. For I should be ashamed if I were present and did not do what I could to prevent your difference. And I should do the same if you were quarrelling about any other art and were likely, unless you agreed on the point in dispute, to part as enemies instead of as friends. But now, when we are contending about a thing of which the usefulness continues during the whole of life, and it makes an enormous difference whether we are to regard it as beneficial or not,--a thing, too, which is esteemed of the highest importance by the Hellenes:--(for parents, as soon as their children are, as they think, come to years of discretion, urge them to consider how wealth may be acquired, since by riches the value of a man is judged):--When, I say, we are thus in earnest, and you, who agree in other respects, fall to disputing about a matter of such moment, that is, about wealth, and not merely whether it is black or white, light or heavy, but whether it is a good or an evil, whereby, although you are now the dearest of friends and kinsmen, the most bitter hatred may arise betwixt you, I must hinder your dissension to the best of my power. If I could, I would tell you the truth, and so put an end to the dispute; but as I cannot do this, and each of you supposes that you can bring the other to an agreement, I am prepared, as far as my capacity admits, to help you in solving the question. Please, therefore, Critias, try to make us accept the doctrines which you yourself entertain. CRITIAS: I should like to follow up the argument, and will ask Eryxias whether he thinks that there are just and unjust men? ERYXIAS: Most decidedly. CRITIAS: And does injustice seem to you an evil or a good? ERYXIAS: An evil. CRITIAS: Do you consider that he who bribes his neighbour's wife and commits adultery with her, acts justly or unjustly, and this although both the state and the laws forbid? ERYXIAS: Unjustly. CRITIAS: And if the wicked man has wealth and is willing to spend it, he will carry out his evil purposes? whereas he who is short of means cannot do what he fain would, and therefore does not sin? In such a case, surely, it is better that a person should not be wealthy, if his poverty prevents the accomplishment of his desires, and his desires are evil? Or, again, should you call sickness a good or an evil? ERYXIAS: An evil. CRITIAS: Well, and do you think that some men are intemperate? ERYXIAS: Yes. CRITIAS: Then, if it is better for his health that the intemperate man should refrain from meat and drink and other pleasant things, but he cannot owing to his intemperance, will it not also be better that he should be too poor to gratify his lust rather than that he should have a superabundance of means? For thus he will not be able to sin, although he desire never so much. Critias appeared to be arguing so admirably that Eryxias, if he had not been ashamed of the bystanders, would probably have got up and struck him. For he thought that he had been robbed of a great possession when it became obvious to him that he had been wrong in his former opinion about wealth. I observed his vexation, and feared that they would proceed to abuse and quarrelling: so I said,--I heard that very argument used in the Lyceum yesterday by a wise man, Prodicus of Ceos; but the audience thought that he was talking mere nonsense, and no one could be persuaded that he was speaking the truth. And when at last a certain talkative young gentleman came in, and, taking his seat, began to laugh and jeer at Prodicus, tormenting him and demanding an explanation of his argument, he gained the ear of the audience far more than Prodicus. Can you repeat the discourse to us? Said Erasistratus. SOCRATES: If I can only remember it, I will. The youth began by asking Prodicus, In what way did he think that riches were a good and in what an evil? Prodicus answered, as you did just now, that they were a good to good men and to those who knew in what way they should be employed, while to the bad and the ignorant they were an evil. The same is true, he went on to say, of all other things; men make them to be what they are themselves. The saying of Archilochus is true:-- 'Men's thoughts correspond to the things which they meet with.' Well, then, replied the youth, if any one makes me wise in that wisdom whereby good men become wise, he must also make everything else good to me. Not that he concerns himself at all with these other things, but he has converted my ignorance into wisdom. If, for example, a person teach me grammar or music, he will at the same time teach me all that relates to grammar or music, and so when he makes me good, he makes things good to me. Prodicus did not altogether agree: still he consented to what was said. And do you think, said the youth, that doing good things is like building a house,--the work of human agency; or do things remain what they were at first, good or bad, for all time? Prodicus began to suspect, I fancy, the direction which the argument was likely to take, and did not wish to be put down by a mere stripling before all those present:--(if they two had been alone, he would not have minded):--so he answered, cleverly enough: I think that doing good things is a work of human agency. And is virtue in your opinion, Prodicus, innate or acquired by instruction? The latter, said Prodicus. Then you would consider him a simpleton who supposed that he could obtain by praying to the Gods the knowledge of grammar or music or any other art, which he must either learn from another or find out for himself? Prodicus agreed to this also. And when you pray to the Gods that you may do well and receive good, you mean by your prayer nothing else than that you desire to become good and wise:--if, at least, things are good to the good and wise and evil to the evil. But in that case, if virtue is acquired by instruction, it would appear that you only pray to be taught what you do not know. Hereupon I said to Prodicus that it was no misfortune to him if he had been proved to be in error in supposing that the Gods immediately granted to us whatever we asked:--if, I added, whenever you go up to the Acropolis you earnestly entreat the Gods to grant you good things, although you know not whether they can yield your request, it is as though you went to the doors of the grammarian and begged him, although you had never made a study of the art, to give you a knowledge of grammar which would enable you forthwith to do the business of a grammarian. While I was speaking, Prodicus was preparing to retaliate upon his youthful assailant, intending to employ the argument of which you have just made use; for he was annoyed to have it supposed that he offered a vain prayer to the Gods. But the master of the gymnasium came to him and begged him to leave because he was teaching the youths doctrines which were unsuited to them, and therefore bad for them. I have told you this because I want you to understand how men are circumstanced in regard to philosophy. Had Prodicus been present and said what you have said, the audience would have thought him raving, and he would have been ejected from the gymnasium. But you have argued so excellently well that you have not only persuaded your hearers, but have brought your opponent to an agreement. For just as in the law courts, if two witnesses testify to the same fact, one of whom seems to be an honest fellow and the other a rogue, the testimony of the rogue often has the contrary effect on the judges' minds to what he intended, while the same evidence if given by the honest man at once strikes them as perfectly true. And probably the audience have something of the same feeling about yourself and Prodicus; they think him a Sophist and a braggart, and regard you as a gentleman of courtesy and worth. For they do not pay attention to the argument so much as to the character of the speaker. But truly, Socrates, said Erasistratus, though you may be joking, Critias does seem to me to be saying something which is of weight. SOCRATES: I am in profound earnest, I assure you. But why, as you have begun your argument so prettily, do you not go on with the rest? There is still something lacking, now you have agreed that (wealth) is a good to some and an evil to others. It remains to enquire what constitutes wealth; for unless you know this, you cannot possibly come to an understanding as to whether it is a good or an evil. I am ready to assist you in the enquiry to the utmost of my power: but first let him who affirms that riches are a good, tell us what, in his opinion, is wealth. ERASISTRATUS: Indeed, Socrates, I have no notion about wealth beyond that which men commonly have. I suppose that wealth is a quantity of money (compare Arist. Pol.); and this, I imagine, would also be Critias' definition. SOCRATES: Then now we have to consider, What is money? Or else later on we shall be found to differ about the question. For instance, the Carthaginians use money of this sort. Something which is about the size of a stater is tied up in a small piece of leather: what it is, no one knows but the makers. A seal is next set upon the leather, which then passes into circulation, and he who has the largest number of such pieces is esteemed the richest and best off. And yet if any one among us had a mass of such coins he would be no wealthier than if he had so many pebbles from the mountain. At Lacedaemon, again, they use iron by weight which has been rendered useless: and he who has the greatest mass of such iron is thought to be the richest, although elsewhere it has no value. In Ethiopia engraved stones are employed, of which a Lacedaemonian could make no use. Once more, among the Nomad Scythians a man who owned the house of Polytion would not be thought richer than one who possessed Mount Lycabettus among ourselves. And clearly those things cannot all be regarded as possessions; for in some cases the possessors would appear none the richer thereby: but, as I was saying, some one of them is thought in one place to be money, and the possessors of it are the wealthy, whereas in some other place it is not money, and the ownership of it does not confer wealth; just as the standard of morals varies, and what is honourable to some men is dishonourable to others. And if we wish to enquire why a house is valuable to us but not to the Scythians, or why the Carthaginians value leather which is worthless to us, or the Lacedaemonians find wealth in iron and we do not, can we not get an answer in some such way as this: Would an Athenian, who had a thousand talents weight of the stones which lie about in the Agora and which we do not employ for any purpose, be thought to be any the richer? ERASISTRATUS: He certainly would not appear so to me. SOCRATES: But if he possessed a thousand talents weight of some precious stone, we should say that he was very rich? ERASISTRATUS: Of course. SOCRATES: The reason is that the one is useless and the other useful? ERASISTRATUS: Yes. SOCRATES: And in the same way among the Scythians a house has no value because they have no use for a house, nor would a Scythian set so much store on the finest house in the world as on a leather coat, because he could use the one and not the other. Or again, the Carthaginian coinage is not wealth in our eyes, for we could not employ it, as we can silver, to procure what we need, and therefore it is of no use to us. ERASISTRATUS: True. SOCRATES: What is useful to us, then, is wealth, and what is useless to us is not wealth? But how do you mean, Socrates? said Eryxias, interrupting. Do we not employ in our intercourse with one another speech and violence (?) and various other things? These are useful and yet they are not wealth. SOCRATES: Clearly we have not yet answered the question, What is wealth? That wealth must be useful, to be wealth at all,--thus much is acknowledged by every one. But what particular thing is wealth, if not all things? Let us pursue the argument in another way; and then we may perhaps find what we are seeking. What is the use of wealth, and for what purpose has the possession of riches been invented,--in the sense, I mean, in which drugs have been discovered for the cure of disease? Perhaps in this way we may throw some light on the question. It appears to be clear that whatever constitutes wealth must be useful, and that wealth is one class of useful things; and now we have to enquire, What is the use of those useful things which constitute wealth? For all things probably may be said to be useful which we use in production, just as all things which have life are animals, but there is a special kind of animal which we call 'man.' Now if any one were to ask us, What is that of which, if we were rid, we should not want medicine and the instruments of medicine, we might reply that this would be the case if disease were absent from our bodies and either never came to them at all or went away again as soon as it appeared; and we may therefore conclude that medicine is the science which is useful for getting rid of disease. But if we are further asked, What is that from which, if we were free, we should have no need of wealth? can we give an answer? If we have none, suppose that we restate the question thus:--If a man could live without food or drink, and yet suffer neither hunger nor thirst, would he want either money or anything else in order to supply his needs? ERYXIAS: He would not. SOCRATES: And does not this apply in other cases? If we did not want for the service of the body the things of which we now stand in need, and heat and cold and the other bodily sensations were unperceived by us, there would be no use in this so-called wealth, if no one, that is, had any necessity for those things which now make us wish for wealth in order that we may satisfy the desires and needs of the body in respect of our various wants. And therefore if the possession of wealth is useful in ministering to our bodily wants, and bodily wants were unknown to us, we should not need wealth, and possibly there would be no such thing as wealth. ERYXIAS: Clearly not. SOCRATES: Then our conclusion is, as would appear, that wealth is what is useful to this end? Eryxias once more gave his assent, but the small argument considerably troubled him. SOCRATES: And what is your opinion about another question:--Would you say that the same thing can be at one time useful and at another useless for the production of the same result? ERYXIAS: I cannot say more than that if we require the same thing to produce the same result, then it seems to me to be useful; if not, not. SOCRATES: Then if without the aid of fire we could make a brazen statue, we should not want fire for that purpose; and if we did not want it, it would be useless to us? And the argument applies equally in other cases. ERYXIAS: Clearly. SOCRATES: And therefore conditions which are not required for the existence of a thing are not useful for the production of it? ERYXIAS: Of course not. SOCRATES: And if without gold or silver or anything else which we do not use directly for the body in the way that we do food and drink and bedding and houses,--if without these we could satisfy the wants of the body, they would be of no use to us for that purpose? ERYXIAS: They would not. SOCRATES: They would no longer be regarded as wealth, because they are useless, whereas that would be wealth which enabled us to obtain what was useful to us? ERYXIAS: O Socrates, you will never be able to persuade me that gold and silver and similar things are not wealth. But I am very strongly of opinion that things which are useless to us are not wealth, and that the money which is useful for this purpose is of the greatest use; not that these things are not useful towards life, if by them we can procure wealth. SOCRATES: And how would you answer another question? There are persons, are there not, who teach music and grammar and other arts for pay, and thus procure those things of which they stand in need? ERYXIAS: There are. SOCRATES: And these men by the arts which they profess, and in exchange for them, obtain the necessities of life just as we do by means of gold and silver? ERYXIAS: True. SOCRATES: Then if they procure by this means what they want for the purposes of life, that art will be useful towards life? For do we not say that silver is useful because it enables us to supply our bodily needs? ERYXIAS: We do. SOCRATES: Then if these arts are reckoned among things useful, the arts are wealth for the same reason as gold and silver are, for, clearly, the possession of them gives wealth. Yet a little while ago we found it difficult to accept the argument which proved that the wisest are the wealthiest. But now there seems no escape from this conclusion. Suppose that we are asked, 'Is a horse useful to everybody?' will not our reply be, 'No, but only to those who know how to use a horse?' ERYXIAS: Certainly. SOCRATES: And so, too, physic is not useful to every one, but only to him who knows how to use it? ERYXIAS: True. SOCRATES: And the same is the case with everything else? ERYXIAS: Yes. SOCRATES: Then gold and silver and all the other elements which are supposed to make up wealth are only useful to the person who knows how to use them? ERYXIAS: Exactly. SOCRATES: And were we not saying before that it was the business of a good man and a gentleman to know where and how anything should be used? ERYXIAS: Yes. SOCRATES: The good and gentle, therefore will alone have profit from these things, supposing at least that they know how to use them. But if so, to them only will they seem to be wealth. It appears, however, that where a person is ignorant of riding, and has horses which are useless to him, if some one teaches him that art, he makes him also richer, for what was before useless has now become useful to him, and in giving him knowledge he has also conferred riches upon him. ERYXIAS: That is the case. SOCRATES: Yet I dare be sworn that Critias will not be moved a whit by the argument. CRITIAS: No, by heaven, I should be a madman if I were. But why do you not finish the argument which proves that gold and silver and other things which seem to be wealth are not real wealth? For I have been exceedingly delighted to hear the discourses which you have just been holding. SOCRATES: My argument, Critias (I said), appears to have given you the same kind of pleasure which you might have derived from some rhapsode's recitation of Homer; for you do not believe a word of what has been said. But come now, give me an answer to this question. Are not certain things useful to the builder when he is building a house? CRITIAS: They are. SOCRATES: And would you say that those things are useful which are employed in house building,--stones and bricks and beams and the like, and also the instruments with which the builder built the house, the beams and stones which they provided, and again the instruments by which these were obtained? CRITIAS: It seems to me that they are all useful for building. SOCRATES: And is it not true of every art, that not only the materials but the instruments by which we procure them and without which the work could not go on, are useful for that art? CRITIAS: Certainly. SOCRATES: And further, the instruments by which the instruments are procured, and so on, going back from stage to stage ad infinitum,--are not all these, in your opinion, necessary in order to carry out the work? CRITIAS: We may fairly suppose such to be the case. SOCRATES: And if a man has food and drink and clothes and the other things which are useful to the body, would he need gold or silver or any other means by which he could procure that which he now has? CRITIAS: I do not think so. SOCRATES: Then you consider that a man never wants any of these things for the use of the body? CRITIAS: Certainly not. SOCRATES: And if they appear useless to this end, ought they not always to appear useless? For we have already laid down the principle that things cannot be at one time useful and at another time not, in the same process. CRITIAS: But in that respect your argument and mine are the same. For you maintain if they are useful to a certain end, they can never become useless; whereas I say that in order to accomplish some results bad things are needed, and good for others. SOCRATES: But can a bad thing be used to carry out a good purpose? CRITIAS: I should say not. SOCRATES: And we call those actions good which a man does for the sake of virtue? CRITIAS: Yes. SOCRATES: But can a man learn any kind of knowledge which is imparted by word of mouth if he is wholly deprived of the sense of hearing? CRITIAS: Certainly not, I think. SOCRATES: And will not hearing be useful for virtue, if virtue is taught by hearing and we use the sense of hearing in giving instruction? CRITIAS: Yes. SOCRATES: And since medicine frees the sick man from his disease, that art too may sometimes appear useful in the acquisition of virtue, e.g. when hearing is procured by the aid of medicine. CRITIAS: Very likely. SOCRATES: But if, again, we obtain by wealth the aid of medicine, shall we not regard wealth as useful for virtue? CRITIAS: True. SOCRATES: And also the instruments by which wealth is procured? CRITIAS: Certainly. SOCRATES: Then you think that a man may gain wealth by bad and disgraceful means, and, having obtained the aid of medicine which enables him to acquire the power of hearing, may use that very faculty for the acquisition of virtue? CRITIAS: Yes, I do. SOCRATES: But can that which is evil be useful for virtue? CRITIAS: No. SOCRATES: It is not therefore necessary that the means by which we obtain what is useful for a certain object should always be useful for the same object: for it seems that bad actions may sometimes serve good purposes? The matter will be still plainer if we look at it in this way:--If things are useful towards the several ends for which they exist, which ends would not come into existence without them, how would you regard them? Can ignorance, for instance, be useful for knowledge, or disease for health, or vice for virtue? CRITIAS: Never. SOCRATES: And yet we have already agreed--have we not?--that there can be no knowledge where there has not previously been ignorance, nor health where there has not been disease, nor virtue where there has not been vice? CRITIAS: I think that we have. SOCRATES: But then it would seem that the antecedents without which a thing cannot exist are not necessarily useful to it. Otherwise ignorance would appear useful for knowledge, disease for health, and vice for virtue. Critias still showed great reluctance to accept any argument which went to prove that all these things were useless. I saw that it was as difficult to persuade him as (according to the proverb) it is to boil a stone, so I said: Let us bid 'good-bye' to the discussion, since we cannot agree whether these things are useful and a part of wealth or not. But what shall we say to another question: Which is the happier and better man,--he who requires the greatest quantity of necessaries for body and diet, or he who requires only the fewest and least? The answer will perhaps become more obvious if we suppose some one, comparing the man himself at different times, to consider whether his condition is better when he is sick or when he is well? CRITIAS: That is not a question which needs much consideration. SOCRATES: Probably, I said, every one can understand that health is a better condition than disease. But when have we the greatest and the most various needs, when we are sick or when we are well? CRITIAS: When we are sick. SOCRATES: And when we are in the worst state we have the greatest and most especial need and desire of bodily pleasures? CRITIAS: True. SOCRATES: And seeing that a man is best off when he is least in need of such things, does not the same reasoning apply to the case of any two persons, of whom one has many and great wants and desires, and the other few and moderate? For instance, some men are gamblers, some drunkards, and some gluttons: and gambling and the love of drink and greediness are all desires? CRITIAS: Certainly. SOCRATES: But desires are only the lack of something: and those who have the greatest desires are in a worse condition than those who have none or very slight ones? CRITIAS: Certainly I consider that those who have such wants are bad, and that the greater their wants the worse they are. SOCRATES: And do we think it possible that a thing should be useful for a purpose unless we have need of it for that purpose? CRITIAS: No. SOCRATES: Then if these things are useful for supplying the needs of the body, we must want them for that purpose? CRITIAS: That is my opinion. SOCRATES: And he to whom the greatest number of things are useful for his purpose, will also want the greatest number of means of accomplishing it, supposing that we necessarily feel the want of all useful things? CRITIAS: It seems so. SOCRATES: The argument proves then that he who has great riches has likewise need of many things for the supply of the wants of the body; for wealth appears useful towards that end. And the richest must be in the worst condition, since they seem to be most in want of such things. 
1676	----	ALCIBIADES I by Plato (may be spurious--see Appendix I) Translated by Benjamin Jowett APPENDIX I. It seems impossible to separate by any exact line the genuine writings of Plato from the spurious. The only external evidence to them which is of much value is that of Aristotle; for the Alexandrian catalogues of a century later include manifest forgeries. Even the value of the Aristotelian authority is a good deal impaired by the uncertainty concerning the date and authorship of the writings which are ascribed to him. And several of the citations of Aristotle omit the name of Plato, and some of them omit the name of the dialogue from which they are taken. Prior, however, to the enquiry about the writings of a particular author, general considerations which equally affect all evidence to the genuineness of ancient writings are the following: Shorter works are more likely to have been forged, or to have received an erroneous designation, than longer ones; and some kinds of composition, such as epistles or panegyrical orations, are more liable to suspicion than others; those, again, which have a taste of sophistry in them, or the ring of a later age, or the slighter character of a rhetorical exercise, or in which a motive or some affinity to spurious writings can be detected, or which seem to have originated in a name or statement really occurring in some classical author, are also of doubtful credit; while there is no instance of any ancient writing proved to be a forgery, which combines excellence with length. A really great and original writer would have no object in fathering his works on Plato; and to the forger or imitator, the 'literary hack' of Alexandria and Athens, the Gods did not grant originality or genius. Further, in attempting to balance the evidence for and against a Platonic dialogue, we must not forget that the form of the Platonic writing was common to several of his contemporaries. Aeschines, Euclid, Phaedo, Antisthenes, and in the next generation Aristotle, are all said to have composed dialogues; and mistakes of names are very likely to have occurred. Greek literature in the third century before Christ was almost as voluminous as our own, and without the safeguards of regular publication, or printing, or binding, or even of distinct titles. An unknown writing was naturally attributed to a known writer whose works bore the same character; and the name once appended easily obtained authority. A tendency may also be observed to blend the works and opinions of the master with those of his scholars. To a later Platonist, the difference between Plato and his imitators was not so perceptible as to ourselves. The Memorabilia of Xenophon and the Dialogues of Plato are but a part of a considerable Socratic literature which has passed away. And we must consider how we should regard the question of the genuineness of a particular writing, if this lost literature had been preserved to us. These considerations lead us to adopt the following criteria of genuineness: (1) That is most certainly Plato's which Aristotle attributes to him by name, which (2) is of considerable length, of (3) great excellence, and also (4) in harmony with the general spirit of the Platonic writings. But the testimony of Aristotle cannot always be distinguished from that of a later age (see above); and has various degrees of importance. Those writings which he cites without mentioning Plato, under their own names, e.g. the Hippias, the Funeral Oration, the Phaedo, etc., have an inferior degree of evidence in their favour. They may have been supposed by him to be the writings of another, although in the case of really great works, e.g. the Phaedo, this is not credible; those again which are quoted but not named, are still more defective in their external credentials. There may be also a possibility that Aristotle was mistaken, or may have confused the master and his scholars in the case of a short writing; but this is inconceivable about a more important work, e.g. the Laws, especially when we remember that he was living at Athens, and a frequenter of the groves of the Academy, during the last twenty years of Plato's life. Nor must we forget that in all his numerous citations from the Platonic writings he never attributes any passage found in the extant dialogues to any one but Plato. And lastly, we may remark that one or two great writings, such as the Parmenides and the Politicus, which are wholly devoid of Aristotelian (1) credentials may be fairly attributed to Plato, on the ground of (2) length, (3) excellence, and (4) accordance with the general spirit of his writings. Indeed the greater part of the evidence for the genuineness of ancient Greek authors may be summed up under two heads only: (1) excellence; and (2) uniformity of tradition--a kind of evidence, which though in many cases sufficient, is of inferior value. Proceeding upon these principles we appear to arrive at the conclusion that nineteen-twentieths of all the writings which have ever been ascribed to Plato, are undoubtedly genuine. There is another portion of them, including the Epistles, the Epinomis, the dialogues rejected by the ancients themselves, namely, the Axiochus, De justo, De virtute, Demodocus, Sisyphus, Eryxias, which on grounds, both of internal and external evidence, we are able with equal certainty to reject. But there still remains a small portion of which we are unable to affirm either that they are genuine or spurious. They may have been written in youth, or possibly like the works of some painters, may be partly or wholly the compositions of pupils; or they may have been the writings of some contemporary transferred by accident to the more celebrated name of Plato, or of some Platonist in the next generation who aspired to imitate his master. Not that on grounds either of language or philosophy we should lightly reject them. Some difference of style, or inferiority of execution, or inconsistency of thought, can hardly be considered decisive of their spurious character. For who always does justice to himself, or who writes with equal care at all times? Certainly not Plato, who exhibits the greatest differences in dramatic power, in the formation of sentences, and in the use of words, if his earlier writings are compared with his later ones, say the Protagoras or Phaedrus with the Laws. Or who can be expected to think in the same manner during a period of authorship extending over above fifty years, in an age of great intellectual activity, as well as of political and literary transition? Certainly not Plato, whose earlier writings are separated from his later ones by as wide an interval of philosophical speculation as that which separates his later writings from Aristotle. The dialogues which have been translated in the first Appendix, and which appear to have the next claim to genuineness among the Platonic writings, are the Lesser Hippias, the Menexenus or Funeral Oration, the First Alcibiades. Of these, the Lesser Hippias and the Funeral Oration are cited by Aristotle; the first in the Metaphysics, the latter in the Rhetoric. Neither of them are expressly attributed to Plato, but in his citation of both of them he seems to be referring to passages in the extant dialogues. From the mention of 'Hippias' in the singular by Aristotle, we may perhaps infer that he was unacquainted with a second dialogue bearing the same name. Moreover, the mere existence of a Greater and Lesser Hippias, and of a First and Second Alcibiades, does to a certain extent throw a doubt upon both of them. Though a very clever and ingenious work, the Lesser Hippias does not appear to contain anything beyond the power of an imitator, who was also a careful student of the earlier Platonic writings, to invent. The motive or leading thought of the dialogue may be detected in Xen. Mem., and there is no similar instance of a 'motive' which is taken from Xenophon in an undoubted dialogue of Plato. On the other hand, the upholders of the genuineness of the dialogue will find in the Hippias a true Socratic spirit; they will compare the Ion as being akin both in subject and treatment; they will urge the authority of Aristotle; and they will detect in the treatment of the Sophist, in the satirical reasoning upon Homer, in the reductio ad absurdum of the doctrine that vice is ignorance, traces of a Platonic authorship. In reference to the last point we are doubtful, as in some of the other dialogues, whether the author is asserting or overthrowing the paradox of Socrates, or merely following the argument 'whither the wind blows.' That no conclusion is arrived at is also in accordance with the character of the earlier dialogues. The resemblances or imitations of the Gorgias, Protagoras, and Euthydemus, which have been observed in the Hippias, cannot with certainty be adduced on either side of the argument. On the whole, more may be said in favour of the genuineness of the Hippias than against it. The Menexenus or Funeral Oration is cited by Aristotle, and is interesting as supplying an example of the manner in which the orators praised 'the Athenians among the Athenians,' falsifying persons and dates, and casting a veil over the gloomier events of Athenian history. It exhibits an acquaintance with the funeral oration of Thucydides, and was, perhaps, intended to rival that great work. If genuine, the proper place of the Menexenus would be at the end of the Phaedrus. The satirical opening and the concluding words bear a great resemblance to the earlier dialogues; the oration itself is professedly a mimetic work, like the speeches in the Phaedrus, and cannot therefore be tested by a comparison of the other writings of Plato. The funeral oration of Pericles is expressly mentioned in the Phaedrus, and this may have suggested the subject, in the same manner that the Cleitophon appears to be suggested by the slight mention of Cleitophon and his attachment to Thrasymachus in the Republic; and the Theages by the mention of Theages in the Apology and Republic; or as the Second Alcibiades seems to be founded upon the text of Xenophon, Mem. A similar taste for parody appears not only in the Phaedrus, but in the Protagoras, in the Symposium, and to a certain extent in the Parmenides. To these two doubtful writings of Plato I have added the First Alcibiades, which, of all the disputed dialogues of Plato, has the greatest merit, and is somewhat longer than any of them, though not verified by the testimony of Aristotle, and in many respects at variance with the Symposium in the description of the relations of Socrates and Alcibiades. Like the Lesser Hippias and the Menexenus, it is to be compared to the earlier writings of Plato. The motive of the piece may, perhaps, be found in that passage of the Symposium in which Alcibiades describes himself as self-convicted by the words of Socrates. For the disparaging manner in which Schleiermacher has spoken of this dialogue there seems to be no sufficient foundation. At the same time, the lesson imparted is simple, and the irony more transparent than in the undoubted dialogues of Plato. We know, too, that Alcibiades was a favourite thesis, and that at least five or six dialogues bearing this name passed current in antiquity, and are attributed to contemporaries of Socrates and Plato. (1) In the entire absence of real external evidence (for the catalogues of the Alexandrian librarians cannot be regarded as trustworthy); and (2) in the absence of the highest marks either of poetical or philosophical excellence; and (3) considering that we have express testimony to the existence of contemporary writings bearing the name of Alcibiades, we are compelled to suspend our judgment on the genuineness of the extant dialogue. Neither at this point, nor at any other, do we propose to draw an absolute line of demarcation between genuine and spurious writings of Plato. They fade off imperceptibly from one class to another. There may have been degrees of genuineness in the dialogues themselves, as there are certainly degrees of evidence by which they are supported. The traditions of the oral discourses both of Socrates and Plato may have formed the basis of semi-Platonic writings; some of them may be of the same mixed character which is apparent in Aristotle and Hippocrates, although the form of them is different. But the writings of Plato, unlike the writings of Aristotle, seem never to have been confused with the writings of his disciples: this was probably due to their definite form, and to their inimitable excellence. The three dialogues which we have offered in the Appendix to the criticism of the reader may be partly spurious and partly genuine; they may be altogether spurious;--that is an alternative which must be frankly admitted. Nor can we maintain of some other dialogues, such as the Parmenides, and the Sophist, and Politicus, that no considerable objection can be urged against them, though greatly overbalanced by the weight (chiefly) of internal evidence in their favour. Nor, on the other hand, can we exclude a bare possibility that some dialogues which are usually rejected, such as the Greater Hippias and the Cleitophon, may be genuine. The nature and object of these semi-Platonic writings require more careful study and more comparison of them with one another, and with forged writings in general, than they have yet received, before we can finally decide on their character. We do not consider them all as genuine until they can be proved to be spurious, as is often maintained and still more often implied in this and similar discussions; but should say of some of them, that their genuineness is neither proven nor disproven until further evidence about them can be adduced. And we are as confident that the Epistles are spurious, as that the Republic, the Timaeus, and the Laws are genuine. On the whole, not a twentieth part of the writings which pass under the name of Plato, if we exclude the works rejected by the ancients themselves and two or three other plausible inventions, can be fairly doubted by those who are willing to allow that a considerable change and growth may have taken place in his philosophy (see above). That twentieth debatable portion scarcely in any degree affects our judgment of Plato, either as a thinker or a writer, and though suggesting some interesting questions to the scholar and critic, is of little importance to the general reader. ALCIBIADES I by Plato (see Appendix I above) Translated by Benjamin Jowett INTRODUCTION. The First Alcibiades is a conversation between Socrates and Alcibiades. Socrates is represented in the character which he attributes to himself in the Apology of a know-nothing who detects the conceit of knowledge in others. The two have met already in the Protagoras and in the Symposium; in the latter dialogue, as in this, the relation between them is that of a lover and his beloved. But the narrative of their loves is told differently in different places; for in the Symposium Alcibiades is depicted as the impassioned but rejected lover; here, as coldly receiving the advances of Socrates, who, for the best of purposes, lies in wait for the aspiring and ambitious youth. Alcibiades, who is described as a very young man, is about to enter on public life, having an inordinate opinion of himself, and an extravagant ambition. Socrates, 'who knows what is in man,' astonishes him by a revelation of his designs. But has he the knowledge which is necessary for carrying them out? He is going to persuade the Athenians--about what? Not about any particular art, but about politics--when to fight and when to make peace. Now, men should fight and make peace on just grounds, and therefore the question of justice and injustice must enter into peace and war; and he who advises the Athenians must know the difference between them. Does Alcibiades know? If he does, he must either have been taught by some master, or he must have discovered the nature of them himself. If he has had a master, Socrates would like to be informed who he is, that he may go and learn of him also. Alcibiades admits that he has never learned. Then has he enquired for himself? He may have, if he was ever aware of a time when he was ignorant. But he never was ignorant; for when he played with other boys at dice, he charged them with cheating, and this implied a knowledge of just and unjust. According to his own explanation, he had learned of the multitude. Why, he asks, should he not learn of them the nature of justice, as he has learned the Greek language of them? To this Socrates answers, that they can teach Greek, but they cannot teach justice; for they are agreed about the one, but they are not agreed about the other: and therefore Alcibiades, who has admitted that if he knows he must either have learned from a master or have discovered for himself the nature of justice, is convicted out of his own mouth. Alcibiades rejoins, that the Athenians debate not about what is just, but about what is expedient; and he asserts that the two principles of justice and expediency are opposed. Socrates, by a series of questions, compels him to admit that the just and the expedient coincide. Alcibiades is thus reduced to the humiliating conclusion that he knows nothing of politics, even if, as he says, they are concerned with the expedient. However, he is no worse than other Athenian statesmen; and he will not need training, for others are as ignorant as he is. He is reminded that he has to contend, not only with his own countrymen, but with their enemies--with the Spartan kings and with the great king of Persia; and he can only attain this higher aim of ambition by the assistance of Socrates. Not that Socrates himself professes to have attained the truth, but the questions which he asks bring others to a knowledge of themselves, and this is the first step in the practice of virtue. The dialogue continues:--We wish to become as good as possible. But to be good in what? Alcibiades replies--'Good in transacting business.' But what business? 'The business of the most intelligent men at Athens.' The cobbler is intelligent in shoemaking, and is therefore good in that; he is not intelligent, and therefore not good, in weaving. Is he good in the sense which Alcibiades means, who is also bad? 'I mean,' replies Alcibiades, 'the man who is able to command in the city.' But to command what--horses or men? and if men, under what circumstances? 'I mean to say, that he is able to command men living in social and political relations.' And what is their aim? 'The better preservation of the city.' But when is a city better? 'When there is unanimity, such as exists between husband and wife.' Then, when husbands and wives perform their own special duties, there can be no unanimity between them; nor can a city be well ordered when each citizen does his own work only. Alcibiades, having stated first that goodness consists in the unanimity of the citizens, and then in each of them doing his own separate work, is brought to the required point of self-contradiction, leading him to confess his own ignorance. But he is not too old to learn, and may still arrive at the truth, if he is willing to be cross-examined by Socrates. He must know himself; that is to say, not his body, or the things of the body, but his mind, or truer self. The physician knows the body, and the tradesman knows his own business, but they do not necessarily know themselves. Self-knowledge can be obtained only by looking into the mind and virtue of the soul, which is the diviner part of a man, as we see our own image in another's eye. And if we do not know ourselves, we cannot know what belongs to ourselves or belongs to others, and are unfit to take a part in political affairs. Both for the sake of the individual and of the state, we ought to aim at justice and temperance, not at wealth or power. The evil and unjust should have no power,--they should be the slaves of better men than themselves. None but the virtuous are deserving of freedom. And are you, Alcibiades, a freeman? 'I feel that I am not; but I hope, Socrates, that by your aid I may become free, and from this day forward I will never leave you.' The Alcibiades has several points of resemblance to the undoubted dialogues of Plato. The process of interrogation is of the same kind with that which Socrates practises upon the youthful Cleinias in the Euthydemus; and he characteristically attributes to Alcibiades the answers which he has elicited from him. The definition of good is narrowed by successive questions, and virtue is shown to be identical with knowledge. Here, as elsewhere, Socrates awakens the consciousness not of sin but of ignorance. Self-humiliation is the first step to knowledge, even of the commonest things. No man knows how ignorant he is, and no man can arrive at virtue and wisdom who has not once in his life, at least, been convicted of error. The process by which the soul is elevated is not unlike that which religious writers describe under the name of 'conversion,' if we substitute the sense of ignorance for the consciousness of sin. In some respects the dialogue differs from any other Platonic composition. The aim is more directly ethical and hortatory; the process by which the antagonist is undermined is simpler than in other Platonic writings, and the conclusion more decided. There is a good deal of humour in the manner in which the pride of Alcibiades, and of the Greeks generally, is supposed to be taken down by the Spartan and Persian queens; and the dialogue has considerable dialectical merit. But we have a difficulty in supposing that the same writer, who has given so profound and complex a notion of the characters both of Alcibiades and Socrates in the Symposium, should have treated them in so thin and superficial a manner in the Alcibiades, or that he would have ascribed to the ironical Socrates the rather unmeaning boast that Alcibiades could not attain the objects of his ambition without his help; or that he should have imagined that a mighty nature like his could have been reformed by a few not very conclusive words of Socrates. For the arguments by which Alcibiades is reformed are not convincing; the writer of the dialogue, whoever he was, arrives at his idealism by crooked and tortuous paths, in which many pitfalls are concealed. The anachronism of making Alcibiades about twenty years old during the life of his uncle, Pericles, may be noted; and the repetition of the favourite observation, which occurs also in the Laches and Protagoras, that great Athenian statesmen, like Pericles, failed in the education of their sons. There is none of the undoubted dialogues of Plato in which there is so little dramatic verisimilitude. ALCIBIADES I by Plato (see Appendix I above) Translated by Benjamin Jowett PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE: Alcibiades, Socrates. SOCRATES: I dare say that you may be surprised to find, O son of Cleinias, that I, who am your first lover, not having spoken to you for many years, when the rest of the world were wearying you with their attentions, am the last of your lovers who still speaks to you. The cause of my silence has been that I was hindered by a power more than human, of which I will some day explain to you the nature; this impediment has now been removed; I therefore here present myself before you, and I greatly hope that no similar hindrance will again occur. Meanwhile, I have observed that your pride has been too much for the pride of your admirers; they were numerous and high-spirited, but they have all run away, overpowered by your superior force of character; not one of them remains. And I want you to understand the reason why you have been too much for them. You think that you have no need of them or of any other man, for you have great possessions and lack nothing, beginning with the body, and ending with the soul. In the first place, you say to yourself that you are the fairest and tallest of the citizens, and this every one who has eyes may see to be true; in the second place, that you are among the noblest of them, highly connected both on the father's and the mother's side, and sprung from one of the most distinguished families in your own state, which is the greatest in Hellas, and having many friends and kinsmen of the best sort, who can assist you when in need; and there is one potent relative, who is more to you than all the rest, Pericles the son of Xanthippus, whom your father left guardian of you, and of your brother, and who can do as he pleases not only in this city, but in all Hellas, and among many and mighty barbarous nations. Moreover, you are rich; but I must say that you value yourself least of all upon your possessions. And all these things have lifted you up; you have overcome your lovers, and they have acknowledged that you were too much for them. Have you not remarked their absence? And now I know that you wonder why I, unlike the rest of them, have not gone away, and what can be my motive in remaining. ALCIBIADES: Perhaps, Socrates, you are not aware that I was just going to ask you the very same question--What do you want? And what is your motive in annoying me, and always, wherever I am, making a point of coming? (Compare Symp.) I do really wonder what you mean, and should greatly like to know. SOCRATES: Then if, as you say, you desire to know, I suppose that you will be willing to hear, and I may consider myself to be speaking to an auditor who will remain, and will not run away? ALCIBIADES: Certainly, let me hear. SOCRATES: You had better be careful, for I may very likely be as unwilling to end as I have hitherto been to begin. ALCIBIADES: Proceed, my good man, and I will listen. SOCRATES: I will proceed; and, although no lover likes to speak with one who has no feeling of love in him (compare Symp.), I will make an effort, and tell you what I meant: My love, Alcibiades, which I hardly like to confess, would long ago have passed away, as I flatter myself, if I saw you loving your good things, or thinking that you ought to pass life in the enjoyment of them. But I shall reveal other thoughts of yours, which you keep to yourself; whereby you will know that I have always had my eye on you. Suppose that at this moment some God came to you and said: Alcibiades, will you live as you are, or die in an instant if you are forbidden to make any further acquisition?--I verily believe that you would choose death. And I will tell you the hope in which you are at present living: Before many days have elapsed, you think that you will come before the Athenian assembly, and will prove to them that you are more worthy of honour than Pericles, or any other man that ever lived, and having proved this, you will have the greatest power in the state. When you have gained the greatest power among us, you will go on to other Hellenic states, and not only to Hellenes, but to all the barbarians who inhabit the same continent with us. And if the God were then to say to you again: Here in Europe is to be your seat of empire, and you must not cross over into Asia or meddle with Asiatic affairs, I do not believe that you would choose to live upon these terms; but the world, as I may say, must be filled with your power and name--no man less than Cyrus and Xerxes is of any account with you. Such I know to be your hopes--I am not guessing only--and very likely you, who know that I am speaking the truth, will reply, Well, Socrates, but what have my hopes to do with the explanation which you promised of your unwillingness to leave me? And that is what I am now going to tell you, sweet son of Cleinias and Dinomache. The explanation is, that all these designs of yours cannot be accomplished by you without my help; so great is the power which I believe myself to have over you and your concerns; and this I conceive to be the reason why the God has hitherto forbidden me to converse with you, and I have been long expecting his permission. For, as you hope to prove your own great value to the state, and having proved it, to attain at once to absolute power, so do I indulge a hope that I shall be the supreme power over you, if I am able to prove my own great value to you, and to show you that neither guardian, nor kinsman, nor any one is able to deliver into your hands the power which you desire, but I only, God being my helper. When you were young (compare Symp.) and your hopes were not yet matured, I should have wasted my time, and therefore, as I conceive, the God forbade me to converse with you; but now, having his permission, I will speak, for now you will listen to me. ALCIBIADES: Your silence, Socrates, was always a surprise to me. I never could understand why you followed me about, and now that you have begun to speak again, I am still more amazed. Whether I think all this or not, is a matter about which you seem to have already made up your mind, and therefore my denial will have no effect upon you. But granting, if I must, that you have perfectly divined my purposes, why is your assistance necessary to the attainment of them? Can you tell me why? SOCRATES: You want to know whether I can make a long speech, such as you are in the habit of hearing; but that is not my way. I think, however, that I can prove to you the truth of what I am saying, if you will grant me one little favour. ALCIBIADES: Yes, if the favour which you mean be not a troublesome one. SOCRATES: Will you be troubled at having questions to answer? ALCIBIADES: Not at all. SOCRATES: Then please to answer. ALCIBIADES: Ask me. SOCRATES: Have you not the intention which I attribute to you? ALCIBIADES: I will grant anything you like, in the hope of hearing what more you have to say. SOCRATES: You do, then, mean, as I was saying, to come forward in a little while in the character of an adviser of the Athenians? And suppose that when you are ascending the bema, I pull you by the sleeve and say, Alcibiades, you are getting up to advise the Athenians--do you know the matter about which they are going to deliberate, better than they?--How would you answer? ALCIBIADES: I should reply, that I was going to advise them about a matter which I do know better than they. SOCRATES: Then you are a good adviser about the things which you know? ALCIBIADES: Certainly. SOCRATES: And do you know anything but what you have learned of others, or found out yourself? ALCIBIADES: That is all. SOCRATES: And would you have ever learned or discovered anything, if you had not been willing either to learn of others or to examine yourself? ALCIBIADES: I should not. SOCRATES: And would you have been willing to learn or to examine what you supposed that you knew? ALCIBIADES: Certainly not. SOCRATES: Then there was a time when you thought that you did not know what you are now supposed to know? ALCIBIADES: Certainly. SOCRATES: I think that I know tolerably well the extent of your acquirements; and you must tell me if I forget any of them: according to my recollection, you learned the arts of writing, of playing on the lyre, and of wrestling; the flute you never would learn; this is the sum of your accomplishments, unless there were some which you acquired in secret; and I think that secrecy was hardly possible, as you could not have come out of your door, either by day or night, without my seeing you. ALCIBIADES: Yes, that was the whole of my schooling. SOCRATES: And are you going to get up in the Athenian assembly, and give them advice about writing? ALCIBIADES: No, indeed. SOCRATES: Or about the touch of the lyre? ALCIBIADES: Certainly not. SOCRATES: And they are not in the habit of deliberating about wrestling, in the assembly? ALCIBIADES: Hardly. SOCRATES: Then what are the deliberations in which you propose to advise them? Surely not about building? ALCIBIADES: No. SOCRATES: For the builder will advise better than you will about that? ALCIBIADES: He will. SOCRATES: Nor about divination? ALCIBIADES: No. SOCRATES: About that again the diviner will advise better than you will? ALCIBIADES: True. SOCRATES: Whether he be little or great, good or ill-looking, noble or ignoble--makes no difference. ALCIBIADES: Certainly not. SOCRATES: A man is a good adviser about anything, not because he has riches, but because he has knowledge? ALCIBIADES: Assuredly. SOCRATES: Whether their counsellor is rich or poor, is not a matter which will make any difference to the Athenians when they are deliberating about the health of the citizens; they only require that he should be a physician. ALCIBIADES: Of course. SOCRATES: Then what will be the subject of deliberation about which you will be justified in getting up and advising them? ALCIBIADES: About their own concerns, Socrates. SOCRATES: You mean about shipbuilding, for example, when the question is what sort of ships they ought to build? ALCIBIADES: No, I should not advise them about that. SOCRATES: I suppose, because you do not understand shipbuilding:--is that the reason? ALCIBIADES: It is. SOCRATES: Then about what concerns of theirs will you advise them? ALCIBIADES: About war, Socrates, or about peace, or about any other concerns of the state. SOCRATES: You mean, when they deliberate with whom they ought to make peace, and with whom they ought to go to war, and in what manner? ALCIBIADES: Yes. SOCRATES: And they ought to go to war with those against whom it is better to go to war? ALCIBIADES: Yes. SOCRATES: And when it is better? ALCIBIADES: Certainly. SOCRATES: And for as long a time as is better? ALCIBIADES: Yes. SOCRATES: But suppose the Athenians to deliberate with whom they ought to close in wrestling, and whom they should grasp by the hand, would you, or the master of gymnastics, be a better adviser of them? ALCIBIADES: Clearly, the master of gymnastics. SOCRATES: And can you tell me on what grounds the master of gymnastics would decide, with whom they ought or ought not to close, and when and how? To take an instance: Would he not say that they should wrestle with those against whom it is best to wrestle? ALCIBIADES: Yes. SOCRATES: And as much as is best? ALCIBIADES: Certainly. SOCRATES: And at such times as are best? ALCIBIADES: Yes. SOCRATES: Again; you sometimes accompany the lyre with the song and dance? ALCIBIADES: Yes. SOCRATES: When it is well to do so? ALCIBIADES: Yes. SOCRATES: And as much as is well? ALCIBIADES: Just so. SOCRATES: And as you speak of an excellence or art of the best in wrestling, and of an excellence in playing the lyre, I wish you would tell me what this latter is;--the excellence of wrestling I call gymnastic, and I want to know what you call the other. ALCIBIADES: I do not understand you. SOCRATES: Then try to do as I do; for the answer which I gave is universally right, and when I say right, I mean according to rule. ALCIBIADES: Yes. SOCRATES: And was not the art of which I spoke gymnastic? ALCIBIADES: Certainly. SOCRATES: And I called the excellence in wrestling gymnastic? ALCIBIADES: You did. SOCRATES: And I was right? ALCIBIADES: I think that you were. SOCRATES: Well, now,--for you should learn to argue prettily--let me ask you in return to tell me, first, what is that art of which playing and singing, and stepping properly in the dance, are parts,--what is the name of the whole? I think that by this time you must be able to tell. ALCIBIADES: Indeed I cannot. SOCRATES: Then let me put the matter in another way: what do you call the Goddesses who are the patronesses of art? ALCIBIADES: The Muses do you mean, Socrates? SOCRATES: Yes, I do; and what is the name of the art which is called after them? ALCIBIADES: I suppose that you mean music. SOCRATES: Yes, that is my meaning; and what is the excellence of the art of music, as I told you truly that the excellence of wrestling was gymnastic--what is the excellence of music--to be what? ALCIBIADES: To be musical, I suppose. SOCRATES: Very good; and now please to tell me what is the excellence of war and peace; as the more musical was the more excellent, or the more gymnastical was the more excellent, tell me, what name do you give to the more excellent in war and peace? ALCIBIADES: But I really cannot tell you. SOCRATES: But if you were offering advice to another and said to him--This food is better than that, at this time and in this quantity, and he said to you--What do you mean, Alcibiades, by the word 'better'? you would have no difficulty in replying that you meant 'more wholesome,' although you do not profess to be a physician: and when the subject is one of which you profess to have knowledge, and about which you are ready to get up and advise as if you knew, are you not ashamed, when you are asked, not to be able to answer the question? Is it not disgraceful? ALCIBIADES: Very. SOCRATES: Well, then, consider and try to explain what is the meaning of 'better,' in the matter of making peace and going to war with those against whom you ought to go to war? To what does the word refer? ALCIBIADES: I am thinking, and I cannot tell. SOCRATES: But you surely know what are the charges which we bring against one another, when we arrive at the point of making war, and what name we give them? ALCIBIADES: Yes, certainly; we say that deceit or violence has been employed, or that we have been defrauded. SOCRATES: And how does this happen? Will you tell me how? For there may be a difference in the manner. ALCIBIADES: Do you mean by 'how,' Socrates, whether we suffered these things justly or unjustly? SOCRATES: Exactly. ALCIBIADES: There can be no greater difference than between just and unjust. SOCRATES: And would you advise the Athenians to go to war with the just or with the unjust? ALCIBIADES: That is an awkward question; for certainly, even if a person did intend to go to war with the just, he would not admit that they were just. SOCRATES: He would not go to war, because it would be unlawful? ALCIBIADES: Neither lawful nor honourable. SOCRATES: Then you, too, would address them on principles of justice? ALCIBIADES: Certainly. SOCRATES: What, then, is justice but that better, of which I spoke, in going to war or not going to war with those against whom we ought or ought not, and when we ought or ought not to go to war? ALCIBIADES: Clearly. SOCRATES: But how is this, friend Alcibiades? Have you forgotten that you do not know this, or have you been to the schoolmaster without my knowledge, and has he taught you to discern the just from the unjust? Who is he? I wish you would tell me, that I may go and learn of him--you shall introduce me. ALCIBIADES: You are mocking, Socrates. SOCRATES: No, indeed; I most solemnly declare to you by Zeus, who is the God of our common friendship, and whom I never will forswear, that I am not; tell me, then, who this instructor is, if he exists. ALCIBIADES: But, perhaps, he does not exist; may I not have acquired the knowledge of just and unjust in some other way? SOCRATES: Yes; if you have discovered them. ALCIBIADES: But do you not think that I could discover them? SOCRATES: I am sure that you might, if you enquired about them. ALCIBIADES: And do you not think that I would enquire? SOCRATES: Yes; if you thought that you did not know them. ALCIBIADES: And was there not a time when I did so think? SOCRATES: Very good; and can you tell me how long it is since you thought that you did not know the nature of the just and the unjust? What do you say to a year ago? Were you then in a state of conscious ignorance and enquiry? Or did you think that you knew? And please to answer truly, that our discussion may not be in vain. ALCIBIADES: Well, I thought that I knew. SOCRATES: And two years ago, and three years ago, and four years ago, you knew all the same? ALCIBIADES: I did. SOCRATES: And more than four years ago you were a child--were you not? ALCIBIADES: Yes. SOCRATES: And then I am quite sure that you thought you knew. ALCIBIADES: Why are you so sure? SOCRATES: Because I often heard you when a child, in your teacher's house, or elsewhere, playing at dice or some other game with the boys, not hesitating at all about the nature of the just and unjust; but very confident--crying and shouting that one of the boys was a rogue and a cheat, and had been cheating. Is it not true? ALCIBIADES: But what was I to do, Socrates, when anybody cheated me? SOCRATES: And how can you say, 'What was I to do'? if at the time you did not know whether you were wronged or not? ALCIBIADES: To be sure I knew; I was quite aware that I was being cheated. SOCRATES: Then you suppose yourself even when a child to have known the nature of just and unjust? ALCIBIADES: Certainly; and I did know then. SOCRATES: And when did you discover them--not, surely, at the time when you thought that you knew them? ALCIBIADES: Certainly not. SOCRATES: And when did you think that you were ignorant--if you consider, you will find that there never was such a time? ALCIBIADES: Really, Socrates, I cannot say. SOCRATES: Then you did not learn them by discovering them? ALCIBIADES: Clearly not. SOCRATES: But just before you said that you did not know them by learning; now, if you have neither discovered nor learned them, how and whence do you come to know them? ALCIBIADES: I suppose that I was mistaken in saying that I knew them through my own discovery of them; whereas, in truth, I learned them in the same way that other people learn. SOCRATES: So you said before, and I must again ask, of whom? Do tell me. ALCIBIADES: Of the many. SOCRATES: Do you take refuge in them? I cannot say much for your teachers. ALCIBIADES: Why, are they not able to teach? SOCRATES: They could not teach you how to play at draughts, which you would acknowledge (would you not) to be a much smaller matter than justice? ALCIBIADES: Yes. SOCRATES: And can they teach the better who are unable to teach the worse? ALCIBIADES: I think that they can; at any rate, they can teach many far better things than to play at draughts. SOCRATES: What things? ALCIBIADES: Why, for example, I learned to speak Greek of them, and I cannot say who was my teacher, or to whom I am to attribute my knowledge of Greek, if not to those good-for-nothing teachers, as you call them. SOCRATES: Why, yes, my friend; and the many are good enough teachers of Greek, and some of their instructions in that line may be justly praised. ALCIBIADES: Why is that? SOCRATES: Why, because they have the qualities which good teachers ought to have. ALCIBIADES: What qualities? SOCRATES: Why, you know that knowledge is the first qualification of any teacher? ALCIBIADES: Certainly. SOCRATES: And if they know, they must agree together and not differ? ALCIBIADES: Yes. SOCRATES: And would you say that they knew the things about which they differ? ALCIBIADES: No. SOCRATES: Then how can they teach them? ALCIBIADES: They cannot. SOCRATES: Well, but do you imagine that the many would differ about the nature of wood and stone? are they not agreed if you ask them what they are? and do they not run to fetch the same thing, when they want a piece of wood or a stone? And so in similar cases, which I suspect to be pretty nearly all that you mean by speaking Greek. ALCIBIADES: True. SOCRATES: These, as we were saying, are matters about which they are agreed with one another and with themselves; both individuals and states use the same words about them; they do not use some one word and some another. ALCIBIADES: They do not. SOCRATES: Then they may be expected to be good teachers of these things? ALCIBIADES: Yes. SOCRATES: And if we want to instruct any one in them, we shall be right in sending him to be taught by our friends the many? ALCIBIADES: Very true. SOCRATES: But if we wanted further to know not only which are men and which are horses, but which men or horses have powers of running, would the many still be able to inform us? ALCIBIADES: Certainly not. SOCRATES: And you have a sufficient proof that they do not know these things and are not the best teachers of them, inasmuch as they are never agreed about them? ALCIBIADES: Yes. SOCRATES: And suppose that we wanted to know not only what men are like, but what healthy or diseased men are like--would the many be able to teach us? ALCIBIADES: They would not. SOCRATES: And you would have a proof that they were bad teachers of these matters, if you saw them at variance? ALCIBIADES: I should. SOCRATES: Well, but are the many agreed with themselves, or with one another, about the justice or injustice of men and things? ALCIBIADES: Assuredly not, Socrates. SOCRATES: There is no subject about which they are more at variance? ALCIBIADES: None. SOCRATES: I do not suppose that you ever saw or heard of men quarrelling over the principles of health and disease to such an extent as to go to war and kill one another for the sake of them? ALCIBIADES: No indeed. SOCRATES: But of the quarrels about justice and injustice, even if you have never seen them, you have certainly heard from many people, including Homer; for you have heard of the Iliad and Odyssey? ALCIBIADES: To be sure, Socrates. SOCRATES: A difference of just and unjust is the argument of those poems? ALCIBIADES: True. SOCRATES: Which difference caused all the wars and deaths of Trojans and Achaeans, and the deaths of the suitors of Penelope in their quarrel with Odysseus. ALCIBIADES: Very true. SOCRATES: And when the Athenians and Lacedaemonians and Boeotians fell at Tanagra, and afterwards in the battle of Coronea, at which your father Cleinias met his end, the question was one of justice--this was the sole cause of the battles, and of their deaths. ALCIBIADES: Very true. SOCRATES: But can they be said to understand that about which they are quarrelling to the death? ALCIBIADES: Clearly not. SOCRATES: And yet those whom you thus allow to be ignorant are the teachers to whom you are appealing. ALCIBIADES: Very true. SOCRATES: But how are you ever likely to know the nature of justice and injustice, about which you are so perplexed, if you have neither learned them of others nor discovered them yourself? ALCIBIADES: From what you say, I suppose not. SOCRATES: See, again, how inaccurately you speak, Alcibiades! ALCIBIADES: In what respect? SOCRATES: In saying that I say so. ALCIBIADES: Why, did you not say that I know nothing of the just and unjust? SOCRATES: No; I did not. ALCIBIADES: Did I, then? SOCRATES: Yes. ALCIBIADES: How was that? SOCRATES: Let me explain. Suppose I were to ask you which is the greater number, two or one; you would reply 'two'? ALCIBIADES: I should. SOCRATES: And by how much greater? ALCIBIADES: By one. SOCRATES: Which of us now says that two is more than one? ALCIBIADES: I do. SOCRATES: Did not I ask, and you answer the question? ALCIBIADES: Yes. SOCRATES: Then who is speaking? I who put the question, or you who answer me? ALCIBIADES: I am. SOCRATES: Or suppose that I ask and you tell me the letters which make up the name Socrates, which of us is the speaker? ALCIBIADES: I am. SOCRATES: Now let us put the case generally: whenever there is a question and answer, who is the speaker,--the questioner or the answerer? ALCIBIADES: I should say, Socrates, that the answerer was the speaker. SOCRATES: And have I not been the questioner all through? ALCIBIADES: Yes. SOCRATES: And you the answerer? ALCIBIADES: Just so. SOCRATES: Which of us, then, was the speaker? ALCIBIADES: The inference is, Socrates, that I was the speaker. SOCRATES: Did not some one say that Alcibiades, the fair son of Cleinias, not understanding about just and unjust, but thinking that he did understand, was going to the assembly to advise the Athenians about what he did not know? Was not that said? ALCIBIADES: Very true. SOCRATES: Then, Alcibiades, the result may be expressed in the language of Euripides. I think that you have heard all this 'from yourself, and not from me'; nor did I say this, which you erroneously attribute to me, but you yourself, and what you said was very true. For indeed, my dear fellow, the design which you meditate of teaching what you do not know, and have not taken any pains to learn, is downright insanity. ALCIBIADES: But, Socrates, I think that the Athenians and the rest of the Hellenes do not often advise as to the more just or unjust; for they see no difficulty in them, and therefore they leave them, and consider which course of action will be most expedient; for there is a difference between justice and expediency. Many persons have done great wrong and profited by their injustice; others have done rightly and come to no good. SOCRATES: Well, but granting that the just and the expedient are ever so much opposed, you surely do not imagine that you know what is expedient for mankind, or why a thing is expedient? ALCIBIADES: Why not, Socrates?--But I am not going to be asked again from whom I learned, or when I made the discovery. SOCRATES: What a way you have! When you make a mistake which might be refuted by a previous argument, you insist on having a new and different refutation; the old argument is a worn-our garment which you will no longer put on, but some one must produce another which is clean and new. Now I shall disregard this move of yours, and shall ask over again,--Where did you learn and how do you know the nature of the expedient, and who is your teacher? All this I comprehend in a single question, and now you will manifestly be in the old difficulty, and will not be able to show that you know the expedient, either because you learned or because you discovered it yourself. But, as I perceive that you are dainty, and dislike the taste of a stale argument, I will enquire no further into your knowledge of what is expedient or what is not expedient for the Athenian people, and simply request you to say why you do not explain whether justice and expediency are the same or different? And if you like you may examine me as I have examined you, or, if you would rather, you may carry on the discussion by yourself. ALCIBIADES: But I am not certain, Socrates, whether I shall be able to discuss the matter with you. SOCRATES: Then imagine, my dear fellow, that I am the demus and the ecclesia; for in the ecclesia, too, you will have to persuade men individually. ALCIBIADES: Yes. SOCRATES: And is not the same person able to persuade one individual singly and many individuals of the things which he knows? The grammarian, for example, can persuade one and he can persuade many about letters. ALCIBIADES: True. SOCRATES: And about number, will not the same person persuade one and persuade many? ALCIBIADES: Yes. SOCRATES: And this will be he who knows number, or the arithmetician? ALCIBIADES: Quite true. SOCRATES: And cannot you persuade one man about that of which you can persuade many? ALCIBIADES: I suppose so. SOCRATES: And that of which you can persuade either is clearly what you know? ALCIBIADES: Yes. SOCRATES: And the only difference between one who argues as we are doing, and the orator who is addressing an assembly, is that the one seeks to persuade a number, and the other an individual, of the same things. ALCIBIADES: I suppose so. SOCRATES: Well, then, since the same person who can persuade a multitude can persuade individuals, try conclusions upon me, and prove to me that the just is not always expedient. ALCIBIADES: You take liberties, Socrates. SOCRATES: I shall take the liberty of proving to you the opposite of that which you will not prove to me. ALCIBIADES: Proceed. SOCRATES: Answer my questions--that is all. ALCIBIADES: Nay, I should like you to be the speaker. SOCRATES: What, do you not wish to be persuaded? ALCIBIADES: Certainly I do. SOCRATES: And can you be persuaded better than out of your own mouth? ALCIBIADES: I think not. SOCRATES: Then you shall answer; and if you do not hear the words, that the just is the expedient, coming from your own lips, never believe another man again. ALCIBIADES: I won't; but answer I will, for I do not see how I can come to any harm. SOCRATES: A true prophecy! Let me begin then by enquiring of you whether you allow that the just is sometimes expedient and sometimes not? ALCIBIADES: Yes. SOCRATES: And sometimes honourable and sometimes not? ALCIBIADES: What do you mean? SOCRATES: I am asking if you ever knew any one who did what was dishonourable and yet just? ALCIBIADES: Never. SOCRATES: All just things are honourable? ALCIBIADES: Yes. SOCRATES: And are honourable things sometimes good and sometimes not good, or are they always good? ALCIBIADES: I rather think, Socrates, that some honourable things are evil. SOCRATES: And are some dishonourable things good? ALCIBIADES: Yes. SOCRATES: You mean in such a case as the following:--In time of war, men have been wounded or have died in rescuing a companion or kinsman, when others who have neglected the duty of rescuing them have escaped in safety? ALCIBIADES: True. SOCRATES: And to rescue another under such circumstances is honourable, in respect of the attempt to save those whom we ought to save; and this is courage? ALCIBIADES: True. SOCRATES: But evil in respect of death and wounds? ALCIBIADES: Yes. SOCRATES: And the courage which is shown in the rescue is one thing, and the death another? ALCIBIADES: Certainly. SOCRATES: Then the rescue of one's friends is honourable in one point of view, but evil in another? ALCIBIADES: True. SOCRATES: And if honourable, then also good: Will you consider now whether I may not be right, for you were acknowledging that the courage which is shown in the rescue is honourable? Now is this courage good or evil? Look at the matter thus: which would you rather choose, good or evil? ALCIBIADES: Good. SOCRATES: And the greatest goods you would be most ready to choose, and would least like to be deprived of them? ALCIBIADES: Certainly. SOCRATES: What would you say of courage? At what price would you be willing to be deprived of courage? ALCIBIADES: I would rather die than be a coward. SOCRATES: Then you think that cowardice is the worst of evils? ALCIBIADES: I do. SOCRATES: As bad as death, I suppose? ALCIBIADES: Yes. SOCRATES: And life and courage are the extreme opposites of death and cowardice? ALCIBIADES: Yes. SOCRATES: And they are what you would most desire to have, and their opposites you would least desire? ALCIBIADES: Yes. SOCRATES: Is this because you think life and courage the best, and death and cowardice the worst? ALCIBIADES: Yes. SOCRATES: And you would term the rescue of a friend in battle honourable, in as much as courage does a good work? ALCIBIADES: I should. SOCRATES: But evil because of the death which ensues? ALCIBIADES: Yes. SOCRATES: Might we not describe their different effects as follows:--You may call either of them evil in respect of the evil which is the result, and good in respect of the good which is the result of either of them? ALCIBIADES: Yes. SOCRATES: And they are honourable in so far as they are good, and dishonourable in so far as they are evil? ALCIBIADES: True. SOCRATES: Then when you say that the rescue of a friend in battle is honourable and yet evil, that is equivalent to saying that the rescue is good and yet evil? ALCIBIADES: I believe that you are right, Socrates. SOCRATES: Nothing honourable, regarded as honourable, is evil; nor anything base, regarded as base, good. ALCIBIADES: Clearly not. SOCRATES: Look at the matter yet once more in a further light: he who acts honourably acts well? ALCIBIADES: Yes. SOCRATES: And he who acts well is happy? ALCIBIADES: Of course. SOCRATES: And the happy are those who obtain good? ALCIBIADES: True. SOCRATES: And they obtain good by acting well and honourably? ALCIBIADES: Yes. SOCRATES: Then acting well is a good? ALCIBIADES: Certainly. SOCRATES: And happiness is a good? ALCIBIADES: Yes. SOCRATES: Then the good and the honourable are again identified. ALCIBIADES: Manifestly. SOCRATES: Then, if the argument holds, what we find to be honourable we shall also find to be good? ALCIBIADES: Certainly. SOCRATES: And is the good expedient or not? ALCIBIADES: Expedient. SOCRATES: Do you remember our admissions about the just? ALCIBIADES: Yes; if I am not mistaken, we said that those who acted justly must also act honourably. SOCRATES: And the honourable is the good? ALCIBIADES: Yes. SOCRATES: And the good is expedient? ALCIBIADES: Yes. SOCRATES: Then, Alcibiades, the just is expedient? ALCIBIADES: I should infer so. SOCRATES: And all this I prove out of your own mouth, for I ask and you answer? ALCIBIADES: I must acknowledge it to be true. SOCRATES: And having acknowledged that the just is the same as the expedient, are you not (let me ask) prepared to ridicule any one who, pretending to understand the principles of justice and injustice, gets up to advise the noble Athenians or the ignoble Peparethians, that the just may be the evil? ALCIBIADES: I solemnly declare, Socrates, that I do not know what I am saying. Verily, I am in a strange state, for when you put questions to me I am of different minds in successive instants. SOCRATES: And are you not aware of the nature of this perplexity, my friend? ALCIBIADES: Indeed I am not. SOCRATES: Do you suppose that if some one were to ask you whether you have two eyes or three, or two hands or four, or anything of that sort, you would then be of different minds in successive instants? ALCIBIADES: I begin to distrust myself, but still I do not suppose that I should. SOCRATES: You would feel no doubt; and for this reason--because you would know? ALCIBIADES: I suppose so. SOCRATES: And the reason why you involuntarily contradict yourself is clearly that you are ignorant? ALCIBIADES: Very likely. SOCRATES: And if you are perplexed in answering about just and unjust, honourable and dishonourable, good and evil, expedient and inexpedient, the reason is that you are ignorant of them, and therefore in perplexity. Is not that clear? ALCIBIADES: I agree. SOCRATES: But is this always the case, and is a man necessarily perplexed about that of which he has no knowledge? ALCIBIADES: Certainly he is. SOCRATES: And do you know how to ascend into heaven? ALCIBIADES: Certainly not. SOCRATES: And in this case, too, is your judgment perplexed? ALCIBIADES: No. SOCRATES: Do you see the reason why, or shall I tell you? ALCIBIADES: Tell me. SOCRATES: The reason is, that you not only do not know, my friend, but you do not think that you know. ALCIBIADES: There again; what do you mean? SOCRATES: Ask yourself; are you in any perplexity about things of which you are ignorant? You know, for example, that you know nothing about the preparation of food. ALCIBIADES: Very true. SOCRATES: And do you think and perplex yourself about the preparation of food: or do you leave that to some one who understands the art? ALCIBIADES: The latter. SOCRATES: Or if you were on a voyage, would you bewilder yourself by considering whether the rudder is to be drawn inwards or outwards, or do you leave that to the pilot, and do nothing? ALCIBIADES: It would be the concern of the pilot. SOCRATES: Then you are not perplexed about what you do not know, if you know that you do not know it? ALCIBIADES: I imagine not. SOCRATES: Do you not see, then, that mistakes in life and practice are likewise to be attributed to the ignorance which has conceit of knowledge? ALCIBIADES: Once more, what do you mean? SOCRATES: I suppose that we begin to act when we think that we know what we are doing? ALCIBIADES: Yes. SOCRATES: But when people think that they do not know, they entrust their business to others? ALCIBIADES: Yes. SOCRATES: And so there is a class of ignorant persons who do not make mistakes in life, because they trust others about things of which they are ignorant? ALCIBIADES: True. SOCRATES: Who, then, are the persons who make mistakes? They cannot, of course, be those who know? ALCIBIADES: Certainly not. SOCRATES: But if neither those who know, nor those who know that they do not know, make mistakes, there remain those only who do not know and think that they know. ALCIBIADES: Yes, only those. SOCRATES: Then this is ignorance of the disgraceful sort which is mischievous? ALCIBIADES: Yes. SOCRATES: And most mischievous and most disgraceful when having to do with the greatest matters? ALCIBIADES: By far. SOCRATES: And can there be any matters greater than the just, the honourable, the good, and the expedient? ALCIBIADES: There cannot be. SOCRATES: And these, as you were saying, are what perplex you? ALCIBIADES: Yes. SOCRATES: But if you are perplexed, then, as the previous argument has shown, you are not only ignorant of the greatest matters, but being ignorant you fancy that you know them? ALCIBIADES: I fear that you are right. SOCRATES: And now see what has happened to you, Alcibiades! I hardly like to speak of your evil case, but as we are alone I will: My good friend, you are wedded to ignorance of the most disgraceful kind, and of this you are convicted, not by me, but out of your own mouth and by your own argument; wherefore also you rush into politics before you are educated. Neither is your case to be deemed singular. For I might say the same of almost all our statesmen, with the exception, perhaps of your guardian, Pericles. ALCIBIADES: Yes, Socrates; and Pericles is said not to have got his wisdom by the light of nature, but to have associated with several of the philosophers; with Pythocleides, for example, and with Anaxagoras, and now in advanced life with Damon, in the hope of gaining wisdom. SOCRATES: Very good; but did you ever know a man wise in anything who was unable to impart his particular wisdom? For example, he who taught you letters was not only wise, but he made you and any others whom he liked wise. ALCIBIADES: Yes. SOCRATES: And you, whom he taught, can do the same? ALCIBIADES: True. SOCRATES: And in like manner the harper and gymnastic-master? ALCIBIADES: Certainly. SOCRATES: When a person is enabled to impart knowledge to another, he thereby gives an excellent proof of his own understanding of any matter. ALCIBIADES: I agree. SOCRATES: Well, and did Pericles make any one wise; did he begin by making his sons wise? ALCIBIADES: But, Socrates, if the two sons of Pericles were simpletons, what has that to do with the matter? SOCRATES: Well, but did he make your brother, Cleinias, wise? ALCIBIADES: Cleinias is a madman; there is no use in talking of him. SOCRATES: But if Cleinias is a madman and the two sons of Pericles were simpletons, what reason can be given why he neglects you, and lets you be as you are? ALCIBIADES: I believe that I am to blame for not listening to him. SOCRATES: But did you ever hear of any other Athenian or foreigner, bond or free, who was deemed to have grown wiser in the society of Pericles,--as I might cite Pythodorus, the son of Isolochus, and Callias, the son of Calliades, who have grown wiser in the society of Zeno, for which privilege they have each of them paid him the sum of a hundred minae (about 406 pounds sterling) to the increase of their wisdom and fame. ALCIBIADES: I certainly never did hear of any one. SOCRATES: Well, and in reference to your own case, do you mean to remain as you are, or will you take some pains about yourself? ALCIBIADES: With your aid, Socrates, I will. And indeed, when I hear you speak, the truth of what you are saying strikes home to me, and I agree with you, for our statesmen, all but a few, do appear to be quite uneducated. SOCRATES: What is the inference? ALCIBIADES: Why, that if they were educated they would be trained athletes, and he who means to rival them ought to have knowledge and experience when he attacks them; but now, as they have become politicians without any special training, why should I have the trouble of learning and practising? For I know well that by the light of nature I shall get the better of them. SOCRATES: My dear friend, what a sentiment! And how unworthy of your noble form and your high estate! ALCIBIADES: What do you mean, Socrates; why do you say so? SOCRATES: I am grieved when I think of our mutual love. ALCIBIADES: At what? SOCRATES: At your fancying that the contest on which you are entering is with people here. ALCIBIADES: Why, what others are there? SOCRATES: Is that a question which a magnanimous soul should ask? ALCIBIADES: Do you mean to say that the contest is not with these? SOCRATES: And suppose that you were going to steer a ship into action, would you only aim at being the best pilot on board? Would you not, while acknowledging that you must possess this degree of excellence, rather look to your antagonists, and not, as you are now doing, to your fellow combatants? You ought to be so far above these latter, that they will not even dare to be your rivals; and, being regarded by you as inferiors, will do battle for you against the enemy; this is the kind of superiority which you must establish over them, if you mean to accomplish any noble action really worthy of yourself and of the state. ALCIBIADES: That would certainly be my aim. SOCRATES: Verily, then, you have good reason to be satisfied, if you are better than the soldiers; and you need not, when you are their superior and have your thoughts and actions fixed upon them, look away to the generals of the enemy. ALCIBIADES: Of whom are you speaking, Socrates? SOCRATES: Why, you surely know that our city goes to war now and then with the Lacedaemonians and with the great king? ALCIBIADES: True enough. SOCRATES: And if you meant to be the ruler of this city, would you not be right in considering that the Lacedaemonian and Persian king were your true rivals? ALCIBIADES: I believe that you are right. SOCRATES: Oh no, my friend, I am quite wrong, and I think that you ought rather to turn your attention to Midias the quail-breeder and others like him, who manage our politics; in whom, as the women would remark, you may still see the slaves' cut of hair, cropping out in their minds as well as on their pates; and they come with their barbarous lingo to flatter us and not to rule us. To these, I say, you should look, and then you need not trouble yourself about your own fitness to contend in such a noble arena: there is no reason why you should either learn what has to be learned, or practise what has to be practised, and only when thoroughly prepared enter on a political career. ALCIBIADES: There, I think, Socrates, that you are right; I do not suppose, however, that the Spartan generals or the great king are really different from anybody else. SOCRATES: But, my dear friend, do consider what you are saying. ALCIBIADES: What am I to consider? SOCRATES: In the first place, will you be more likely to take care of yourself, if you are in a wholesome fear and dread of them, or if you are not? ALCIBIADES: Clearly, if I have such a fear of them. SOCRATES: And do you think that you will sustain any injury if you take care of yourself? ALCIBIADES: No, I shall be greatly benefited. SOCRATES: And this is one very important respect in which that notion of yours is bad. ALCIBIADES: True. SOCRATES: In the next place, consider that what you say is probably false. ALCIBIADES: How so? SOCRATES: Let me ask you whether better natures are likely to be found in noble races or not in noble races? ALCIBIADES: Clearly in noble races. SOCRATES: Are not those who are well born and well bred most likely to be perfect in virtue? ALCIBIADES: Certainly. SOCRATES: Then let us compare our antecedents with those of the Lacedaemonian and Persian kings; are they inferior to us in descent? Have we not heard that the former are sprung from Heracles, and the latter from Achaemenes, and that the race of Heracles and the race of Achaemenes go back to Perseus, son of Zeus? ALCIBIADES: Why, so does mine go back to Eurysaces, and he to Zeus! SOCRATES: And mine, noble Alcibiades, to Daedalus, and he to Hephaestus, son of Zeus. But, for all that, we are far inferior to them. For they are descended 'from Zeus,' through a line of kings--either kings of Argos and Lacedaemon, or kings of Persia, a country which the descendants of Achaemenes have always possessed, besides being at various times sovereigns of Asia, as they now are; whereas, we and our fathers were but private persons. How ridiculous would you be thought if you were to make a display of your ancestors and of Salamis the island of Eurysaces, or of Aegina, the habitation of the still more ancient Aeacus, before Artaxerxes, son of Xerxes. You should consider how inferior we are to them both in the derivation of our birth and in other particulars. Did you never observe how great is the property of the Spartan kings? And their wives are under the guardianship of the Ephori, who are public officers and watch over them, in order to preserve as far as possible the purity of the Heracleid blood. Still greater is the difference among the Persians; for no one entertains a suspicion that the father of a prince of Persia can be any one but the king. Such is the awe which invests the person of the queen, that any other guard is needless. And when the heir of the kingdom is born, all the subjects of the king feast; and the day of his birth is for ever afterwards kept as a holiday and time of sacrifice by all Asia; whereas, when you and I were born, Alcibiades, as the comic poet says, the neighbours hardly knew of the important event. After the birth of the royal child, he is tended, not by a good-for-nothing woman-nurse, but by the best of the royal eunuchs, who are charged with the care of him, and especially with the fashioning and right formation of his limbs, in order that he may be as shapely as possible; which being their calling, they are held in great honour. And when the young prince is seven years old he is put upon a horse and taken to the riding-masters, and begins to go out hunting. And at fourteen years of age he is handed over to the royal schoolmasters, as they are termed: these are four chosen men, reputed to be the best among the Persians of a certain age; and one of them is the wisest, another the justest, a third the most temperate, and a fourth the most valiant. The first instructs him in the magianism of Zoroaster, the son of Oromasus, which is the worship of the Gods, and teaches him also the duties of his royal office; the second, who is the justest, teaches him always to speak the truth; the third, or most temperate, forbids him to allow any pleasure to be lord over him, that he may be accustomed to be a freeman and king indeed,--lord of himself first, and not a slave; the most valiant trains him to be bold and fearless, telling him that if he fears he is to deem himself a slave; whereas Pericles gave you, Alcibiades, for a tutor Zopyrus the Thracian, a slave of his who was past all other work. I might enlarge on the nurture and education of your rivals, but that would be tedious; and what I have said is a sufficient sample of what remains to be said. I have only to remark, by way of contrast, that no one cares about your birth or nurture or education, or, I may say, about that of any other Athenian, unless he has a lover who looks after him. And if you cast an eye on the wealth, the luxury, the garments with their flowing trains, the anointings with myrrh, the multitudes of attendants, and all the other bravery of the Persians, you will be ashamed when you discern your own inferiority; or if you look at the temperance and orderliness and ease and grace and magnanimity and courage and endurance and love of toil and desire of glory and ambition of the Lacedaemonians--in all these respects you will see that you are but a child in comparison of them. Even in the matter of wealth, if you value yourself upon that, I must reveal to you how you stand; for if you form an estimate of the wealth of the Lacedaemonians, you will see that our possessions fall far short of theirs. For no one here can compete with them either in the extent and fertility of their own and the Messenian territory, or in the number of their slaves, and especially of the Helots, or of their horses, or of the animals which feed on the Messenian pastures. But I have said enough of this: and as to gold and silver, there is more of them in Lacedaemon than in all the rest of Hellas, for during many generations gold has been always flowing in to them from the whole Hellenic world, and often from the barbarian also, and never going out, as in the fable of Aesop the fox said to the lion, 'The prints of the feet of those going in are distinct enough;' but who ever saw the trace of money going out of Lacedaemon? And therefore you may safely infer that the inhabitants are the richest of the Hellenes in gold and silver, and that their kings are the richest of them, for they have a larger share of these things, and they have also a tribute paid to them which is very considerable. Yet the Spartan wealth, though great in comparison of the wealth of the other Hellenes, is as nothing in comparison of that of the Persians and their kings. Why, I have been informed by a credible person who went up to the king (at Susa), that he passed through a large tract of excellent land, extending for nearly a day's journey, which the people of the country called the queen's girdle, and another, which they called her veil; and several other fair and fertile districts, which were reserved for the adornment of the queen, and are named after her several habiliments. Now, I cannot help thinking to myself, What if some one were to go to Amestris, the wife of Xerxes and mother of Artaxerxes, and say to her, There is a certain Dinomache, whose whole wardrobe is not worth fifty minae--and that will be more than the value--and she has a son who is possessed of a three-hundred acre patch at Erchiae, and he has a mind to go to war with your son--would she not wonder to what this Alcibiades trusts for success in the conflict? 'He must rely,' she would say to herself, 'upon his training and wisdom--these are the things which Hellenes value.' And if she heard that this Alcibiades who is making the attempt is not as yet twenty years old, and is wholly uneducated, and when his lover tells him that he ought to get education and training first, and then go and fight the king, he refuses, and says that he is well enough as he is, would she not be amazed, and ask 'On what, then, does the youth rely?' And if we replied: He relies on his beauty, and stature, and birth, and mental endowments, she would think that we were mad, Alcibiades, when she compared the advantages which you possess with those of her own people. And I believe that even Lampido, the daughter of Leotychides, the wife of Archidamus and mother of Agis, all of whom were kings, would have the same feeling; if, in your present uneducated state, you were to turn your thoughts against her son, she too would be equally astonished. But how disgraceful, that we should not have as high a notion of what is required in us as our enemies' wives and mothers have of the qualities which are required in their assailants! O my friend, be persuaded by me, and hear the Delphian inscription, 'Know thyself'--not the men whom you think, but these kings are our rivals, and we can only overcome them by pains and skill. And if you fail in the required qualities, you will fail also in becoming renowned among Hellenes and Barbarians, which you seem to desire more than any other man ever desired anything. ALCIBIADES: I entirely believe you; but what are the sort of pains which are required, Socrates,--can you tell me? SOCRATES: Yes, I can; but we must take counsel together concerning the manner in which both of us may be most improved. For what I am telling you of the necessity of education applies to myself as well as to you; and there is only one point in which I have an advantage over you. ALCIBIADES: What is that? SOCRATES: I have a guardian who is better and wiser than your guardian, Pericles. ALCIBIADES: Who is he, Socrates? SOCRATES: God, Alcibiades, who up to this day has not allowed me to converse with you; and he inspires in me the faith that I am especially designed to bring you to honour. ALCIBIADES: You are jesting, Socrates. SOCRATES: Perhaps, at any rate, I am right in saying that all men greatly need pains and care, and you and I above all men. ALCIBIADES: You are not far wrong about me. SOCRATES: And certainly not about myself. ALCIBIADES: But what can we do? SOCRATES: There must be no hesitation or cowardice, my friend. ALCIBIADES: That would not become us, Socrates. SOCRATES: No, indeed, and we ought to take counsel together: for do we not wish to be as good as possible? ALCIBIADES: We do. SOCRATES: In what sort of virtue? ALCIBIADES: Plainly, in the virtue of good men. SOCRATES: Who are good in what? ALCIBIADES: Those, clearly, who are good in the management of affairs. SOCRATES: What sort of affairs? Equestrian affairs? ALCIBIADES: Certainly not. SOCRATES: You mean that about them we should have recourse to horsemen? ALCIBIADES: Yes. SOCRATES: Well, naval affairs? ALCIBIADES: No. SOCRATES: You mean that we should have recourse to sailors about them? ALCIBIADES: Yes. SOCRATES: Then what affairs? And who do them? ALCIBIADES: The affairs which occupy Athenian gentlemen. SOCRATES: And when you speak of gentlemen, do you mean the wise or the unwise? ALCIBIADES: The wise. SOCRATES: And a man is good in respect of that in which he is wise? ALCIBIADES: Yes. SOCRATES: And evil in respect of that in which he is unwise? ALCIBIADES: Certainly. SOCRATES: The shoemaker, for example, is wise in respect of the making of shoes? ALCIBIADES: Yes. SOCRATES: Then he is good in that? ALCIBIADES: He is. SOCRATES: But in respect of the making of garments he is unwise? ALCIBIADES: Yes. SOCRATES: Then in that he is bad? ALCIBIADES: Yes. SOCRATES: Then upon this view of the matter the same man is good and also bad? ALCIBIADES: True. SOCRATES: But would you say that the good are the same as the bad? ALCIBIADES: Certainly not. SOCRATES: Then whom do you call the good? ALCIBIADES: I mean by the good those who are able to rule in the city. SOCRATES: Not, surely, over horses? ALCIBIADES: Certainly not. SOCRATES: But over men? ALCIBIADES: Yes. SOCRATES: When they are sick? ALCIBIADES: No. SOCRATES: Or on a voyage? ALCIBIADES: No. SOCRATES: Or reaping the harvest? ALCIBIADES: No. SOCRATES: When they are doing something or nothing? ALCIBIADES: When they are doing something, I should say. SOCRATES: I wish that you would explain to me what this something is. ALCIBIADES: When they are having dealings with one another, and using one another's services, as we citizens do in our daily life. SOCRATES: Those of whom you speak are ruling over men who are using the services of other men? ALCIBIADES: Yes. SOCRATES: Are they ruling over the signal-men who give the time to the rowers? ALCIBIADES: No; they are not. SOCRATES: That would be the office of the pilot? ALCIBIADES: Yes. SOCRATES: But, perhaps you mean that they rule over flute-players, who lead the singers and use the services of the dancers? ALCIBIADES: Certainly not. SOCRATES: That would be the business of the teacher of the chorus? ALCIBIADES: Yes. SOCRATES: Then what is the meaning of being able to rule over men who use other men? ALCIBIADES: I mean that they rule over men who have common rights of citizenship, and dealings with one another. SOCRATES: And what sort of an art is this? Suppose that I ask you again, as I did just now, What art makes men know how to rule over their fellow-sailors,--how would you answer? ALCIBIADES: The art of the pilot. SOCRATES: And, if I may recur to another old instance, what art enables them to rule over their fellow-singers? ALCIBIADES: The art of the teacher of the chorus, which you were just now mentioning. SOCRATES: And what do you call the art of fellow-citizens? ALCIBIADES: I should say, good counsel, Socrates. SOCRATES: And is the art of the pilot evil counsel? ALCIBIADES: No. SOCRATES: But good counsel? ALCIBIADES: Yes, that is what I should say,--good counsel, of which the aim is the preservation of the voyagers. SOCRATES: True. And what is the aim of that other good counsel of which you speak? ALCIBIADES: The aim is the better order and preservation of the city. SOCRATES: And what is that of which the absence or presence improves and preserves the order of the city? Suppose you were to ask me, what is that of which the presence or absence improves or preserves the order of the body? I should reply, the presence of health and the absence of disease. You would say the same? ALCIBIADES: Yes. SOCRATES: And if you were to ask me the same question about the eyes, I should reply in the same way, 'the presence of sight and the absence of blindness;' or about the ears, I should reply, that they were improved and were in better case, when deafness was absent, and hearing was present in them. ALCIBIADES: True. SOCRATES: And what would you say of a state? What is that by the presence or absence of which the state is improved and better managed and ordered? ALCIBIADES: I should say, Socrates:--the presence of friendship and the absence of hatred and division. SOCRATES: And do you mean by friendship agreement or disagreement? ALCIBIADES: Agreement. SOCRATES: What art makes cities agree about numbers? ALCIBIADES: Arithmetic. SOCRATES: And private individuals? ALCIBIADES: The same. SOCRATES: And what art makes each individual agree with himself? ALCIBIADES: The same. SOCRATES: And what art makes each of us agree with himself about the comparative length of the span and of the cubit? Does not the art of measure? ALCIBIADES: Yes. SOCRATES: Individuals are agreed with one another about this; and states, equally? ALCIBIADES: Yes. SOCRATES: And the same holds of the balance? ALCIBIADES: True. SOCRATES: But what is the other agreement of which you speak, and about what? what art can give that agreement? And does that which gives it to the state give it also to the individual, so as to make him consistent with himself and with another? ALCIBIADES: I should suppose so. SOCRATES: But what is the nature of the agreement?--answer, and faint not. ALCIBIADES: I mean to say that there should be such friendship and agreement as exists between an affectionate father and mother and their son, or between brothers, or between husband and wife. SOCRATES: But can a man, Alcibiades, agree with a woman about the spinning of wool, which she understands and he does not? ALCIBIADES: No, truly. SOCRATES: Nor has he any need, for spinning is a female accomplishment. ALCIBIADES: Yes. SOCRATES: And would a woman agree with a man about the science of arms, which she has never learned? ALCIBIADES: Certainly not. SOCRATES: I suppose that the use of arms would be regarded by you as a male accomplishment? ALCIBIADES: It would. SOCRATES: Then, upon your view, women and men have two sorts of knowledge? ALCIBIADES: Certainly. SOCRATES: Then in their knowledge there is no agreement of women and men? ALCIBIADES: There is not. SOCRATES: Nor can there be friendship, if friendship is agreement? ALCIBIADES: Plainly not. SOCRATES: Then women are not loved by men when they do their own work? ALCIBIADES: I suppose not. SOCRATES: Nor men by women when they do their own work? ALCIBIADES: No. SOCRATES: Nor are states well administered, when individuals do their own work? ALCIBIADES: I should rather think, Socrates, that the reverse is the truth. (Compare Republic.) SOCRATES: What! do you mean to say that states are well administered when friendship is absent, the presence of which, as we were saying, alone secures their good order? ALCIBIADES: But I should say that there is friendship among them, for this very reason, that the two parties respectively do their own work. SOCRATES: That was not what you were saying before; and what do you mean now by affirming that friendship exists when there is no agreement? How can there be agreement about matters which the one party knows, and of which the other is in ignorance? ALCIBIADES: Impossible. SOCRATES: And when individuals are doing their own work, are they doing what is just or unjust? ALCIBIADES: What is just, certainly. SOCRATES: And when individuals do what is just in the state, is there no friendship among them? ALCIBIADES: I suppose that there must be, Socrates. SOCRATES: Then what do you mean by this friendship or agreement about which we must be wise and discreet in order that we may be good men? I cannot make out where it exists or among whom; according to you, the same persons may sometimes have it, and sometimes not. ALCIBIADES: But, indeed, Socrates, I do not know what I am saying; and I have long been, unconsciously to myself, in a most disgraceful state. SOCRATES: Nevertheless, cheer up; at fifty, if you had discovered your deficiency, you would have been too old, and the time for taking care of yourself would have passed away, but yours is just the age at which the discovery should be made. ALCIBIADES: And what should he do, Socrates, who would make the discovery? SOCRATES: Answer questions, Alcibiades; and that is a process which, by the grace of God, if I may put any faith in my oracle, will be very improving to both of us. ALCIBIADES: If I can be improved by answering, I will answer. SOCRATES: And first of all, that we may not peradventure be deceived by appearances, fancying, perhaps, that we are taking care of ourselves when we are not, what is the meaning of a man taking care of himself? and when does he take care? Does he take care of himself when he takes care of what belongs to him? ALCIBIADES: I should think so. SOCRATES: When does a man take care of his feet? Does he not take care of them when he takes care of that which belongs to his feet? ALCIBIADES: I do not understand. SOCRATES: Let me take the hand as an illustration; does not a ring belong to the finger, and to the finger only? ALCIBIADES: Yes. SOCRATES: And the shoe in like manner to the foot? ALCIBIADES: Yes. SOCRATES: And when we take care of our shoes, do we not take care of our feet? ALCIBIADES: I do not comprehend, Socrates. SOCRATES: But you would admit, Alcibiades, that to take proper care of a thing is a correct expression? ALCIBIADES: Yes. SOCRATES: And taking proper care means improving? ALCIBIADES: Yes. SOCRATES: And what is the art which improves our shoes? ALCIBIADES: Shoemaking. SOCRATES: Then by shoemaking we take care of our shoes? ALCIBIADES: Yes. SOCRATES: And do we by shoemaking take care of our feet, or by some other art which improves the feet? ALCIBIADES: By some other art. SOCRATES: And the same art improves the feet which improves the rest of the body? ALCIBIADES: Very true. SOCRATES: Which is gymnastic? ALCIBIADES: Certainly. SOCRATES: Then by gymnastic we take care of our feet, and by shoemaking of that which belongs to our feet? ALCIBIADES: Very true. SOCRATES: And by gymnastic we take care of our hands, and by the art of graving rings of that which belongs to our hands? ALCIBIADES: Yes. SOCRATES: And by gymnastic we take care of the body, and by the art of weaving and the other arts we take care of the things of the body? ALCIBIADES: Clearly. SOCRATES: Then the art which takes care of each thing is different from that which takes care of the belongings of each thing? ALCIBIADES: True. SOCRATES: Then in taking care of what belongs to you, you do not take care of yourself? ALCIBIADES: Certainly not. SOCRATES: For the art which takes care of our belongings appears not to be the same as that which takes care of ourselves? ALCIBIADES: Clearly not. SOCRATES: And now let me ask you what is the art with which we take care of ourselves? ALCIBIADES: I cannot say. SOCRATES: At any rate, thus much has been admitted, that the art is not one which makes any of our possessions, but which makes ourselves better? ALCIBIADES: True. SOCRATES: But should we ever have known what art makes a shoe better, if we did not know a shoe? ALCIBIADES: Impossible. SOCRATES: Nor should we know what art makes a ring better, if we did not know a ring? ALCIBIADES: That is true. SOCRATES: And can we ever know what art makes a man better, if we do not know what we are ourselves? ALCIBIADES: Impossible. SOCRATES: And is self-knowledge such an easy thing, and was he to be lightly esteemed who inscribed the text on the temple at Delphi? Or is self-knowledge a difficult thing, which few are able to attain? ALCIBIADES: At times I fancy, Socrates, that anybody can know himself; at other times the task appears to be very difficult. SOCRATES: But whether easy or difficult, Alcibiades, still there is no other way; knowing what we are, we shall know how to take care of ourselves, and if we are ignorant we shall not know. ALCIBIADES: That is true. SOCRATES: Well, then, let us see in what way the self-existent can be discovered by us; that will give us a chance of discovering our own existence, which otherwise we can never know. ALCIBIADES: You say truly. SOCRATES: Come, now, I beseech you, tell me with whom you are conversing?--with whom but with me? ALCIBIADES: Yes. SOCRATES: As I am, with you? ALCIBIADES: Yes. SOCRATES: That is to say, I, Socrates, am talking? ALCIBIADES: Yes. SOCRATES: And Alcibiades is my hearer? ALCIBIADES: Yes. SOCRATES: And I in talking use words? ALCIBIADES: Certainly. SOCRATES: And talking and using words have, I suppose, the same meaning? ALCIBIADES: To be sure. SOCRATES: And the user is not the same as the thing which he uses? ALCIBIADES: What do you mean? SOCRATES: I will explain; the shoemaker, for example, uses a square tool, and a circular tool, and other tools for cutting? ALCIBIADES: Yes. SOCRATES: But the tool is not the same as the cutter and user of the tool? ALCIBIADES: Of course not. SOCRATES: And in the same way the instrument of the harper is to be distinguished from the harper himself? ALCIBIADES: It is. SOCRATES: Now the question which I asked was whether you conceive the user to be always different from that which he uses? ALCIBIADES: I do. SOCRATES: Then what shall we say of the shoemaker? Does he cut with his tools only or with his hands? ALCIBIADES: With his hands as well. SOCRATES: He uses his hands too? ALCIBIADES: Yes. SOCRATES: And does he use his eyes in cutting leather? ALCIBIADES: He does. SOCRATES: And we admit that the user is not the same with the things which he uses? ALCIBIADES: Yes. SOCRATES: Then the shoemaker and the harper are to be distinguished from the hands and feet which they use? ALCIBIADES: Clearly. SOCRATES: And does not a man use the whole body? ALCIBIADES: Certainly. SOCRATES: And that which uses is different from that which is used? ALCIBIADES: True. SOCRATES: Then a man is not the same as his own body? ALCIBIADES: That is the inference. SOCRATES: What is he, then? ALCIBIADES: I cannot say. SOCRATES: Nay, you can say that he is the user of the body. ALCIBIADES: Yes. SOCRATES: And the user of the body is the soul? ALCIBIADES: Yes, the soul. SOCRATES: And the soul rules? ALCIBIADES: Yes. SOCRATES: Let me make an assertion which will, I think, be universally admitted. ALCIBIADES: What is it? SOCRATES: That man is one of three things. ALCIBIADES: What are they? SOCRATES: Soul, body, or both together forming a whole. ALCIBIADES: Certainly. SOCRATES: But did we not say that the actual ruling principle of the body is man? ALCIBIADES: Yes, we did. SOCRATES: And does the body rule over itself? ALCIBIADES: Certainly not. SOCRATES: It is subject, as we were saying? ALCIBIADES: Yes. SOCRATES: Then that is not the principle which we are seeking? ALCIBIADES: It would seem not. SOCRATES: But may we say that the union of the two rules over the body, and consequently that this is man? ALCIBIADES: Very likely. SOCRATES: The most unlikely of all things; for if one of the members is subject, the two united cannot possibly rule. ALCIBIADES: True. SOCRATES: But since neither the body, nor the union of the two, is man, either man has no real existence, or the soul is man? ALCIBIADES: Just so. SOCRATES: Is anything more required to prove that the soul is man? ALCIBIADES: Certainly not; the proof is, I think, quite sufficient. SOCRATES: And if the proof, although not perfect, be sufficient, we shall be satisfied;--more precise proof will be supplied when we have discovered that which we were led to omit, from a fear that the enquiry would be too much protracted. ALCIBIADES: What was that? SOCRATES: What I meant, when I said that absolute existence must be first considered; but now, instead of absolute existence, we have been considering the nature of individual existence, and this may, perhaps, be sufficient; for surely there is nothing which may be called more properly ourselves than the soul? ALCIBIADES: There is nothing. SOCRATES: Then we may truly conceive that you and I are conversing with one another, soul to soul? ALCIBIADES: Very true. SOCRATES: And that is just what I was saying before--that I, Socrates, am not arguing or talking with the face of Alcibiades, but with the real Alcibiades; or in other words, with his soul. ALCIBIADES: True. SOCRATES: Then he who bids a man know himself, would have him know his soul? ALCIBIADES: That appears to be true. SOCRATES: He whose knowledge only extends to the body, knows the things of a man, and not the man himself? ALCIBIADES: That is true. SOCRATES: Then neither the physician regarded as a physician, nor the trainer regarded as a trainer, knows himself? ALCIBIADES: He does not. SOCRATES: The husbandmen and the other craftsmen are very far from knowing themselves, for they would seem not even to know their own belongings? When regarded in relation to the arts which they practise they are even further removed from self-knowledge, for they only know the belongings of the body, which minister to the body. ALCIBIADES: That is true. SOCRATES: Then if temperance is the knowledge of self, in respect of his art none of them is temperate? ALCIBIADES: I agree. SOCRATES: And this is the reason why their arts are accounted vulgar, and are not such as a good man would practise? ALCIBIADES: Quite true. SOCRATES: Again, he who cherishes his body cherishes not himself, but what belongs to him? ALCIBIADES: That is true. SOCRATES: But he who cherishes his money, cherishes neither himself nor his belongings, but is in a stage yet further removed from himself? ALCIBIADES: I agree. SOCRATES: Then the money-maker has really ceased to be occupied with his own concerns? ALCIBIADES: True. SOCRATES: And if any one has fallen in love with the person of Alcibiades, he loves not Alcibiades, but the belongings of Alcibiades? ALCIBIADES: True. SOCRATES: But he who loves your soul is the true lover? ALCIBIADES: That is the necessary inference. SOCRATES: The lover of the body goes away when the flower of youth fades? ALCIBIADES: True. SOCRATES: But he who loves the soul goes not away, as long as the soul follows after virtue? ALCIBIADES: Yes. SOCRATES: And I am the lover who goes not away, but remains with you, when you are no longer young and the rest are gone? ALCIBIADES: Yes, Socrates; and therein you do well, and I hope that you will remain. SOCRATES: Then you must try to look your best. ALCIBIADES: I will. SOCRATES: The fact is, that there is only one lover of Alcibiades the son of Cleinias; there neither is nor ever has been seemingly any other; and he is his darling,--Socrates, the son of Sophroniscus and Phaenarete. ALCIBIADES: True. SOCRATES: And did you not say, that if I had not spoken first, you were on the point of coming to me, and enquiring why I only remained? ALCIBIADES: That is true. SOCRATES: The reason was that I loved you for your own sake, whereas other men love what belongs to you; and your beauty, which is not you, is fading away, just as your true self is beginning to bloom. And I will never desert you, if you are not spoiled and deformed by the Athenian people; for the danger which I most fear is that you will become a lover of the people and will be spoiled by them. Many a noble Athenian has been ruined in this way. For the demus of the great-hearted Erechteus is of a fair countenance, but you should see him naked; wherefore observe the caution which I give you. ALCIBIADES: What caution? SOCRATES: Practise yourself, sweet friend, in learning what you ought to know, before you enter on politics; and then you will have an antidote which will keep you out of harm's way. ALCIBIADES: Good advice, Socrates, but I wish that you would explain to me in what way I am to take care of myself. SOCRATES: Have we not made an advance? for we are at any rate tolerably well agreed as to what we are, and there is no longer any danger, as we once feared, that we might be taking care not of ourselves, but of something which is not ourselves. ALCIBIADES: That is true. SOCRATES: And the next step will be to take care of the soul, and look to that? ALCIBIADES: Certainly. SOCRATES: Leaving the care of our bodies and of our properties to others? ALCIBIADES: Very good. SOCRATES: But how can we have a perfect knowledge of the things of the soul?--For if we know them, then I suppose we shall know ourselves. Can we really be ignorant of the excellent meaning of the Delphian inscription, of which we were just now speaking? ALCIBIADES: What have you in your thoughts, Socrates? SOCRATES: I will tell you what I suspect to be the meaning and lesson of that inscription. Let me take an illustration from sight, which I imagine to be the only one suitable to my purpose. ALCIBIADES: What do you mean? SOCRATES: Consider; if some one were to say to the eye, 'See thyself,' as you might say to a man, 'Know thyself,' what is the nature and meaning of this precept? Would not his meaning be:--That the eye should look at that in which it would see itself? ALCIBIADES: Clearly. SOCRATES: And what are the objects in looking at which we see ourselves? ALCIBIADES: Clearly, Socrates, in looking at mirrors and the like. SOCRATES: Very true; and is there not something of the nature of a mirror in our own eyes? ALCIBIADES: Certainly. SOCRATES: Did you ever observe that the face of the person looking into the eye of another is reflected as in a mirror; and in the visual organ which is over against him, and which is called the pupil, there is a sort of image of the person looking? ALCIBIADES: That is quite true. SOCRATES: Then the eye, looking at another eye, and at that in the eye which is most perfect, and which is the instrument of vision, will there see itself? ALCIBIADES: That is evident. SOCRATES: But looking at anything else either in man or in the world, and not to what resembles this, it will not see itself? ALCIBIADES: Very true. SOCRATES: Then if the eye is to see itself, it must look at the eye, and at that part of the eye where sight which is the virtue of the eye resides? ALCIBIADES: True. SOCRATES: And if the soul, my dear Alcibiades, is ever to know herself, must she not look at the soul; and especially at that part of the soul in which her virtue resides, and to any other which is like this? ALCIBIADES: I agree, Socrates. SOCRATES: And do we know of any part of our souls more divine than that which has to do with wisdom and knowledge? ALCIBIADES: There is none. SOCRATES: Then this is that part of the soul which resembles the divine; and he who looks at this and at the whole class of things divine, will be most likely to know himself? ALCIBIADES: Clearly. SOCRATES: And self-knowledge we agree to be wisdom? ALCIBIADES: True. SOCRATES: But if we have no self-knowledge and no wisdom, can we ever know our own good and evil? ALCIBIADES: How can we, Socrates? SOCRATES: You mean, that if you did not know Alcibiades, there would be no possibility of your knowing that what belonged to Alcibiades was really his? ALCIBIADES: It would be quite impossible. SOCRATES: Nor should we know that we were the persons to whom anything belonged, if we did not know ourselves? ALCIBIADES: How could we? SOCRATES: And if we did not know our own belongings, neither should we know the belongings of our belongings? ALCIBIADES: Clearly not. SOCRATES: Then we were not altogether right in acknowledging just now that a man may know what belongs to him and yet not know himself; nay, rather he cannot even know the belongings of his belongings; for the discernment of the things of self, and of the things which belong to the things of self, appear all to be the business of the same man, and of the same art. ALCIBIADES: So much may be supposed. SOCRATES: And he who knows not the things which belong to himself, will in like manner be ignorant of the things which belong to others? ALCIBIADES: Very true. SOCRATES: And if he knows not the affairs of others, he will not know the affairs of states? ALCIBIADES: Certainly not. SOCRATES: Then such a man can never be a statesman? ALCIBIADES: He cannot. SOCRATES: Nor an economist? ALCIBIADES: He cannot. SOCRATES: He will not know what he is doing? ALCIBIADES: He will not. SOCRATES: And will not he who is ignorant fall into error? ALCIBIADES: Assuredly. SOCRATES: And if he falls into error will he not fail both in his public and private capacity? ALCIBIADES: Yes, indeed. SOCRATES: And failing, will he not be miserable? ALCIBIADES: Very. SOCRATES: And what will become of those for whom he is acting? ALCIBIADES: They will be miserable also. SOCRATES: Then he who is not wise and good cannot be happy? ALCIBIADES: He cannot. SOCRATES: The bad, then, are miserable? ALCIBIADES: Yes, very. SOCRATES: And if so, not he who has riches, but he who has wisdom, is delivered from his misery? ALCIBIADES: Clearly. SOCRATES: Cities, then, if they are to be happy, do not want walls, or triremes, or docks, or numbers, or size, Alcibiades, without virtue? (Compare Arist. Pol.) ALCIBIADES: Indeed they do not. SOCRATES: And you must give the citizens virtue, if you mean to administer their affairs rightly or nobly? ALCIBIADES: Certainly. SOCRATES: But can a man give that which he has not? ALCIBIADES: Impossible. SOCRATES: Then you or any one who means to govern and superintend, not only himself and the things of himself, but the state and the things of the state, must in the first place acquire virtue. ALCIBIADES: That is true. SOCRATES: You have not therefore to obtain power or authority, in order to enable you to do what you wish for yourself and the state, but justice and wisdom. ALCIBIADES: Clearly. SOCRATES: You and the state, if you act wisely and justly, will act according to the will of God? ALCIBIADES: Certainly. SOCRATES: As I was saying before, you will look only at what is bright and divine, and act with a view to them? ALCIBIADES: Yes. SOCRATES: In that mirror you will see and know yourselves and your own good? ALCIBIADES: Yes. SOCRATES: And so you will act rightly and well? ALCIBIADES: Yes. SOCRATES: In which case, I will be security for your happiness. ALCIBIADES: I accept the security. SOCRATES: But if you act unrighteously, your eye will turn to the dark and godless, and being in darkness and ignorance of yourselves, you will probably do deeds of darkness. ALCIBIADES: Very possibly. SOCRATES: For if a man, my dear Alcibiades, has the power to do what he likes, but has no understanding, what is likely to be the result, either to him as an individual or to the state--for example, if he be sick and is able to do what he likes, not having the mind of a physician--having moreover tyrannical power, and no one daring to reprove him, what will happen to him? Will he not be likely to have his constitution ruined? ALCIBIADES: That is true. SOCRATES: Or again, in a ship, if a man having the power to do what he likes, has no intelligence or skill in navigation, do you see what will happen to him and to his fellow-sailors? ALCIBIADES: Yes; I see that they will all perish. SOCRATES: And in like manner, in a state, and where there is any power and authority which is wanting in virtue, will not misfortune, in like manner, ensue? ALCIBIADES: Certainly. SOCRATES: Not tyrannical power, then, my good Alcibiades, should be the aim either of individuals or states, if they would be happy, but virtue. ALCIBIADES: That is true. SOCRATES: And before they have virtue, to be commanded by a superior is better for men as well as for children? (Compare Arist. Pol.) ALCIBIADES: That is evident. SOCRATES: And that which is better is also nobler? ALCIBIADES: True. SOCRATES: And what is nobler is more becoming? ALCIBIADES: Certainly. SOCRATES: Then to the bad man slavery is more becoming, because better? ALCIBIADES: True. SOCRATES: Then vice is only suited to a slave? ALCIBIADES: Yes. SOCRATES: And virtue to a freeman? ALCIBIADES: Yes. SOCRATES: And, O my friend, is not the condition of a slave to be avoided? ALCIBIADES: Certainly, Socrates. SOCRATES: And are you now conscious of your own state? And do you know whether you are a freeman or not? ALCIBIADES: I think that I am very conscious indeed of my own state. SOCRATES: And do you know how to escape out of a state which I do not even like to name to my beauty? ALCIBIADES: Yes, I do. SOCRATES: How? ALCIBIADES: By your help, Socrates. SOCRATES: That is not well said, Alcibiades. ALCIBIADES: What ought I to have said? SOCRATES: By the help of God. ALCIBIADES: I agree; and I further say, that our relations are likely to be reversed. From this day forward, I must and will follow you as you have followed me; I will be the disciple, and you shall be my master. SOCRATES: O that is rare! My love breeds another love: and so like the stork I shall be cherished by the bird whom I have hatched. ALCIBIADES: Strange, but true; and henceforward I shall begin to think about justice. SOCRATES: And I hope that you will persist; although I have fears, not because I doubt you; but I see the power of the state, which may be too much for both of us. 
1677	----	ALCIBIADES II by An Imatator of Plato (see Appendix II) Translated by Benjamin Jowett APPENDIX II. The two dialogues which are translated in the second appendix are not mentioned by Aristotle, or by any early authority, and have no claim to be ascribed to Plato. They are examples of Platonic dialogues to be assigned probably to the second or third generation after Plato, when his writings were well known at Athens and Alexandria. They exhibit considerable originality, and are remarkable for containing several thoughts of the sort which we suppose to be modern rather than ancient, and which therefore have a peculiar interest for us. The Second Alcibiades shows that the difficulties about prayer which have perplexed Christian theologians were not unknown among the followers of Plato. The Eryxias was doubted by the ancients themselves: yet it may claim the distinction of being, among all Greek or Roman writings, the one which anticipates in the most striking manner the modern science of political economy and gives an abstract form to some of its principal doctrines. For the translation of these two dialogues I am indebted to my friend and secretary, Mr. Knight. That the Dialogue which goes by the name of the Second Alcibiades is a genuine writing of Plato will not be maintained by any modern critic, and was hardly believed by the ancients themselves. The dialectic is poor and weak. There is no power over language, or beauty of style; and there is a certain abruptness and agroikia in the conversation, which is very un-Platonic. The best passage is probably that about the poets:--the remark that the poet, who is of a reserved disposition, is uncommonly difficult to understand, and the ridiculous interpretation of Homer, are entirely in the spirit of Plato (compare Protag; Ion; Apol.). The characters are ill-drawn. Socrates assumes the 'superior person' and preaches too much, while Alcibiades is stupid and heavy-in-hand. There are traces of Stoic influence in the general tone and phraseology of the Dialogue (compare opos melesei tis...kaka: oti pas aphron mainetai): and the writer seems to have been acquainted with the 'Laws' of Plato (compare Laws). An incident from the Symposium is rather clumsily introduced, and two somewhat hackneyed quotations (Symp., Gorg.) recur. The reference to the death of Archelaus as having occurred 'quite lately' is only a fiction, probably suggested by the Gorgias, where the story of Archelaus is told, and a similar phrase occurs;--ta gar echthes kai proen gegonota tauta, k.t.l. There are several passages which are either corrupt or extremely ill-expressed. But there is a modern interest in the subject of the dialogue; and it is a good example of a short spurious work, which may be attributed to the second or third century before Christ. ALCIBIADES II PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE: Socrates and Alcibiades. SOCRATES: Are you going, Alcibiades, to offer prayer to Zeus? ALCIBIADES: Yes, Socrates, I am. SOCRATES: you seem to be troubled and to cast your eyes on the ground, as though you were thinking about something. ALCIBIADES: Of what do you suppose that I am thinking? SOCRATES: Of the greatest of all things, as I believe. Tell me, do you not suppose that the Gods sometimes partly grant and partly reject the requests which we make in public and private, and favour some persons and not others? ALCIBIADES: Certainly. SOCRATES: Do you not imagine, then, that a man ought to be very careful, lest perchance without knowing it he implore great evils for himself, deeming that he is asking for good, especially if the Gods are in the mood to grant whatever he may request? There is the story of Oedipus, for instance, who prayed that his children might divide their inheritance between them by the sword: he did not, as he might have done, beg that his present evils might be averted, but called down new ones. And was not his prayer accomplished, and did not many and terrible evils thence arise, upon which I need not dilate? ALCIBIADES: Yes, Socrates, but you are speaking of a madman: surely you do not think that any one in his senses would venture to make such a prayer? SOCRATES: Madness, then, you consider to be the opposite of discretion? ALCIBIADES: Of course. SOCRATES: And some men seem to you to be discreet, and others the contrary? ALCIBIADES: They do. SOCRATES: Well, then, let us discuss who these are. We acknowledge that some are discreet, some foolish, and that some are mad? ALCIBIADES: Yes. SOCRATES: And again, there are some who are in health? ALCIBIADES: There are. SOCRATES: While others are ailing? ALCIBIADES: Yes. SOCRATES: And they are not the same? ALCIBIADES: Certainly not. SOCRATES: Nor are there any who are in neither state? ALCIBIADES: No. SOCRATES: A man must either be sick or be well? ALCIBIADES: That is my opinion. SOCRATES: Very good: and do you think the same about discretion and want of discretion? ALCIBIADES: How do you mean? SOCRATES: Do you believe that a man must be either in or out of his senses; or is there some third or intermediate condition, in which he is neither one nor the other? ALCIBIADES: Decidedly not. SOCRATES: He must be either sane or insane? ALCIBIADES: So I suppose. SOCRATES: Did you not acknowledge that madness was the opposite of discretion? ALCIBIADES: Yes. SOCRATES: And that there is no third or middle term between discretion and indiscretion? ALCIBIADES: True. SOCRATES: And there cannot be two opposites to one thing? ALCIBIADES: There cannot. SOCRATES: Then madness and want of sense are the same? ALCIBIADES: That appears to be the case. SOCRATES: We shall be in the right, therefore, Alcibiades, if we say that all who are senseless are mad. For example, if among persons of your own age or older than yourself there are some who are senseless,--as there certainly are,--they are mad. For tell me, by heaven, do you not think that in the city the wise are few, while the foolish, whom you call mad, are many? ALCIBIADES: I do. SOCRATES: But how could we live in safety with so many crazy people? Should we not long since have paid the penalty at their hands, and have been struck and beaten and endured every other form of ill-usage which madmen are wont to inflict? Consider, my dear friend: may it not be quite otherwise? ALCIBIADES: Why, Socrates, how is that possible? I must have been mistaken. SOCRATES: So it seems to me. But perhaps we may consider the matter thus:-- ALCIBIADES: How? SOCRATES: I will tell you. We think that some are sick; do we not? ALCIBIADES: Yes. SOCRATES: And must every sick person either have the gout, or be in a fever, or suffer from ophthalmia? Or do you believe that a man may labour under some other disease, even although he has none of these complaints? Surely, they are not the only maladies which exist? ALCIBIADES: Certainly not. SOCRATES: And is every kind of ophthalmia a disease? ALCIBIADES: Yes. SOCRATES: And every disease ophthalmia? ALCIBIADES: Surely not. But I scarcely understand what I mean myself. SOCRATES: Perhaps, if you give me your best attention, 'two of us' looking together, we may find what we seek. ALCIBIADES: I am attending, Socrates, to the best of my power. SOCRATES: We are agreed, then, that every form of ophthalmia is a disease, but not every disease ophthalmia? ALCIBIADES: We are. SOCRATES: And so far we seem to be right. For every one who suffers from a fever is sick; but the sick, I conceive, do not all have fever or gout or ophthalmia, although each of these is a disease, which, according to those whom we call physicians, may require a different treatment. They are not all alike, nor do they produce the same result, but each has its own effect, and yet they are all diseases. May we not take an illustration from the artizans? ALCIBIADES: Certainly. SOCRATES: There are cobblers and carpenters and sculptors and others of all sorts and kinds, whom we need not stop to enumerate. All have their distinct employments and all are workmen, although they are not all of them cobblers or carpenters or sculptors. ALCIBIADES: No, indeed. SOCRATES: And in like manner men differ in regard to want of sense. Those who are most out of their wits we call 'madmen,' while we term those who are less far gone 'stupid' or 'idiotic,' or, if we prefer gentler language, describe them as 'romantic' or 'simple-minded,' or, again, as 'innocent' or 'inexperienced' or 'foolish.' You may even find other names, if you seek for them; but by all of them lack of sense is intended. They only differ as one art appeared to us to differ from another or one disease from another. Or what is your opinion? ALCIBIADES: I agree with you. SOCRATES: Then let us return to the point at which we digressed. We said at first that we should have to consider who were the wise and who the foolish. For we acknowledged that there are these two classes? Did we not? ALCIBIADES: To be sure. SOCRATES: And you regard those as sensible who know what ought to be done or said? ALCIBIADES: Yes. SOCRATES: The senseless are those who do not know this? ALCIBIADES: True. SOCRATES: The latter will say or do what they ought not without their own knowledge? ALCIBIADES: Exactly. SOCRATES: Oedipus, as I was saying, Alcibiades, was a person of this sort. And even now-a-days you will find many who (have offered inauspicious prayers), although, unlike him, they were not in anger nor thought that they were asking evil. He neither sought, nor supposed that he sought for good, but others have had quite the contrary notion. I believe that if the God whom you are about to consult should appear to you, and, in anticipation of your request, enquired whether you would be contented to become tyrant of Athens, and if this seemed in your eyes a small and mean thing, should add to it the dominion of all Hellas; and seeing that even then you would not be satisfied unless you were ruler of the whole of Europe, should promise, not only that, but, if you so desired, should proclaim to all mankind in one and the same day that Alcibiades, son of Cleinias, was tyrant:--in such a case, I imagine, you would depart full of joy, as one who had obtained the greatest of goods. ALCIBIADES: And not only I, Socrates, but any one else who should meet with such luck. SOCRATES: Yet you would not accept the dominion and lordship of all the Hellenes and all the barbarians in exchange for your life? ALCIBIADES: Certainly not: for then what use could I make of them? SOCRATES: And would you accept them if you were likely to use them to a bad and mischievous end? ALCIBIADES: I would not. SOCRATES: You see that it is not safe for a man either rashly to accept whatever is offered him, or himself to request a thing, if he is likely to suffer thereby or immediately to lose his life. And yet we could tell of many who, having long desired and diligently laboured to obtain a tyranny, thinking that thus they would procure an advantage, have nevertheless fallen victims to designing enemies. You must have heard of what happened only the other day, how Archelaus of Macedonia was slain by his beloved (compare Aristotle, Pol.), whose love for the tyranny was not less than that of Archelaus for him. The tyrannicide expected by his crime to become tyrant and afterwards to have a happy life; but when he had held the tyranny three or four days, he was in his turn conspired against and slain. Or look at certain of our own citizens,--and of their actions we have been not hearers, but eyewitnesses,--who have desired to obtain military command: of those who have gained their object, some are even to this day exiles from the city, while others have lost their lives. And even they who seem to have fared best, have not only gone through many perils and terrors during their office, but after their return home they have been beset by informers worse than they once were by their foes, insomuch that several of them have wished that they had remained in a private station rather than have had the glories of command. If, indeed, such perils and terrors were of profit to the commonwealth, there would be reason in undergoing them; but the very contrary is the case. Again, you will find persons who have prayed for offspring, and when their prayers were heard, have fallen into the greatest pains and sufferings. For some have begotten children who were utterly bad, and have therefore passed all their days in misery, while the parents of good children have undergone the misfortune of losing them, and have been so little happier than the others that they would have preferred never to have had children rather than to have had them and lost them. And yet, although these and the like examples are manifest and known of all, it is rare to find any one who has refused what has been offered him, or, if he were likely to gain aught by prayer, has refrained from making his petition. The mass of mankind would not decline to accept a tyranny, or the command of an army, or any of the numerous things which cause more harm than good: but rather, if they had them not, would have prayed to obtain them. And often in a short space of time they change their tone, and wish their old prayers unsaid. Wherefore also I suspect that men are entirely wrong when they blame the gods as the authors of the ills which befall them (compare Republic): 'their own presumption,' or folly (whichever is the right word)-- 'Has brought these unmeasured woes upon them.' (Homer. Odyss.) He must have been a wise poet, Alcibiades, who, seeing as I believe, his friends foolishly praying for and doing things which would not really profit them, offered up a common prayer in behalf of them all:-- 'King Zeus, grant us good whether prayed for or unsought by us; But that which we ask amiss, do thou avert.' (The author of these lines, which are probably of Pythagorean origin, is unknown. They are found also in the Anthology (Anth. Pal.).) In my opinion, I say, the poet spoke both well and prudently; but if you have anything to say in answer to him, speak out. ALCIBIADES: It is difficult, Socrates, to oppose what has been well said. And I perceive how many are the ills of which ignorance is the cause, since, as would appear, through ignorance we not only do, but what is worse, pray for the greatest evils. No man would imagine that he would do so; he would rather suppose that he was quite capable of praying for what was best: to call down evils seems more like a curse than a prayer. SOCRATES: But perhaps, my good friend, some one who is wiser than either you or I will say that we have no right to blame ignorance thus rashly, unless we can add what ignorance we mean and of what, and also to whom and how it is respectively a good or an evil? ALCIBIADES: How do you mean? Can ignorance possibly be better than knowledge for any person in any conceivable case? SOCRATES: So I believe:--you do not think so? ALCIBIADES: Certainly not. SOCRATES: And yet surely I may not suppose that you would ever wish to act towards your mother as they say that Orestes and Alcmeon and others have done towards their parent. ALCIBIADES: Good words, Socrates, prithee. SOCRATES: You ought not to bid him use auspicious words, who says that you would not be willing to commit so horrible a deed, but rather him who affirms the contrary, if the act appear to you unfit even to be mentioned. Or do you think that Orestes, had he been in his senses and knew what was best for him to do, would ever have dared to venture on such a crime? ALCIBIADES: Certainly not. SOCRATES: Nor would any one else, I fancy? ALCIBIADES: No. SOCRATES: That ignorance is bad then, it would appear, which is of the best and does not know what is best? ALCIBIADES: So I think, at least. SOCRATES: And both to the person who is ignorant and everybody else? ALCIBIADES: Yes. SOCRATES: Let us take another case. Suppose that you were suddenly to get into your head that it would be a good thing to kill Pericles, your kinsman and guardian, and were to seize a sword and, going to the doors of his house, were to enquire if he were at home, meaning to slay only him and no one else:--the servants reply, 'Yes': (Mind, I do not mean that you would really do such a thing; but there is nothing, you think, to prevent a man who is ignorant of the best, having occasionally the whim that what is worst is best? ALCIBIADES: No.) SOCRATES:--If, then, you went indoors, and seeing him, did not know him, but thought that he was some one else, would you venture to slay him? ALCIBIADES: Most decidedly not (it seems to me). (These words are omitted in several MSS.) SOCRATES: For you designed to kill, not the first who offered, but Pericles himself? ALCIBIADES: Certainly. SOCRATES: And if you made many attempts, and each time failed to recognize Pericles, you would never attack him? ALCIBIADES: Never. SOCRATES: Well, but if Orestes in like manner had not known his mother, do you think that he would ever have laid hands upon her? ALCIBIADES: No. SOCRATES: He did not intend to slay the first woman he came across, nor any one else's mother, but only his own? ALCIBIADES: True. SOCRATES: Ignorance, then, is better for those who are in such a frame of mind, and have such ideas? ALCIBIADES: Obviously. SOCRATES: You acknowledge that for some persons in certain cases the ignorance of some things is a good and not an evil, as you formerly supposed? ALCIBIADES: I do. SOCRATES: And there is still another case which will also perhaps appear strange to you, if you will consider it? (The reading is here uncertain.) ALCIBIADES: What is that, Socrates? SOCRATES: It may be, in short, that the possession of all the sciences, if unaccompanied by the knowledge of the best, will more often than not injure the possessor. Consider the matter thus:--Must we not, when we intend either to do or say anything, suppose that we know or ought to know that which we propose so confidently to do or say? ALCIBIADES: Yes, in my opinion. SOCRATES: We may take the orators for an example, who from time to time advise us about war and peace, or the building of walls and the construction of harbours, whether they understand the business in hand, or only think that they do. Whatever the city, in a word, does to another city, or in the management of her own affairs, all happens by the counsel of the orators. ALCIBIADES: True. SOCRATES: But now see what follows, if I can (make it clear to you). (Some words appear to have dropped out here.) You would distinguish the wise from the foolish? ALCIBIADES: Yes. SOCRATES: The many are foolish, the few wise? ALCIBIADES: Certainly. SOCRATES: And you use both the terms, 'wise' and 'foolish,' in reference to something? ALCIBIADES: I do. SOCRATES: Would you call a person wise who can give advice, but does not know whether or when it is better to carry out the advice? ALCIBIADES: Decidedly not. SOCRATES: Nor again, I suppose, a person who knows the art of war, but does not know whether it is better to go to war or for how long? ALCIBIADES: No. SOCRATES: Nor, once more, a person who knows how to kill another or to take away his property or to drive him from his native land, but not when it is better to do so or for whom it is better? ALCIBIADES: Certainly not. SOCRATES: But he who understands anything of the kind and has at the same time the knowledge of the best course of action:--and the best and the useful are surely the same?-- ALCIBIADES: Yes. SOCRATES:--Such an one, I say, we should call wise and a useful adviser both of himself and of the city. What do you think? ALCIBIADES: I agree. SOCRATES: And if any one knows how to ride or to shoot with the bow or to box or to wrestle, or to engage in any other sort of contest or to do anything whatever which is in the nature of an art,--what do you call him who knows what is best according to that art? Do you not speak of one who knows what is best in riding as a good rider? ALCIBIADES: Yes. SOCRATES: And in a similar way you speak of a good boxer or a good flute-player or a good performer in any other art? ALCIBIADES: True. SOCRATES: But is it necessary that the man who is clever in any of these arts should be wise also in general? Or is there a difference between the clever artist and the wise man? ALCIBIADES: All the difference in the world. SOCRATES: And what sort of a state do you think that would be which was composed of good archers and flute-players and athletes and masters in other arts, and besides them of those others about whom we spoke, who knew how to go to war and how to kill, as well as of orators puffed up with political pride, but in which not one of them all had this knowledge of the best, and there was no one who could tell when it was better to apply any of these arts or in regard to whom? ALCIBIADES: I should call such a state bad, Socrates. SOCRATES: You certainly would when you saw each of them rivalling the other and esteeming that of the greatest importance in the state, 'Wherein he himself most excelled.' (Euripides, Antiope.) --I mean that which was best in any art, while he was entirely ignorant of what was best for himself and for the state, because, as I think, he trusts to opinion which is devoid of intelligence. In such a case should we not be right if we said that the state would be full of anarchy and lawlessness? ALCIBIADES: Decidedly. SOCRATES: But ought we not then, think you, either to fancy that we know or really to know, what we confidently propose to do or say? ALCIBIADES: Yes. SOCRATES: And if a person does that which he knows or supposes that he knows, and the result is beneficial, he will act advantageously both for himself and for the state? ALCIBIADES: True. SOCRATES: And if he do the contrary, both he and the state will suffer? ALCIBIADES: Yes. SOCRATES: Well, and are you of the same mind, as before? ALCIBIADES: I am. SOCRATES: But were you not saying that you would call the many unwise and the few wise? ALCIBIADES: I was. SOCRATES: And have we not come back to our old assertion that the many fail to obtain the best because they trust to opinion which is devoid of intelligence? ALCIBIADES: That is the case. SOCRATES: It is good, then, for the many, if they particularly desire to do that which they know or suppose that they know, neither to know nor to suppose that they know, in cases where if they carry out their ideas in action they will be losers rather than gainers? ALCIBIADES: What you say is very true. SOCRATES: Do you not see that I was really speaking the truth when I affirmed that the possession of any other kind of knowledge was more likely to injure than to benefit the possessor, unless he had also the knowledge of the best? ALCIBIADES: I do now, if I did not before, Socrates. SOCRATES: The state or the soul, therefore, which wishes to have a right existence must hold firmly to this knowledge, just as the sick man clings to the physician, or the passenger depends for safety on the pilot. And if the soul does not set sail until she have obtained this she will be all the safer in the voyage through life. But when she rushes in pursuit of wealth or bodily strength or anything else, not having the knowledge of the best, so much the more is she likely to meet with misfortune. And he who has the love of learning (Or, reading polumatheian, 'abundant learning.'), and is skilful in many arts, and does not possess the knowledge of the best, but is under some other guidance, will make, as he deserves, a sorry voyage:--he will, I believe, hurry through the brief space of human life, pilotless in mid-ocean, and the words will apply to him in which the poet blamed his enemy:-- '...Full many a thing he knew; But knew them all badly.' (A fragment from the pseudo-Homeric poem, 'Margites.') ALCIBIADES: How in the world, Socrates, do the words of the poet apply to him? They seem to me to have no bearing on the point whatever. SOCRATES: Quite the contrary, my sweet friend: only the poet is talking in riddles after the fashion of his tribe. For all poetry has by nature an enigmatical character, and it is by no means everybody who can interpret it. And if, moreover, the spirit of poetry happen to seize on a man who is of a begrudging temper and does not care to manifest his wisdom but keeps it to himself as far as he can, it does indeed require an almost superhuman wisdom to discover what the poet would be at. You surely do not suppose that Homer, the wisest and most divine of poets, was unaware of the impossibility of knowing a thing badly: for it was no less a person than he who said of Margites that 'he knew many things, but knew them all badly.' The solution of the riddle is this, I imagine:--By 'badly' Homer meant 'bad' and 'knew' stands for 'to know.' Put the words together;--the metre will suffer, but the poet's meaning is clear;--'Margites knew all these things, but it was bad for him to know them.' And, obviously, if it was bad for him to know so many things, he must have been a good-for-nothing, unless the argument has played us false. ALCIBIADES: But I do not think that it has, Socrates: at least, if the argument is fallacious, it would be difficult for me to find another which I could trust. SOCRATES: And you are right in thinking so. ALCIBIADES: Well, that is my opinion. SOCRATES: But tell me, by Heaven:--you must see now the nature and greatness of the difficulty in which you, like others, have your part. For you change about in all directions, and never come to rest anywhere: what you once most strongly inclined to suppose, you put aside again and quite alter your mind. If the God to whose shrine you are going should appear at this moment, and ask before you made your prayer, 'Whether you would desire to have one of the things which we mentioned at first, or whether he should leave you to make your own request:'--what in either case, think you, would be the best way to take advantage of the opportunity? ALCIBIADES: Indeed, Socrates, I could not answer you without consideration. It seems to me to be a wild thing (The Homeric word margos is said to be here employed in allusion to the quotation from the 'Margites' which Socrates has just made; but it is not used in the sense which it has in Homer.) to make such a request; a man must be very careful lest he pray for evil under the idea that he is asking for good, when shortly after he may have to recall his prayer, and, as you were saying, demand the opposite of what he at first requested. SOCRATES: And was not the poet whose words I originally quoted wiser than we are, when he bade us (pray God) to defend us from evil even though we asked for it? ALCIBIADES: I believe that you are right. SOCRATES: The Lacedaemonians, too, whether from admiration of the poet or because they have discovered the idea for themselves, are wont to offer the prayer alike in public and private, that the Gods will give unto them the beautiful as well as the good:--no one is likely to hear them make any further petition. And yet up to the present time they have not been less fortunate than other men; or if they have sometimes met with misfortune, the fault has not been due to their prayer. For surely, as I conceive, the Gods have power either to grant our requests, or to send us the contrary of what we ask. And now I will relate to you a story which I have heard from certain of our elders. It chanced that when the Athenians and Lacedaemonians were at war, our city lost every battle by land and sea and never gained a victory. The Athenians being annoyed and perplexed how to find a remedy for their troubles, decided to send and enquire at the shrine of Ammon. Their envoys were also to ask, 'Why the Gods always granted the victory to the Lacedaemonians?' 'We,' (they were to say,) 'offer them more and finer sacrifices than any other Hellenic state, and adorn their temples with gifts, as nobody else does; moreover, we make the most solemn and costly processions to them every year, and spend more money in their service than all the rest of the Hellenes put together. But the Lacedaemonians take no thought of such matters, and pay so little respect to the Gods that they have a habit of sacrificing blemished animals to them, and in various ways are less zealous than we are, although their wealth is quite equal to ours.' When they had thus spoken, and had made their request to know what remedy they could find against the evils which troubled them, the prophet made no direct answer,--clearly because he was not allowed by the God to do so;--but he summoned them to him and said: 'Thus saith Ammon to the Athenians: "The silent worship of the Lacedaemonians pleaseth me better than all the offerings of the other Hellenes."' Such were the words of the God, and nothing more. He seems to have meant by 'silent worship' the prayer of the Lacedaemonians, which is indeed widely different from the usual requests of the Hellenes. For they either bring to the altar bulls with gilded horns or make offerings to the Gods, and beg at random for what they need, good or bad. When, therefore, the Gods hear them using words of ill omen they reject these costly processions and sacrifices of theirs. And we ought, I think, to be very careful and consider well what we should say and what leave unsaid. Homer, too, will furnish us with similar stories. For he tells us how the Trojans in making their encampment, 'Offered up whole hecatombs to the immortals,' and how the 'sweet savour' was borne 'to the heavens by the winds; 'But the blessed Gods were averse and received it not. For exceedingly did they hate the holy Ilium, Both Priam and the people of the spear-skilled king.' So that it was in vain for them to sacrifice and offer gifts, seeing that they were hateful to the Gods, who are not, like vile usurers, to be gained over by bribes. And it is foolish for us to boast that we are superior to the Lacedaemonians by reason of our much worship. The idea is inconceivable that the Gods have regard, not to the justice and purity of our souls, but to costly processions and sacrifices, which men may celebrate year after year, although they have committed innumerable crimes against the Gods or against their fellow-men or the state. For the Gods, as Ammon and his prophet declare, are no receivers of gifts, and they scorn such unworthy service. Wherefore also it would seem that wisdom and justice are especially honoured both by the Gods and by men of sense; and they are the wisest and most just who know how to speak and act towards Gods and men. But I should like to hear what your opinion is about these matters. ALCIBIADES: I agree, Socrates, with you and with the God, whom, indeed, it would be unbecoming for me to oppose. SOCRATES: Do you not remember saying that you were in great perplexity, lest perchance you should ask for evil, supposing that you were asking for good? ALCIBIADES: I do. SOCRATES: You see, then, that there is a risk in your approaching the God in prayer, lest haply he should refuse your sacrifice when he hears the blasphemy which you utter, and make you partake of other evils as well. The wisest plan, therefore, seems to me that you should keep silence; for your 'highmindedness'--to use the mildest term which men apply to folly--will most likely prevent you from using the prayer of the Lacedaemonians. You had better wait until we find out how we should behave towards the Gods and towards men. ALCIBIADES: And how long must I wait, Socrates, and who will be my teacher? I should be very glad to see the man. SOCRATES: It is he who takes an especial interest in you. But first of all, I think, the darkness must be taken away in which your soul is now enveloped, just as Athene in Homer removes the mist from the eyes of Diomede that 'He may distinguish between God and mortal man.' Afterwards the means may be given to you whereby you may distinguish between good and evil. At present, I fear, this is beyond your power. ALCIBIADES: Only let my instructor take away the impediment, whether it pleases him to call it mist or anything else! I care not who he is; but I am resolved to disobey none of his commands, if I am likely to be the better for them. SOCRATES: And surely he has a wondrous care for you. ALCIBIADES: It seems to be altogether advisable to put off the sacrifice until he is found. SOCRATES: You are right: that will be safer than running such a tremendous risk. ALCIBIADES: But how shall we manage, Socrates?--At any rate I will set this crown of mine upon your head, as you have given me such excellent advice, and to the Gods we will offer crowns and perform the other customary rites when I see that day approaching: nor will it be long hence, if they so will. SOCRATES: I accept your gift, and shall be ready and willing to receive whatever else you may proffer. Euripides makes Creon say in the play, when he beholds Teiresias with his crown and hears that he has gained it by his skill as the first-fruits of the spoil:-- 'An auspicious omen I deem thy victor's wreath: For well thou knowest that wave and storm oppress us.' And so I count your gift to be a token of good-fortune; for I am in no less stress than Creon, and would fain carry off the victory over your lovers. 
12958	----	PAMELA Volume II By Samuel Richardson AUTHOR'S ORIGINAL PREFACE TO VOLUME II The First part of PAMELA met with a success greatly exceeding the most sanguine expectations: and the Editor hopes, that the Letters which compose this Part will be found equally written to NATURE, avoiding all romantic nights, improbable surprises, and irrational machinery; and the passions are touched, where requisite; and rules, equally _new_ and _practicable_, inculcated throughout the whole, for the _general conduct of life_; and, therefore, he flatters himself, that they may expect the good fortune, which _few continuations_ have met with, to be judged not unworthy the _First_ Part; nor disproportioned to the more exalted condition in which PAMELA was destined to shine as an affectionate _wife_, a faithful _friend_, a polite and kind _neighbour_, an indulgent _mother_, and a beneficent _mistress_; after having in the former Part supported the character of a dutiful _child_, a spotless _virgin_, and a modest and amiable _bride_. The reader will easily see, that in so great a choice of materials, as must arise from a multitude of important subjects, in a married life, to such geniuses and friendships as those of Mr. and Mrs. B. the Editor's greatest difficulty was how to bring them within the compass which he was determined not to exceed. And it having been left to his own choice, in what manner to digest and publish the letters, and where to close the work, he had intended, at first, in regard to his other avocations, to have carried the piece no farther than the First Part. It may be expected, therefore, that he should enter into an explanation of the reasons whereby he was provoked into a necessity of altering his intention. But he is willing to decline saying any thing upon so well-known a subject. The Editor has been much pressed with importunities and conjectures, in relation to the person and family of the gentleman, who are the principal persons in the work; all he thinks himself at liberty to say, or is necessary to be said, is only to repeat what has already been hinted, that the story has its foundation in truth; and that there was a necessity, for obvious reasons, to vary and disguise some facts and circumstances, as also the names of persons, places, &c. LETTER I My dear father and mother, We arrived here last night, highly pleased with our journey, and the occasion of it. May God bless you both with long life and health, to enjoy your sweet farm, and pretty dwelling, which is just what I wished it to be. And don't make your grateful hearts too uneasy in the possession of it, by your modest diffidence of your own unworthiness: for, at the same time, that it is what will do honour to the best of men, it is not so _very_ extraordinary, considering his condition, as to cause any one to censure it as the effect of a too partial and injudicious kindness for the parents of one whom he _delighteth to honour_. My dear master (why should I not still call him so, bound to reverence him as I am, in every light he can shine in to the most obliging and sensible heart?) still proposes to fit up the large parlour, and three apartments in the commodious dwelling he calls yours, for his entertainment and mine, when I pay my duty to you both, for a few happy days; and he has actually given orders to that effect; and that the three apartments be _so_ fitted up, as to be rather suitable to _your_ condition, than his own; for, he says, the plain simple elegance, which he will have observed in the rooms, as well as the furniture, will be a variety in his retirement to this place, that will make him return to his own with the greater pleasure; and, at the same time, when we are not there, will be of use for the reception of any of your friends; and so he shall not, as he kindly says, rob the good couple of any of their accommodations. The old bow-windows he will have preserved, but will not have them sashed, nor the woodbines, jessamines, and vines, that run up against them, destroyed: only he will have larger panes of glass, and more convenient casements to let in the sweet air and light, and make amends for that obstructed by the shades of those fragrant climbers. For he has mentioned, three or four times, how gratefully they dispensed their intermingled odours to us, when, the last evening we stood at the window, to hear the responsive songs of two warbling nightingales, one at a distance, the other near, which delighted us for above two hours, and the more, as we thought their season had been over. And when they had done, he made _me_ sing him one, for which he rewarded me with a kiss, saying, "How greatly do the innocent pleasures I now hourly taste, exceed the guilty tumults that used formerly to agitate my unequal mind!--Never talk, my Pamela, as you frequently do, of obligation to me: one such hour as I now enjoy is an ample reward for all the benefits I can confer on you and yours in my whole life!" The parlour will indeed be more elegant; though that is to be rather plain than rich, as well in its wainscot as furniture, and to be new-floored. The dear gentleman has already given orders, and you will soon have workmen to put them in execution. The parlour-doors are to have brass-hinges and locks, and to shut as close, he tells them, as a watch-case: "For who knows," said he, "my dear, but we shall have still added blessings, in two or three charming boys and girls, to place there in their infancy, before they can be of age to be benefited by your lessons and example? And besides, I shall no doubt entertain there some of my chosen friends, in their excursions for a day or two." How am I, every hour of my life, overwhelmed with instances of God Almighty's goodness and his! O spare, blessed Father of Mercies, the precious life of this excellent man; increase my thankfulness, and my worthiness;--and then--But what shall I say?--Only that I may _continue_ to be what I am; for more blessed and happy, in my own mind, I cannot be. The beds he will have of cloth, as he thinks the situation a little cold, especially when the wind is easterly, and purposes to be down in the early spring season, now and then, as well as in the latter autumn; and the window curtains of the same, in one room red, in the other green; but plain, lest you should be afraid to use them occasionally. The carpets for them will be sent with the other furniture; for he will not alter the old oaken floors of the bed-chamber, nor the little room he intends for my use, when I choose not to join in such company as may happen to fall in: "Which, my dear," says he, "shall be as little as is possible, only particular friends, who may be disposed, once in a year or two, to see when I am there, how I live with my Pamela and her parents, and how I pass my time in my retirement, as I shall call this: or, perhaps, they will be apt to think me ashamed of company I shall always be pleased with. Nor are you, my dear, to take this as a compliment to yourself, but a piece of requisite policy in me: for who will offer to reproach me with marrying, as the world thinks, below me, when they shall see that I not only pride myself in my Pamela, but take pleasure in owning her relations as mine, and visiting them, and receiving visits from them: and yet offer not to set them up in such a glaring light, as if I would have the world forget (who in that case would always take the more pleasure in remembering) what they were! And how will it anticipate low reflection, when they shall see, I can bend my mind to partake with them the pleasure of their humble but decent life?--Ay," continued he, "and be rewarded for it too, with better health, better spirits, and a better mind; so that, my dear," added he, "I shall reap more benefit by what I propose to do, than I shall confer." In this generous manner does this best of men endeavour to disclaim (though I must be very ungrateful, if, with me, it did not enhance) the proper merit of a beneficence natural to him; and which, indeed, as I tell him, may be in one respect deprecated, inasmuch as (so excellent is his nature) he cannot help it if he would. O that it was in my power to recompense him for it! But I am poor, as I have often said, in every thing but will--and that is wholly his: and what a happiness is it to me, a happiness I could not so early have hoped for, that I can say so without reserve; since the dear object of it requires nothing of me but what is consistent with my duty to the Supreme Benefactor, the first mover and cause of all his own happiness, of my happiness, and that of my dear, my ever dear parents. _Your dutiful and happy daughter._ LETTER II MY DEAREST DAUGHTER, I need not repeat to you the sense your good mother and I have of our happiness, and of our obligations to your honoured spouse; you both were pleased witnesses of it every hour of the happy fortnight you passed with us. Yet, my dear, we hardly know how to address ourselves even to _you_, much less to the _'squire_, with the freedom he so often invited us to take: for I don't know how it is, but though you are our daughter, and so far from being lifted up by your high condition, that we see no difference in your behaviour to us, your poor parents, yet, viewing you as the lady of so fine a gentleman, we cannot forbear having a kind of respect, and--I don't know what to call it--that lays a little restraint upon us. And yet, we should not, methinks, let our minds be run away with the admiration of worldly grandeur, so as to set too much by it. But your merit and prudence are so much above all we could ever have any notion of: and to have gentry come only to behold and admire you, not so much for your gentleness, and amiableness, or for your behaviour, and affability to poor as well as rich, and to hear every one calling you an angel, and saying, you deserve to be what you are, make us hardly know how to look upon you, but as an angel indeed! I am sure you have been a good angel to us; since, for your sake, God Almighty has put it into your honoured husband's heart to make us the happiest couple in the world. But little less we should have been, had we only in some far distant land heard of our dear child's happiness and never partaken of the benefits of it ourselves. But thus to be provided for! thus kindly to be owned, and called Father and Mother by such a brave gentleman! and so placed as to have nothing to do but to bless God, him, and you, and hourly pray for you _both_, is a providence too mighty to be borne by us, with equalness of temper: we kneel together every morning, noon, and night, and weep and rejoice, and rejoice and weep, to think how our unworthiness is distinguished, and how God has provided for us in our latter days; when all our fear was, that, as we grew older and more infirm, and worn out by hard labour, we should be troublesome where, not our pride, but our industrious wills, would have made us wish not to be so;--but to be entitled to a happier lot: for this would have grieved us the more, for the sake of you, my dear child, and your unhappy brother's children: for it is well known, that, though we pretend not to boast of our family, and indeed have no reason, yet none of us were ever sunk so low as I was: to be sure, partly by my own fault; for, had it been for your poor aged mother's sake only, I ought not to have done what I did for John and William; for so unhappy were they, poor lads! that what I could do, was but as a drop of water to a bucket. You command me--Let me, as writing to Mr. B.'s lady, say _command_, though, as to my dear _daughter_, I will only say _desire_: and, indeed, I will not, as you wish me not to do, let the one condition, which was accidental, put the other, which was natural, out of my thought: you spoke it in better words, but this was the sense. But you have the gift of utterance; and education is a fine thing, where it meets with such talents to improve upon, as God has given you. Yet let me not forget what I was going to say--You _command_--or, if you please--you _desire_ me to write long letters, and often--And how can I help it, if I would? For when here, in this happy dwelling, and this well-stocked farm, in these rich meadows, and well-cropt acres, we look around us, and which way soever we turn our head, see blessings upon blessings, and plenty upon plenty, see barns well stored, poultry increasing, the kine lowing and crowding about us: and are bid to call them our own. Then think, that all is the reward of our child's virtue!--O my dear daughter, who can bear these things!--Excuse me! I must break off a little! For my eyes are as full as my heart: and I will retire to bless God, and your honoured husband. So, my dear child, I now again take up my pen: but reading what I had written, in order to carry on the thread, I can hardly forbear again being in one sort affected. But do you think I will call all these things my own?--Do you think I would live rent-free? Can the honoured 'squire believe, that having such a generous example before me, if I had no gratitude in my temper before, I could help being touched by such an one as he sets me? If this goodness makes him know no mean in giving, shall I be so greedy as to know none in receiving? Come, come, my dear child, your poor father is not so sordid a wretch, neither. He will shew the world that all these benefits are not thrown away upon one, who will disgrace you as much by his temper, as by his condition. What though I cannot be as worthy of all these favours as I wish, I will be as worthy as I can. And let me tell you, my dear child, if the king and his royal family (God bless 'em!) be not ashamed to receive taxes and duties from his subjects; if dukes and earls, and all the top gentry, cannot support their bravery, without having their rents paid; I hope I shall not affront the 'squire, to pay to his steward, what any other person would pay for his noble stock, and improving farm: and I will do it, if it please God to bless me with life and health. I should not be worthy to crawl upon the earth, if I did not. And what did I say to Mr. Longman, the faithful Mr. Longman! Sure no gentleman had ever a more worthy steward than he: it was as we were walking over the grounds together, and observing in what good order every thing was, he was praising some little contrivances of my own, for the improvement of the farm, and saying, how comfortably he hoped we might live upon it. "Ay, Mr. Longman," said I, "comfortably indeed: but do you think I could be properly said to _live_, if I was not to pay as much rent for it as another?" --"I can tell you," said he, "the 'squire will not receive any thing from you, Goodman Andrews. Why, man, he has no occasion for it: he's worth a power of money, besides a noble and clear estate in land. Ad's-heartlikens, you must not affront him, I can tell you that: he's as generous as a prince, where he takes; but he is hasty, and will have his own way."--"Why, for that reason, Mr. Longman," said I, "I was thinking to make _you_ my friend!"--"Make _me_ your friend! You have not a better in the world, to my power, I can tell you that, nor your dame neither; for I love such honest hearts: I wish my own brother would let me love him as well; but let that pass. What I can do for you, I will, and here's my hand upon it." "Well, then," said I, "it is this: let me account to you at the rent Farmer Dickens offered, and let me know what the stock cost, and what the crops are valued at; and pay the one as I can, and the other quarterly; and not let the 'squire know it till you can't choose; and I shall be as happy as a prince; for I doubt not, by God's blessing, to make a comfortable livelihood of it besides."--"Why, dost believe, Goodman Andrews," said he, "that I would do such a thing? Would not his honour think if I hid one thing from him, I might hide another? Go to, honest heart, I love thee dearly; but can Mr. B. do too much for his lady, think'st thou? Come, come" (and he jeered me so, I knew not what to say), "I wish at bottom there is not some pride in this. What, I warrant, you would not be too much beholden to his honour, would you?"--"No," said I, "it is not that, I'm sure. If I have any pride, it is only in my dear child--to whom, under God, all this is owing. But some how or other it shall be so." And so, my dear daughter, I resolve it shall; and it will be, over and above, one of the greatest pleasures to me, to do the good 'squire service, as well as to be so much benefited and obliged by him. Our eldest grandson Thomas desires to come and live with us: the boy is honest, and, I hear, industrious. And cousin Borroughs wants me to employ his son Roger, who understands the business of a farm very well. It is no wonder, that all one's relations should wish to partake of our happy lot; and if they _can_ and _will_ do their business as well as others, I see not why relationship should be an objection: but, yet, I think, one should not _beleaguer_, as one may say, your honoured husband with one's relations. You, my best child, will give me always your advice, as to my carriage in this my new lot; for I would not for the world be thought an encroacher. And you have so followed than yours. Our blessing (I am sure you have blessed us!) attend you, my dearest child; and may you be as happy as you have made us (I cannot wish you to be happier, because I have no notion how it can be in this life). Conclude us, _your ever-loving father and mother_, JOHN _and_ ELIZ. ANDREWS. May we hope to be favoured now and then with a letter from you, my dear child, like some of your former, to let us know how you go on? It would be a great joy to us; indeed it would. But we know you'll have enough to do without obliging us in this way. So must acquiesce. LETTER III MY DEAR FATHER AND MOTHER, I have shewed your letter to my beloved. Don't be uneasy that I have; for you need not be ashamed of it, since it is my pride to have such honest and grateful parents: and I'll tell you what he said to it, as the best argument I can use, why you should not be uneasy, but enjoy without pain or anxiety all the benefits of your happy lot. "Dear good souls!" said he, "now every thing they say and write manifests the worthiness of their hearts! No wonder, Pamela, you love and revere such honest minds; for that you would do, were they not your parents: and tell them, that I am so far from having them believe what I have done for them were only from my affection for their daughter, that let 'em find out another couple as worthy as they are, and I will do as much for them. I would not place them," he continued, "in the _same_ county, because I would wish _two_ counties to be blessed for their sakes. Tell them, my dear, that they have a right to what they enjoy on the foot of their own _proper_ merit; and _bid_ them enjoy it as their patrimony; and if any thing arise that is more than they themselves can wish for, in their way of life, let them look among their own relations, where it may be acceptable, and communicate to them the like solid reasons for rejoicing in the situation they are pleased with: and do you, my dear, still farther enable them, as you shall judge proper, to gratify their enlarged hearts, for fear they should deny any comfort to themselves, in order to do good to others." I could only fly to his generous bosom (for this is a subject which most affects me), and, with my eyes swimming in tears of grateful joy, and which overflowed as soon as my bold lips touched his dear face, bless God, and bless him, with my whole heart; for speak I could not! But, almost chok'd with my joy, sobb'd to him my grateful acknowledgments. He clasped me in his arms, and said, "How, my dearest, do you overpay me for the little I have done for your parents! If it be thus to be bless'd for conferring benefits so insignificant to a man of my fortune, what joys is it not in the power of rich men to give themselves, whenever they please!--Foretastes, indeed, of those we are bid to hope for: which can surely only exceed these, as _then_ we shall be all intellect, and better fitted to receive them."--"'Tis too much!--too much," said I, in broken accents: "how am I oppressed with the pleasure you give me!--O, Sir, bless me more gradually, and more cautiously--for I cannot bear it!" And, indeed, my heart went flutter, flutter, flutter, at his dear breast, as if it wanted to break its too narrow prison, to mingle still more intimately with his own. Surely, my beloved parents, nobody's happiness is so great as mine!--If it proceeds thus from degree to degree, and is to be augmented by the charming hope, that the dear second author of our blessings, be the uniformly good as well as the partially kind man to us, what a felicity will this be! and if our prayers shall be heard, and we shall have the pleasure to think, that his advances in piety are owing not a little to them, and to the example God shall give us grace to set; then, indeed, may we take the pride to think, we have repaid his goodness to us, and that we have satisfied the debt, which nothing less can discharge. Forgive me, my worthy parents, if my style on this subject be raised above the natural simplicity, more suited to my humble talents. But how can I help it! For when the mind is elevated, ought not the sense we have of our happiness to make our expressions soar equally? Can the affections be so highly raised as mine are on these occasions, and the thoughts creep grovelling like one's ordinary self? No, indeed!--Call not this, therefore, the gift of utterance, if it should appear to you in a better light than it deserves. It is the gift of gratitude; a gift which makes you and me to _speak_ and _write_, as I hope it will make us _act_, above ourselves. Thus will our gratitude be the inspirer of joy to our common benefactor; and his joy will heighten our gratitude; and so we shall proceed, as cause and effect to each other's happiness, to bless the dear man who blesses us. And will it be right then to say, you are uneasy under such (at least as to your wills) returned and discharged obligations? God Almighty requires only a thankful heart for all the mercies he heaps upon the children of men; my dear Mr. B., who in these particulars imitates Divinity, desires no more. You _have_ this thankful heart; and that to such a high degree of gratitude, that nobody can exceed you. But yet, when your worthy minds would be too much affected with your gratitude, so as to lay under the restraints you mention, to the dear gentleman, and for his sake, to your dependent daughter; let me humbly advise you, with more particular, more abstracted aspirations, than at other times, to raise your thoughts upwards, and consider who it is that gives _him_ the opportunity; and pray for him and for me; for _him_, that all his future actions may be of a piece with this noble disposition of mind; for _me_, that I may continue humble, and consider myself blest for your sakes, and in order that I may be, in some sort, a rewarder, in the hands of Providence, of this its dear excellent agent; and then we shall look forward, all of us, with pleasure, _indeed_, to that state, where there is no distinction of degree, and where the humble cottager shall be upon a par with the proudest monarch. O my dear parents, how can you, as in your _postscript_, say, "May we not be _favoured_ now-and-then with a letter?" Call _me_ your daughter, your Pamela--I am no lady to you. I have more pleasure to be called your comfort, and thought to act worthy of the sentiments with which your example and instructions have inspired me, than in any other thing in this life; my determined duty to our common benefactor, the best of gentlemen and husbands, excepted. God has blessed me for your sakes, and has thus answered for me all your prayers; nay, _more_ than answered all you or I could have wished or hoped for. We only prayed, only hoped, that God would preserve _you_ honest, and _me_ virtuous: and, O see, my excellent parents, how we are crowned with blessings upon blessings, till we are the talk of all that know us. Hence, my dear parents (I mean, from the delight I have in writing to you, which transports me far above my own sphere), you'll see, that I _must_ write, and cannot help it, if I would. And _will_ it be a great joy to you?--And is there any thing that can add to your joy, think you, in the power of your Pamela, that she would not _do_? O that the lives and healths of my dearest Mr. B. and you, my parents, may be continued to me! And who can then be so blest as your Pamela? I _will_ write, _depend_ upon it, on every occasion--and you augment my joys to think it is in my power to add to your comforts. Nor can you conceive my pleasure in hoping that this your new happy lot may, by relieving you from corroding care, and the too wearying effects of hard labour, add, in these your advanced years, to both your days. For, so happy am I, I can have no grief, no pain, in looking forward, but from reflecting, that one day we must be separated. But it is fit that we so comport ourselves as not to embitter our present happiness with prospects too gloomy--but bring our minds to be cheerfully thankful for the present, wisely to enjoy that _present_ as we go along--and at last, when all is to be wound up--lie down, and say, "_Not mine_, but _Thy will be done_." I have written much; yet have still more to say relating to other parts of your kind acceptable letter; and so will soon write again: for I must think every opportunity happy, whereby I can assure you, how much I am, and will ever be, without any addition to my name, if it will make you easier, _your dutiful_ PAMELA. LETTER IV MY DEAREST FATHER AND MOTHER, I now write again, as I told you I should in my last; but I am half afraid to look at the copy of it; for your worthy hearts, so visible in your letter and my beloved's kind deportment upon shewing it to him, raised me into a frame of mind, bordering on ecstasy: yet I wrote my heart. But you must not, my dear father, write to your Pamela so affectingly. Your _steadier_ mind could hardly bear your own moving strain, and you were forced to lay down your pen, and retire: how then could I, who love you so dearly, if you had not _increased_ that love by fresh and stronger instances of your worthiness, forbear being affected, and raised above myself! But I will not again touch upon this subject. You must know then, that my dearest spouse commands me, with his kind respects, to tell you, he has thought of a method to make your _worthy hearts_ easy; those were his words: "And this is," said he, "by putting that whole estate, with the new purchase, under your father's care, as I at first intended: he shall receive and pay, and order every thing as he pleases: and Longman, who grows in years, shall be eased of that burden. Your father writes a very legible hand, and shall take what assistants he pleases; and do you, Pamela, see that this new task be made as easy and pleasant to him as possible. He shall make up his accounts only to you, my dear. And there will be several pleasures arise to me upon it: first, that it will be a relief to honest Longman, who has business enough on his hands. Next, it will make the good couple easy, to have an opportunity of enjoying that as their due, which now their too grateful hearts give them so many causeless scruples about. Thirdly, it will employ your father's time, more suitably to _your_ liking and mine, because with more ease to himself; for you see his industrious will cannot be satisfied without doing something. In the fourth place, the management of this estate will gain him more respect and reverence among the tenants and his neighbours: and yet be all in his own way. For," added he, "you'll see, that it is always one point in view with me, to endeavour to convince every one, that I esteem and value them for their own intrinsic merit, and want not any body to distinguish them in any other light than that in which they have been accustomed to appear." So, my dear father, the instrument will be drawn, and brought you by honest Mr. Longman, who will be with you in a few days to put the last hand to the new purchase, and to give you possession of your new commission, if you accept it, as I hope you will; and the rather, for my dear Mr. B.'s third reason; and knowing that this trust will be discharged as worthily and as sufficiently, after you are used to it, as if Mr. Longman himself was in it--and better it cannot be. Mr. Longman is very fond of this relief, and longs to be down to settle every thing with you, as to the proper powers, the method, &c. And he says, in his usual phrase, that he'll make it as easy to you as a glove. If you do accept it, my dear Mr. B. will leave every thing to you, as to rent, where not already fixed, and, likewise, as to acts of kindness and favour to be done where you think proper; and he says, that, with his bad qualities, he was ever deemed a kind landlord; and that I can confirm in fifty instances to his honour: "So that the old gentleman," said he, "need not be afraid of being put upon severe or harsh methods of proceeding, where things will do without; and he can always befriend an honest man; by which means the province will be entirely such a one as suits with his inclination. If any thing difficult or perplexing arises," continued he, "or where a little knowledge in law-matters is necessary, Longman shall do all that: and your father will see that he will not have in those points a coadjutor too hard-hearted for his wish; for it was a rule my father set me, and I have strictly followed, that although I have a lawyer for my steward, it was rather to know how to do _right_ things, than oppressive ones; and Longman has so well answered this intention, that he was always more noted for composing differences, than promoting lawsuits." I dare say, my dear father, this will be acceptable to you, on the several accounts my dearest Mr. B. was pleased to mention: and what a charming contrivance is here! God for ever bless his considerate heart for it! To make you useful to him, and easy to yourself: as well as respected by, and even a benefactor to all around you! What can one say to all things? But what signifies exulting on one's gratitude for _one_ benefit;--every hour the dear man heaps new ones upon us, and we can hardly thank him for one, but a second, and a third, and so on to countless degrees, confound one, and throw back our words upon our hearts before they are well formed, and oblige us to sit down under all with profound silence and admiration. As to the desire of cousin Thomas, and Roger, to live with you, I endeavoured to sound what our dear benefactor's opinion was. He was pleased to say, "I have no choice in this case, my dear. Your father is his own master: he may employ whom he pleases; and, if they shew respect to him and your mother, I think, as he rightly observes, relationship should rather have the preference; and as he can remedy inconveniences, if he finds any, by all means to let every branch of your family have reason to rejoice with him." But I have thought of this matter a good deal, since I had the favour of your letter; and I hope, since you condescend to ask my advice, you will excuse me, if I give it freely; yet entirely submitting all to your liking. First, then, I think it better to have _any body_ than relations; and for these reasons: One is apt to expect more regard from them, and they more indulgence than strangers can hope for. That where there is such a difference in the expectations of both, uneasiness cannot but arise. That this will subject you to bear it, or to resent it, and to part with them. If you bear it, you will know no end of impositions: if you dismiss them, it will occasion ill-will. They will call you unkind; and you them ungrateful: and as your prosperous lot may raise you enviers, such will be apt to believe _them_ rather than _you_. Then the world will be inclined to think that we are crowding upon a generous gentleman a numerous family of indigent people; and it will be said, "The girl is filling every place with her relations, and _beleaguering_," as you significantly express it, "a worthy gentleman;" should one's kindred behave ever so worthily. So, in the next place, one would not, for _their_ sakes, that this should be done; who may live with _less_ reproach, and _equal_ benefit, any where else; for I would not wish any one of them to be lifted out of his station, and made independent, at Mr. B.'s expense, if their industry will not do it; although I would never scruple to do any thing reasonable to promote or assist that industry, in the way of their callings. Then, my dear father, I apprehend, that our honoured benefactor would be under some difficulty, from his natural politeness, and regard for you and me. You see how kindly, on all occasions, he treats you both, not only as the parents of his Pamela, but as if you were his own; and if you had any body as your servants there, who called you cousin, or grandfather, or uncle, he would not care, when he came down, to treat them on the foot of common servants, though they might think themselves honoured (as they would be, and as I shall always think _myself_) with his commands. And would it not, if they are modest and worthy, be as great a difficulty upon _them_, to be thus distinguished, as it would be to _him_ and to _me_, for _his_ sake? For otherwise (believe me, I hope you will, my dear father and mother), I could sit down and rejoice with the meanest and remotest relation I have. But in the world's eye, to every body but my best of parents, I must, if ever so reluctant to it, appear in a light that may not give discredit to his choice. Then again, as I hinted, you will be able, without the least injury to our common benefactor, to do kinder things by any of our relations, when _not_ with you, than you can do, if they _live_ with you. You may lend them a little money to put them in a way, if any thing offers that you think will be to their advantage. You can fit out my she-cousins to good reputable places. The younger you can put to school, or, when fit, to trades, according to their talents; and so they will be of course in a way to get an honest and creditable livelihood. But, above all things, one would discourage such a proud and ambitious spirit in any of them, as should want to raise itself by favour instead of merit; and this the rather, for, undoubtedly, there are many more happy persons in low than in high life, take number for number all the world over. I am sure, although four or five years of different life had passed with me, I had so much pride and pleasure in the thought of working for my living with you, if I could but get honest to you, that it made my confinement the more grievous, and, if possible, aggravated the apprehensions attending it. But I beg of you, not to think these my reasons proceed from the bad motives of a heart tainted with pride on its high condition. Indeed there can be no reason for it, to one who thinks after this manner--the greatest families on earth have some among them who are unhappy and low in life; and shall such a one reproach me with having twenty low relations, because they have, peradventure, not above five? Let us then, my dear parents, endeavour to judge of one another, as God, at the last day, will judge of us all: and then the honest peasant will stand fairer in our esteem than the guilty peer. In short, this shall be my own rule--Every one who acts justly and honestly, I will look upon as my relation, whether so or not; and the more he wants my assistance, the more entitled to it he shall be, as well as to my esteem; while those who deserve it not, must expect only compassion from me, and my prayers were they my brothers or sisters. 'Tis true had I not been poor and lowly, I might not have thought thus; but if it be a right way of thinking, it is a blessing that I was so; and that shall never be matter of reproach to me, which one day will be matter of justification. Upon the whole, I should think it advisable, my dear father and mother, to make such kind excuses to the offered service of my cousins, as your better reason shall suggest to you; and to do any thing else for them of _more_ value, as their circumstances may require, or occasions offer to serve them. But if the employing and having them about you, will add comfort to your lives, I give up entirely my own opinion, and doubt not every thing will be thought well of, that you shall think fit to do. And so I conclude with assuring you, that I am, my ever-dear parents, _your dutiful and happy daughter_. The copy of this letter I will keep to myself, till I have your answer, that you may be under no difficulty how to act in either of the cases mentioned in it. LETTER V MY DEAREST DAUGHTER, How shall I do to answer, as they deserve, your two last letters? Sure no happy couple ever had such a child as we have! But it is in vain to aim at words like yours: and equally in vain for us to offer to set forth the thankfulness of our hearts, on the kind office your honoured husband has given us; for no reason but to favour us still more, and to quiet our minds in the notion of being useful to him. God grant I may be able to be so!--Happy shall I be, if I can! But I see the generous drift of his proposal; it is only to make me more easy from the nature of my employment, and, in my mind too, over-loaded as I may say, with benefits; and at the same time to make me more respected in my new neighbourhood. I can only say, I most gratefully accept of the kind offer; and since it will ease the worthy Mr. Longman, shall with still greater pleasure do all I can in it. But I doubt I shall want ability; but I will be just and honest, however. That, by God's grace, will be within my own capacity; and that, I hope, I may answer for. It is kind, indeed, to put it in my power to do good to those who shall deserve it; and I will take _double_ pains to find out the true merit of such as I shall recommend to favour, and that their circumstances be really such as I shall represent them. But one thing let me desire, that I make up my accounts to Mr. Longman, or to his honour himself, when he shall be here with us. I don't know how-but it will make me uneasy, if I am to make up my accounts to you: for so well known is your love to us, that though you would no more do an unjust thing, than, by God's grace, we should desire you; yet this same ill-willing world might think it was like making up accounts to one's self. Do, my dearest child, get me off this difficulty, and I can have no other; for already I am in hopes I have hit upon a contrivance to improve the estate, and to better the condition of the tenants, at least not to worst them, and which, I hope, will please every body; but I will acquaint Mr. Longman with this, and take his advice; for I will not be too troublesome either to you, my dear child, or to your spouse.--If I could act so for his interest, as not to be a burden, what happy creatures should we both be in our own minds!--We find ourselves more and more respected by every one; and so far as shall be consistent with our new trust, we will endeavour to deserve it, that we may interest as many as know us in our own good wishes and prayers for the happiness of you both. But let me say, how much convinced I am by your reasons for not taking to us any of our relations. Every one of those reasons has its force with us. How happy are we to have so prudent a daughter to advise with! And I think myself obliged to promise this, that whatever I do for any of them above the amount of--forty shillings at one time, I will take your direction in it, that your wise hints, of making every one continue their industry, and not to rely upon favour instead of merit, may be followed. I am sure this is the way to make them _happier_ as well as _better_ men and women; for, as I have often thought, if one were to have a hundred pounds a year, it would not do without industry; and with it, one may do with a quarter of it, and less. In short, my dear child, your reasons are so good, that I wonder they came not into my head before, and then I needed not to have troubled you about the matter: but yet it ran in my own thought, that I could not like to be an encroacher:--for I hate a dirty thing; and, in the midst of my distresses, never could be guilty of one. Thank God for it. You rejoice our hearts beyond expression at the hope you give us of receiving letters from you now-and-then: it will be the chief comfort of our lives, next to seeing you, as we expect we sometimes shall. But yet, my dear child, don't let us inconvenience you neither. Pray don't; you'll have enough upon your hands without--to be sure you will. The workmen have made a good progress, and wish for Mr. Longman to come down; as we also do. You need not be afraid we should think you proud, or lifted up with your condition. You have weathered the first dangers, and but for your fine clothes and jewels, we should not see any difference between our dear Pamela and the much respected Mrs. B. But God has given you too much sense to be proud or lifted up. I remember, in your former writings, a saying of your 'squire's, speaking of you, that it was for persons not used to praise, and who did not deserve it, to be proud of it. Every day brings us instances of the good name his honour and you, my dear child, have left behind you in this country. Here comes one, and then another, and a third, and a fourth; "Goodman Andrews," cries one, and, "Goody Andrews," cries another--(and some call us Mr. and Mrs., but we like the other full as well) "when heard you from his honour? How does his lady do?--What a charming couple are they!--How lovingly do they live!--What an example do they give to all about them!" Then one cries, "God bless them both," and another cries, "Amen;" and so says a third and a fourth; and all say, "But when do you expect them down again?--Such-a-one longs to see 'em--and will ride a day's journey, to have but a sight of 'em at church." And then they say, "How this gentleman praises them, and that lady admires them."--O what a happiness is this! How do your poor mother and I stand fixed to the earth to hear both your praises, our tears trickling down our cheeks, and our hearts heaving as if they would burst with joy, till we are forced to take leave in half words, and hand-in-hand go in together to bless God, and bless you both. O my daughter, what a happy couple have God and you made us! Your poor mother is very anxious about her dear child. I will not touch upon a matter so very irksome to you to hear of. But, though the time may be some months off, she every hour prays for your safety and happiness, and all the increase of felicity that his honour's generous heart can wish for.--That is all we will say at present; only, that we are, with continued prayers and blessings, my dearest child, _your loving father and mother_, J. _and_ E. ANDREWS. LETTER VI _From Lady Davers to Mrs. B._ MY DEAR PAMELA, I intended to have been with you before this: but my lord has been a little indisposed with the gout, and Jackey has had an intermitting fever: but they are pretty well recovered, and it shall not be long before I see you, now I understand you are returned from your Kentish expedition. We have been exceedingly diverted with your papers. You have given us, by their means, many a delightful hour, that otherwise would have hung heavy upon us; and we are all charmed with you. Lady Betty, and her noble mamma, has been of our party, whenever we have read your accounts. She is a dear generous lady, and has shed with us many a tear over them; and my lord has not been unmoved, nor Jackey neither, at some of your distresses and reflections. Indeed, Pamela, you are a charming creature, and an ornament to your sex. We wanted to have had you among us a hundred times, as we read, that we might have loved, and kissed, and thanked you. But after all, my brother, generous and noble as he seemed, when your trials were over, was a strange wicked young fellow; and happy it was for you both, that he was so cleverly caught in the trap he had laid for your virtue. I can assure you, my lord longs to see you, and will accompany me; for, he says, he has but a faint idea of your person. I tell him, and them all, that you are the finest girl, and the most improved in person and mind, I ever beheld; and I am not afraid although they should imagine all they can in your favour, from my account, that they will be disappointed when they see and converse with you. But one thing more you must do, and then we will love you still more; and that is, send us the rest of your papers, down to your marriage at least; and farther, it you have written farther; for we all long to see the rest, as you relate it, though we know in general what has passed. You leave off with an account of an angry letter I wrote to my brother, to persuade him to give you your liberty, and a sum of money; not doubting but his designs would end in your ruin, and, I own, not wishing he would marry you; for little did I know of your merit and excellence, nor could I, but for your letters so lately sent me, have had any notion of either. I don't question, but if you have recited my passionate behaviour to you, when at the hall, I shall make a ridiculous figure enough; but I will forgive all that, for the sake of the pleasure you _have_ given me, and will still farther give me, if you comply with my request. Lady Betty says, it is the best story she has heard, and the most instructive; and she longs to have the conclusion of it in your own words. She says now and then, "What a hopeful brother you have, Lady Davers! O these intriguing gentlemen!--What rogueries do they not commit! I should have had a fine husband of him, had I received your proposal! The _dear_ Pamela would have run in his head, and had I been the first lady in the kingdom, I should have stood but a poor chance in his esteem; for, you see, his designs upon her began early." She says, you had a good heart to go back again to him, when the violent wretch had driven you from him on such a slight occasion: but yet, she thinks the reasons you give in your relation, and your love for him (which then you began to discover was your case), as well as the event, shewed you did right. But we'll tell you all our judgments, when we have read the rest of your accounts. So pray send them as soon as you can, to (I won't write myself _sister_ till then) _your affectionate_, &c. B. DAVERS. LETTER VII My good dear Lady, You have done me great honour in the letter your ladyship has been pleased to send me; and it is a high pleasure to me, now all is so happily over, that my poor papers in the least diverted you, and such honourable and worthy persons as your ladyship mentions. I could wish I might be favoured with such remarks on my conduct, so nakedly set forth (without any imagination that they would ever appear in such an assembly), as may be of use to me in my future life, and thus make me more worthy than it is otherwise possible I can be, of the honour to which I am raised. Do, dearest lady, favour me so far. I am prepared to receive blame, and to benefit by it, and cannot expect praise so much from my _actions_ as from my _intentions_; for indeed, these were always just and honourable: but why, even for these do I talk of praise, since, being prompted by impulses I could not resist, it can be no merit in me to have been governed by them? As to the papers following those in your hands, when I say, that they must needs appear impertinent to such judges, after what you know, I dare say, your ladyship will not insist upon them: yet I will not scruple briefly to mention what they contain. All my dangers and trials were happily at an end: so that they only contain the conversations that passed between your ladyship's generous brother and me; his kind assurances of honourable love to me; my acknowledgments of unworthiness to him; Mrs. Jewkes's respectful change of behaviour towards me; Mr. B.'s reconciliation to Mr. Williams; his introducing me to the good families in the neighbourhood, and avowing before them his honourable intentions. A visit from my honest father, who (not knowing what to conclude from my letter to him before I returned to your honoured brother, desiring my papers from him) came in great anxiety of heart to know the worst, doubting I had at last been caught by a stratagem, ending in my ruin. His joyful surprise to find how happy I was likely to be. All the hopes given me, answered by the private celebration of our nuptials--an honour so much above all that my utmost ambition could make me aspire to, and which I never can deserve! Your ladyship's arrival, and anger, not knowing I was actually married, but supposing me a vile wicked creature; in which case I should have deserved the worst of usage. Mr. B.'s angry lessons to me, for daring to interfere; though I thought in the tenderest and most dutiful manner, between your ladyship and himself. The most acceptable goodness and favour of your ladyship afterwards to me, of which, as becomes me, I shall ever retain the most grateful sense. My return to this sweet mansion in a manner so different from my quitting it, where I had been so happy for four years, in paying my duty to the best of mistresses, your ladyship's excellent mother, to whose goodness, in taking me from my poor honest parents, and giving me what education I have, I owe, under God, my happiness. The joy of good Mrs. Jervis, Mr. Longman, and all the servants, on this occasion. Mr. B.'s acquainting me with Miss Godfrey's affair, and presenting to me the pretty Miss Goodwin, at the dairy-house. Our appearance at church; the favour of the gentry in the neighbourhood, who, knowing your ladyship had not disdained to look upon me, and to be favourable to me, came the more readily into a neighbourly intimacy with me, and still so much the more readily, as the continued kindness of my dear benefactor, and his condescending deportment to me before them (as if I had been worthy of the honour done me), did credit to his own generous act. These, my lady, down to my good parents setting out to this place, in order to be settled, by my honoured benefactor's bounty, in the Kentish farm, are the most material contents of my remaining papers: and though they might be the most agreeable to those for whom only they were written, yet, _as_ they were principally matters of course, after what your ladyship has with you; _as_ the joy of my fond heart can be better judged of by your ladyship than described by me; and as you are acquainted with all the particulars that can be worthy of any other person's notice but my dear parents: I am sure your ladyship will dispense with your commands; and I make it my humble request that you will. For, Madam, you must needs think, that _when_ my doubts were dispelled; _when_ confident all my trials were over; _when_ I had a prospect of being so abundantly rewarded for what I suffered: _when every_ hour rose upon me with new delight, and fraught with fresh instances of generous kindness from such a dear gentleman, my master, my benefactor, the son of my honoured lady: your ladyship must needs think, I say, that I must be _too_ much affected, my heart _too_ much opened; and especially as it then (relieved from its past anxieties and fears, which had kept down and damped the latent flame) first discovered impressions of which before I hardly thought it susceptible.--So that it is scarce possible, that my _joy_ and my _prudence_, if I were to be tried by such judges of delicacy and decorum as Lord and Lady Davers, the honoured countess, and Lady Betty, could be so _intimately_, so _laudably_ coupled, as were to be wished: although the continued sense of my unworthiness, and the disgrace the dear gentleman would bring upon himself by his generous goodness to me, always went hand in hand with my _joy_ and my _prudence_; and what these considerations took from the _former_, being added to the _latter_, kept me steadier and more equal to myself, than otherwise it was possible such a young creature as I could have been. Wherefore my good lady, I hope I stand excused, and shall not bring upon myself the censure of being disobedient to your commands. Besides, Madam, since you inform me that my good Lord Davers will attend you hither, I should never dare to look his lordship in the face, if all the emotions of my heart, on such affecting occasions, stood confessed to his lordship; and if I am ashamed they should to your ladyship, to the countess, and Lady Betty, whose goodness must induce you all three to think favourably, in such circumstances, of one who is of your own sex, how would it concern me, for the same to appear before such gentlemen as my lord and his nephew?--Indeed I could not look up to either of them in the sense of this.--And give me leave to hope, that some of the scenes, in the letters your ladyship had, were not read to gentlemen; your ladyship must needs know which I mean, and will think of my two grand trials of all. For though I was the innocent subject of wicked attempts, and so cannot, I hope, suffer in any one's opinion for what I could not help; yet, for your dear brother's sake, as well as for the decency of the matter, one would not, when having the honour to appear before my lord and his nephew, he looked upon, methinks, with that levity of eye and thought, which, perhaps, hard-hearted gentlemen may pass upon one, by reason of those very scenes, which would move pity and concern in a good lady's breast, for a poor creature so attempted. So, my dear lady, be pleased to tell me, if the gentlemen _have_ heard all--I hope not--and also to point out to me such parts of my conduct as deserve blame: indeed, I will try to make a good use of your censure, and am sure I shall be thankful for it; for it will make me hope to be more and more worthy of the honour I have, of being exalted into such a distinguished family, and the right the best of gentlemen has given me to style myself _your ladyship's most humble, and most obliged servant_, P.B. LETTER VIII _From Lady Davers, in reply._ MY DEAR PAMELA, You have given us all a great disappointment in declining to oblige me with the sequel of your papers. I was a little out of humour with you at first;--I must own I was:--for I cannot bear denial, when my heart is set upon any thing. But Lady Betty became your advocate, and said, she thought you very excusable: since, no doubt, there might be many tender things, circumstanced as you were, well enough for your parents to see, but for nobody else; and relations of our side, the least of all, whose future intimacy, and frequent visits, might give occasions for raillery and remarks, not otherwise agreeable. I regard her apology for you the more, because I knew it was a great baulk to her, that you did not comply with my request. But now, child, when you know me more, you'll find, that if I am obliged to give up one point, I always insist on another, as near it as I can, in order to see if it be only _one_ thing I am to be refused, or _every_ thing; in which last case, I know how to take my measures, and resent. Now this is what I insist upon; that you correspond with me the same as you did with your parents, and acquaint me with every passage that is of concern to you; beginning with your account how both of you spent your time when in Kent; for you must know we are all taken with your duty to your parents, and the discretion of the good couple, and think you have given a very edifying example of filial piety to all who shall hear your story; for if so much duty is owing to parents, where nothing can be done for one, how much more is it to be expected, where there is power to add to the natural obligation, all the comforts and conveniences of life? We people in upper life love to hear how gratitude and unexpected benefits operate upon honest minds, who have little more than plain artless nature for their guide; and we flatter ourselves with the hopes of many a delightful hour, by your means, in this our solitary situation, if obliged to pass the next winter in it, as my lord and the earl threaten me, and the countess, and Lady Betty, that we shall. Then let us hear of every thing that gives you joy or trouble: and if my brother carries you to town, for the winter, while he attends parliament, the advices you can give us of what passes in London, and of the public entertainments and diversions he will take you to, related in your own artless and natural observations, will be as diverting to us, as if at them ourselves. For a young creature of your good understanding, to whom all these things will be quite new, will give us, perhaps, a better taste of them, their beauties and defects, than we might have before; for we people of quality go to those places, dressed out and adorned in such a manner, outvying one another, as if we considered ourselves as so many parts of the public entertainment, and are too much pleased with ourselves to be able so to attend to what we see, as to form a right judgment of it; but some of us behave with so much indifference to the entertainment, as if we thought ourselves above being diverted by what we come to see, and as if our view was rather to trifle away our time, than improve ourselves by attending to the story of the action. See, Pamela, I shall not make an unworthy correspondent altogether, for I can get into thy grave way, and moralize a little now and then: and if you'll promise to oblige me by your constant correspondence in this way, and divest yourself of all restraint, as if you were writing to your parents (and I can tell you, you'll write to one who will be as candid and as favourable to you as they can be), then I am sure we shall have truth and nature from you; and these are things which we are generally so much lifted above, by our conditions, that we hardly know what they are. But I have written enough for one letter; and yet, having more to say, I will, after this, send another, without waiting for your answer, which you may give to both together; and am, _yours_, &c. B. DAVERS. LETTER IX DEAR PAMELA, I am very glad thy honest man has let thee into the affair of Sally Godfrey. But pr'ythee, Pamela, tell us how he did it, and thy thoughts upon it, for that is a critical case, and as he has represented it, so shall I know what to say of it before you and him: for I would not make mischief between you for the world. This, let me tell you, will be a trying part of your conduct. For he loves the child, and will judge of you by your conduct towards it. He dearly loved her mother; and notwithstanding her fault, she well deserved it: for she was a sensible, ay, and a modest lady, and of an ancient and genteel family. But he was heir to a noble estate, was of a bold and enterprising spirit, fond of intrigue--Don't let this concern you--You'll have the greater happiness, and merit too, if you can hold him; and, 'tis my opinion, if any body can, you will. Then he did not like the young lady's mother, who sought artfully to entrap him. So that the poor girl, divided between her inclination for him, and her duty to her designing mother, gave into the plot upon him: and he thought himself--vile wretch as he was for all that!--at liberty to set up plot against plot, and the poor lady's honour was the sacrifice. I hope you spoke well of her to him--I hope you received the child kindly--I hope you had presence of mind to do this--For it is a nice part to act; and all his observations were up, I dare say, on the occasion--Do let me hear how it was. And write without restraint; for although I am not your mother, yet am I _his_ eldest sister, you know, and as such--Come, I will say so, in hopes you'll oblige me--_your_ sister, and so entitled to expect a compliance with my request: for is there not a duty, in degree, to elder sisters from younger? As to our remarks upon your behaviour, they have been much to your credit: but nevertheless, I will, to encourage you to enter into this requested correspondence with me, consult Lady Betty, and will go over your papers again, and try to find fault with your conduct, and if we see any thing censurable, will freely let you know our minds. But, before-hand, I can tell you, we shall be agreed in one opinion; and that is, that we know not who would have acted as you have done, upon the whole. So, Pamela, you see I put myself upon the same foot of correspondence with you. Not that I will promise to answer every latter: no, you must not expect that. Your part will be a kind of narrative, purposely designed to entertain us here; and I hope to receive six, seven, eight, or ten letters, as it may happen, before I return one: but such a part I will bear in it, as shall let you know our opinion of your proceedings, and relations of things. And as you wish to be found fault with, you shall freely have it (though not in a splenetic or ill-natured way), as often as you give occasion. Now, Pamela, I have two views in this. One is to see how a man of my brother's spirit, who has not denied himself any genteel liberties (for it must be owned he never was a common town rake, and had always a dignity in his roguery), will behave himself to you, and in wedlock, which used to be freely sneered at by him; the next, that I may love you more and more as by your letters, I shall be more and more acquainted with you, as well as by conversation; so that you can't be off, if you would. 'I know, however, you will have one objection to this; and that is, that your family affairs will require your attention, and not give the time you used to have for this employment. But consider, child, the station you are raised to does not require you to be quite a domestic animal. You are lifted up to the rank of a lady, and you must act up to it, and not think of setting such an example, as will draw upon you the ill-will and censure of other ladies. For will any of our sex visit one who is continually employing herself in such works as either must be a reproach to herself, or to them?--You'll have nothing to do but to give orders. You will consider yourself as the task-mistress, and the common herd of female servants as so many negroes directing themselves by your nod; or yourself as the master-wheel, in some beautiful pieces of mechanism, whose dignified grave motions is to set a-going all the under-wheels, with a velocity suitable to their respective parts. Let your servants, under your direction, do all that relates to household management; they cannot write to entertain and instruct as you can: so what will you have to do?--I'll answer my own question: In the first place, endeavour to please your sovereign lord and master; and let me tell you, any other woman in England, be her quality ever so high, would have found enough to do to succeed in that. Secondly, to receive and pay visits, in order, for his credit as well as your own, to make your fashionable neighbours fond of you. Then, thirdly, you will have time upon your hands (as your monarch himself rises early, and is tolerably regular for such a brazen face as he has been) to write to me in the manner I have mentioned, and expect; and I see plainly, by your style, nothing can be easier for you than to do this. Thus, and with reading, may your time be filled up with reputations to yourself, and delight to others, till a fourth employment puts itself upon you: and that is (shall I tell you boys, [Transcriber's note: text missing in original] to perpetuate a family, for many hundred years esteemed worthy and eminent, which, being now reduced, in the direct line, to him and me, _expects_ it from you; or else let me tell you (nor will I baulk it), my brother, by descending to the wholesome cot--excuse me, Pamela--will want one apology for his conduct, be as excellent as you may. I say this, child, not to reflect upon you, since the thing is done; for I love you dearly, and will love you more and more--but to let you know what is expected from you, and encourage you in the prospect already opening to you both, and to me, who have the welfare of the family I sprung from so much at heart, although I know this will be attended with some anxieties to a mind so thoughtful and apprehensive as yours seems to be. O but this puts me in mind of your solicitude, lest the gentlemen should have seen every thing contained in your letters-But this I will particularly speak to in a third letter, having filled my paper on all sides: and am, till then,_ yours_, &c. B. DAVERS. You see, and I hope will take it as a favour, that I break the ice, and begin first in the indispensably expected correspondence between us. LETTER X _From the same._ And so, Pamela, you are solicitous to know, if the gentlemen have seen every part of your papers? I can't say but they have: nor, except in regard to the reputation of your saucy man, do I see why the part you hint at might not be read by those to whom the rest might be shewn. I can tell you, Lady Betty, who is a very nice and delicate lady, had no objection to any part, though read before men: only now and then crying out, "O the vile man!--See, Lord Davers, what wretches you men are!" And, commiserating you, "Ah! the poor Pamela!" And expressing her impatience to hear how you escaped at this time, and at that, and rejoicing in your escape. And now-and-then, "O, Lady Davers, what a vile brother you have!--I hate him perfectly. The poor girl cannot be made amends for all this, though he has married her. Who, that knows these things of him, would wish him to be hers, with all his advantages of person, mind, and fortune?" and his wicked attempts. But I can tell you this, that except one had heard every tittle of your danger, how near you were to ruin, and how little he stood upon taking any measures to effect his vile purposes, even daring to attempt you in the presence of a _good_ woman, which was a wickedness that every _wicked_ man could not be guilty of; I say, except one had known these things, one could not have judged of the merit of your resistance, and how shocking those attempts were to your virtue, for that life itself was endangered by them: nor, let me tell you, could I, in particular, have so well justified him for marrying you (I mean with respect to his own proud and haughty temper of mind), if there had been room to think he could have had you upon easier terms. It was necessary, child, on twenty accounts, that we, your and his well-wishers and his relations, should know that he had tried every stratagem to subdue you to his purpose, before he married you: and how would it have answered to his intrepid character, and pride of heart, had we not been particularly led into the nature of those attempts, which you so nobly resisted, as to convince us all, that you have deserved the good fortune you have met with, as well as all the kind and respectful treatment he can possibly shew you? Nor ought you to be concerned who sees any the most tender parts of your story, except, as I said, for his sake; for it must be a very unvirtuous mind that can form any other ideas from what you relate than those of terror and pity for you. Your expressions are too delicate to give the nicest ear offence, except at him. You paint no scenes but such as make his wickedness odious: and that gentleman, much more lady, must have a very corrupt heart, who could from such circumstances of distress, make any reflections, but what should be to your honour, and in abhorrence of such actions. I am so convinced of this, that by this rule I would judge of any man's heart in the world, better than by a thousand declarations and protestations. I do assure you, rakish as Jackey is, and freely as I doubt not that Lord Davers has formerly lived (for he has been a man of pleasure), they gave me, by their behaviour on these tender occasions, reason to think they had more virtue than not to be very apprehensive for your safety; and my lord often exclaimed, that he could not have thought his brother such a libertine, neither. Besides, child, were not these things written in confidence had not recited all you could recite, would there not have been room for any one, who saw what you wrote, to imagine they had been still worse? And how could the terror be supposed to have had such effects upon you, as to endanger your life, without imagining you had undergone the worst a vile man _could_ offer, unless you had told us what that was which he _did_ offer, and so put a bound, as it were, to one's fears of what you suffered, which otherwise must have been injurious to your purity, though you could not help it? Moreover, Pamela, it was but doing justice to the libertine himself to tell your mother the whole truth, that she might know he was not so very abandoned, but he could stop short of the execution of his wicked purposes, which he apprehended, if pursued, would destroy the life, that, of all lives, he would choose to preserve; and you owed also thus much to your parents' peace of mind, that, after all their distracting fears for you, they might see they had reason to rejoice in an uncontaminated daughter. And one cannot but reflect, now he has made you his wife, that it must be satisfaction to the wicked man, as well as to yourself, that he was not more guilty than he _was_, nor took more liberties than he _did_. For my own part, I must say, that I could not have accounted for your fits, by any descriptions short of those you give; and had you been less particular in the circumstances, I should have judged he had been still _worse_, and your person, though not your mind, less pure, than his pride would expect from the woman he should marry; for this is the case of all rakes, that though they indulge in all manner of libertinism themselves, there is no class of men who exact greater delicacy from the persons they marry, though they care not how bad they make the wives, the sisters, and daughters of others. I will only add (and send all my three letters together), that we all blame you in some degree for bearing the wicked Jewkes in your sight, after her most impudent assistance in his lewd attempt; much less, we think, ought you to have left her in her place, and rewarded her; for her vileness could hardly be equalled by the worst actions of the most abandoned procuress. I know the difficulties you labour under, in his arbitrary will, and intercession for her: but Lady Betty rightly observes, that he knew what a vile woman she was, when he put you into her power, and no doubt employed her, being sure she would answer all his purposes: and that therefore she should have had very little opinion of the sincerity of his reformation, while he was so solicitous in keeping her, and having her put upon a foot, in the present on your nuptials, with honest Jervis. She would, she says, had she been in your case, have had _one_ struggle for her dismission, let it have been taken as it would; and he that was so well pleased with your virtues, must have thought this a natural consequence of it, if he was in earnest to reclaim. I know not whether you shew him all I write: but I have written this last part in the cover, as well for want of room, as that you may keep it from him, if you please. Though if you think it will serve any good end, I am not against shewing to him all I write. For I must ever speak my mind, though I were to smart for it; and that nobody can or has the heart to make me do, but my bold brother. So, Pamela, for this time, _Adieu_. LETTER XI MY GOOD LADY, I am honoured with your ladyship's three letters, the contents of which are highly obliging to me: and I should be inexcusable if I did not comply with your injunctions, and be very proud and thankful for your ladyship's condescension in accepting of my poor scribble, and promising such a rich and valuable return; of which you have already given such ample and delightful instances. I will not plead my defects, to excuse my obedience. I only fear that the awe which will be always upon me, when I write to your ladyship, will lay me under so great a restraint, that I shall fall short even of the merit my papers have already made for me, through your kind indulgence.--Yet, sheltering myself under your goodness, I will cheerfully comply with every thing your ladyship expects from me, that it is in my power to do. You will give me leave, Madam, to put into some little method, the particulars of what you desire of me, that I may speak to them all: for, since you are so good as to excuse me from sending the rest of my papers (which indeed would not bear in many places), I will omit nothing that shall tend to convince you of my readiness to obey you in every thing else. First, then, your ladyship would have the particulars of the happy fortnight we passed in Kent, on one of the most agreeable occasions that could befall me. Secondly, an account of the manner in which your dear brother acquainted me with the affecting story of Miss Godfrey, and my behaviour upon it. And, thirdly, I presume your ladyship, and Lady Betty, expect me to say something upon your welcome remarks on my conduct towards Mrs. Jewkes. The other particulars your ladyship mentions, will naturally fall under one or other of these three heads--But expect not, my lady, though I begin in method thus, that I shall keep up to it. If you will not allow for me, and keep in view the poor Pamela Andrews in all I write, but have Mrs. B. in your eye, what will become of me?--But I promise myself so much improvement from this correspondence, that I enter upon it with a greater delight than I can express, notwithstanding the mingled awe and diffidence that will accompany me, in every part of the agreeable task. To begin with the first article: Your dear brother and my honest parents (I know your ladyship will expect from me, that on all occasions I should speak of them with the duty that becomes a good child) with myself, set out on the Monday morning for Kent, passing through St. Albans to London, at both which places we stopped a night; for our dear benefactor would make us take easy journeys: and on Wednesday evening we arrived at the sweet place allotted for the good couple. We were attended only by Abraham and John, on horseback: for Mr. Colbrand, having sprained his foot, was in the travelling-coach, with the cook, the housemaid, and Polly Barlow, a genteel new servant, whom Mrs. Brooks recommended to wait on me. Mr. Longman had been there a fortnight, employed in settling the terms of an additional purchase of this pretty well-wooded and well-watered estate: and his account of his proceedings was very satisfactory to his honoured principal. He told us, he had much ado to dissuade the tenants from pursuing a formed resolution of meeting their landlord on horseback, at some miles distance; for he had informed them when he expected us; but knowing how desirous Mr. B. was of being retired, he had ventured to assure them, that when every thing was settled, and the new purchase actually entered upon, they would have his presence among them often; and that he would introduce them all at different times to their worthy landlord, before we left the country. The house is large, and very commodious; and we found every thing about it, and in it, exceeding neat and convenient; owing to the worthy Mr. Longman's care and direction. The ground is well-stocked, the barns and outhouses in excellent repair; and my poor parents have only to wish, that they and I may be deserving of half the goodness we experience from your bountiful brother. But, indeed. Madam, I have the pleasure of discovering every day more and more, that there is not a better disposed and more generous man in the world than himself, for I verily think he has not been so careful to conceal his _bad_ actions as his _good_ ones. His heart is naturally beneficent, and his beneficence is the gift of God for the most excellent purposes, as I have often freely told him. Pardon me, my dear lady; I wish I may not be impertinently grave: but I find a great many instances of his considerate charity, which few knew of, and which, since I have been his almoner, could not avoid coming to my knowledge. But this, possibly, is no news to your ladyship. Every body knows the generous goodness of your _own_ heart: every one wanting relief tasted the bounty of your excellent _mother_ my late honoured lady: so that 'tis a _family grace_, and I have no need to speak of it to you. Madam. This cannot, I hope, be construed as if I would hereby suppose ourselves less obliged. I know nothing so godlike in human nature as this disposition to do good to our fellow-creatures: for is it not following immediately the example of that generous Providence which every minute is conferring blessings upon us all, and by giving power to the rich, makes them but the dispensers of its benefits to those that want them? Yet, as there are but too many objects of compassion, and as the most beneficent cannot, like Omnipotence, do good to all, how much are they obliged who are distinguished from others!-And this being kept in mind, will always contribute to make the benefited receive, as thankfully as they _ought_, the favours of the obliger. I know not if I write to be understood, in all I mean; but my grateful heart is so over-filled when on this subject, that methinks I want to say a great deal more at the same time that I am apprehensive I say too much. Yet, perhaps, the copies of the letters I here inclose (that marked [I.] written by me to my parents, on our return to Kent; that marked [II.] from my dear father in answer to it; and that marked [III.] mine in reply to his) will (at the same time that they may convince your ladyship that I will conceal nothing from you in the course of this correspondence, which may in the least amuse and divert you, or better explain our grateful sentiments), in a great measure, answer what your ladyship expects from me, as to the happy fortnight we passed in Kent. I will now conclude, choosing to suspend the correspondence, till I know from your ladyship, whether it will not be too low, too idle for your attention; whether you will not dispense with your own commands when you see I am so little likely to answer what you may possibly expect from me: or whether, if you insist upon my scribbling, you would have me write in any other way, be less tedious, less serious-in short, less or more any thing. For all that is in my power, your ladyship may command from, _Madam, your obliged and faithful servant_. P.B. Your dearest brother, from whose knowledge I would not keep any thing that shall take up any considerable portion of my time, gives me leave to proceed in this correspondence, if you command it; and is pleased to say, he will content himself to see such parts of it, and _only_ such parts, as I shall shew him, or read to him.--Is not this very good, Madam?--O, my lady, you don't know how happy I am! LETTER XII _From Lady Davers to Mrs. B._ My dear Pamela, You very much oblige me by your cheerful compliance with my request: I leave it entirely to you to write as you shall be in the humour, when you take up your pen; and then I shall have you write with less restraint: for, you must know, that what we admire in _you_, are truth and nature, not studied or elaborate epistles. We can hear at church, or read in our closets, fifty good things that we expect not from you: but we cannot receive from any body else the pleasure of sentiments flowing with that artless ease, which so much affects us when we read your letters. Then, my sweet girl, your gratitude, prudence, integrity of heart, your humility, shine so much in all your letters and thoughts, that no wonder my brother loves you as he does. But I shall make you proud, I doubt, and so by praise ruin those graces which we admire, and, but for that, cannot praise you too much. In my conscience, if thou canst hold as thou hast begun, I believe thou wilt have him _all to thyself_; and that was more than I once thought any woman on this side the seventieth year of his age would ever be able to say. The letters to and from your parents, we are charmed with, and the communicating of them to me, I take to be as great an instance of your confidence in me, as it is of your judgment and prudence; for you cannot but think, that we, his relations, are a little watchful over your conduct, and have our eyes upon you, to observe what use you are likely to make of your power over your man, with respect to your own relations. Hitherto all is unexampled prudence, and you take the right method to reconcile even the proudest of us to your marriage, and make us not only love you, but respect your parents: for their honesty will, I perceive, be their distinguishing character, and they will not forget themselves, nor their former condition. I can tell you, you are exactly right; for if you were to be an _encroacher_, as the good old man calls it, my brother would be the first to see it, and would gradually think less and less of you, till possibly he might come to despise you, and to repent of his choice: for the least shadow of an imposition, or low cunning, or mere selfishness, he cannot bear. In short, you are a charming girl; and Lady Betty says so too; and moreover adds, that if he makes you not the best and _faithfullest_ of husbands, he cannot deserve you, for all his fortune and birth. And in my heart, I begin to think so too. But won't you oblige me with the sequel of your letter to your father? For, you promise, my dear charming scribbler, in that you sent me, to write again to his letter; and I long to see how you answer the latter part of it, about your relations desiring already to come and live with him. I know what I _expect_ from you. But let it be what it will, send it to me exactly as you wrote it; and I shall see whether I have reason to praise or reprove you. For surely, Pamela, you must leave one room to blame you for something. Indeed I can hardly bear the thought, that you should so much excel as you do, and have more prudence, by nature, as it were, than the best of us get in a course of the genteelest educations and with fifty advantages, at least, in conversation, that _you_ could not have, by reason of my mother's retired life, while you were with her, and your close attendance on her person. But I'll tell you what has been a great improvement to you; it is your own writings. This itch of scribbling has been a charming help. For here, having a natural fund of good sense, and prudence above your years, you have, with the observations these have enabled you to make, been flint and steel too, as I may say, to yourself: so that you have struck _fire_ when you pleased, wanting nothing but a few dry leaves, like the first pair in old Du Bartas, to serve as tinder to catch your animating sparks. So that reading constantly, and thus using yourself to write, and enjoying besides a good memory, every thing you heard and read became your own; and not only so, but was improved by passing through more salubrious ducts and vehicles; like some fine fruit grafted upon a common free-stock, whose more exuberant juices serve to bring to quicker and greater perfection the downy peach, or the smooth nectarine, with its crimson blush. Really, Pamela, I believe, I, too, shall improve by writing to you-Why, you dear saucy-face, at this rate, you'll make every one that converses with you, better, and wiser, and _wittier_ too, as far as I know, than they ever before thought there was _room_ for 'em to be. As to my own part, I begin to like what I have written myself, I think; and your correspondence may revive the poetical ideas that used to fire my mind, before I entered into the drowsy married life; for my good Lord Davers's turn happens not to be to books; and so by degrees my imagination was in a manner quenched, and I, as a dutiful wife should, endeavoured to form my taste by that of the man I chose.--But, after all, Pamela, you are not to be a little proud of my correspondence; and I could not have thought it ever would have come to this; but you will observe, that I am the more free and unreserved, to encourage _you_ to write without restraint: for already you have made us a family of writers and readers; so that Lord Davers himself is become enamoured of your letters, and desires of all things he may hear read every one that passes between us. Nay, Jackey, for that matter, who was the most thoughtless, whistling, sauntering fellow you ever knew, and whose delight in a book ran no higher than a song or a catch, now comes in with an enquiring face, and vows he'll set pen to paper, and turn letter-writer himself; and intends (if my brother won't take it amiss, he says) to begin to _you_, provided he could be sure of an answer. I have twenty things still to say; for you have unlocked all our bosoms. And yet I intended not to write above ten or a dozen lines when I began; only to tell you, that I would have you take your own way, in your subjects, and in your style. And if you will but give me hope, that you are in the way I so much wish to have you in, I will then call myself your affectionate sister; but till then, it shall only barely be _your correspondent_, B. DAVERS. You'll proceed with the account of your Kentish affair, I doubt not. LETTER XIII MY DEAR GOOD LADY, What kind, what generous things are you pleased to say of your happy correspondent! And what reason have I to value myself on such an advantage as is now before me, if I am capable of improving it as I ought, from a correspondence with so noble and so admired a lady! To be praised by such a genius, and my honoured benefactor's worthy sister, whose favour, next to his, it was always my chief ambition to obtain, is what would be enough to fill with vanity a steadier and a more equal mind than mine. I have heard from my late honoured lady, what a fine pen her beloved daughter was mistress of, when she pleased to take it up. But I never could have presumed, but from your ladyship's own motion, to hope to be in any manner the subject of it, much less to be called your correspondent. Indeed, Madam, I _am_ very proud of this honour, and consider it as such a heightening to my pleasures, as only _that_ could give; and I will set about obeying your ladyship without reserve. But, first, permit me to disclaim any merit, from my own poor writings, to that improvement which your goodness imputes to me. What I have to boast, of that sort, is owing principally, if it deserves commendation, to my late excellent lady. It is hard to be imagined what pains her ladyship took with her poor servant. Besides making me keep a book of her charities dispensed by me, I always set down, in my way, the cases of the distressed, their griefs from misfortunes, and their joys of her bountiful relief; and so I entered early into the various turns that affected worthy hearts, and was taught the better to regulate my own, especially by the help of her fine observations, when I read what I wrote. For many a time has her generous heart overflowed with pleasure at my remarks, and with praises; and I was her good girl, her dear Pamela, her hopeful maiden; and she would sometimes snatch my hand with transport, and draw me to her, and vouchsafe to kiss me; and always was saying, what she would do for me, if God spared her, and I continued to be deserving. O my dear lady! you cannot think what an encouragement this condescending behaviour and goodness was to me. Madam, you _cannot_ think it. I used to throw myself at her feet, and embrace her knees; and, my eyes streaming with tears of joy, would often cry, "O continue to me, my dearest lady, the blessing of your favour, and kind instructions, and it is all your happy Pamela can wish for." But I will proceed to obey your ladyship, and write with as much freedom as I possibly _can_: for you must not expect, that I can entirely divest myself of that awe which will necessarily lay me under a greater restraint, than if writing to my parents, whose partiality for their daughter made me, in a manner, secure of their good opinions. To shorten the work before me, in the account I am to give of the sweet fortnight that we passed in Kent, I enclose not only the copy of the letter your ladyship requested, but my father's answer to it. The letters I sent before, and those I now send, will afford several particulars; such as a brief description of the house and farm, and your honoured brother's intentions of retiring thither now-and-then; of the happiness and gratitude of my dear parents, and their wishes to be able to deserve the comfort his goodness has heaped upon them; and that in stronger lights than I am able to set them; I will only, in a summary manner, mention the rest; and, particularly, the behaviour of my dear benefactor to me, and my parents. He seemed always to delight in being particularly kind to them before strangers, and before the tenants, and before Mr. Sorby, Mr. Bennet, and Mr. Shepherd, three of the principal gentlemen in the neighbourhood, who, with their ladies, came to visit us, and whose visits we _all_ returned; for your dear brother would not permit my father and mother to decline the invitation of those worthy families. Every day we rode out, or walked a little about the grounds; and while we were there, he employed hands to cut a vista through a coppice, as they call it, or rather a little wood, to a rising ground, which, fronting an old-fashioned balcony, in the middle of the house, he ordered it to be planted like a grove, and a pretty alcove to be erected on its summit, of which he has sent them a draught, drawn by his own hand. This and a few other alterations, mentioned in my letter to my father, are to be finished against we go down next. The dear gentleman was every hour pressing me, while there, to take one diversion or other, frequently upbraiding me, that I seemed not to _choose_ any thing, urging me to propose sometimes what I could _wish_ he should oblige me in, and not always to leave it to him to choose for me: saying, he was half afraid that my constant compliance with every thing he proposed, laid me sometimes under a restraint: and he would have me have a will of my own, since it was impossible, that it could be such as he should not take a delight in conforming to it. I will not trouble your ladyship with any further particulars relating to this happy fortnight, which was made up all of white and unclouded days, to the very last; and your ladyship will judge better than I can describe, of the parting between my dear parents, and their honoured benefactor and me. We set out, attended with the good wishes of crowds of persons of all degrees; for your dear brother left behind him noble instances of his bounty; it being the _first_ time, as he bid Mr. Longman say, that he had been down among them since that estate had been in his hands. But permit me to observe, that I could not forbear often, very often, in this happy period, to thank God in private, for the blessed terms upon which I was there, to what I should have been, had I gracelessly accepted of those which formerly were tendered to me; for your ladyship will remember, that the Kentish estate was to be part of the purchase of my infamy. We returned through London, by the like easy journeys, but tarried not to see any thing of that vast metropolis, any more than we did in going through it before; your beloved brother only stopping at his banker's, and desiring him to look out for a handsome house, which he proposes to take for his winter residence. He chooses it to be about the new buildings called Hanover Square; and he left Mr. Longman there to see one, which his banker believed would be fit for him. And thus, my dear lady, I have answered your first commands, by the help of the letters which passed between my dear parents and me; and conclude this with the assurance that I am, with high respect, _your ladyship's most obliged and faithful servant_, P.B. LETTER XIV MY DEAREST LADY, I now set myself to obey your ladyship's second command, which is, to give an account in what manner your dear brother broke to me the affair of the unfortunate Miss Godfrey, with my behaviour upon it; and this I cannot do better, than by transcribing scribing the relation I gave at that time, in letters to my dear parents, which your ladyship has not seen, in these very words. [See Vol. I, p. 431, beginning "My dear Mr. B.," down to p. 441.] Thus far, my dear lady, the relation I gave to my parents, at the time of my being first acquainted with this melancholy affair. It is a great pleasure to me, that I can already flatter myself, from the hints you kindly gave me, that I behaved as you wished I should behave. Indeed, Madam, I could not help it, for I pitied most sincerely the unhappy lady; and though I could not but rejoice, that I had had the grace to escape the dangerous attempts of the dear intriguer, yet never did the story of any unfortunate lady make such an impression upon me as hers did: she loved _him_, and believed, no doubt, he loved _her_ too well to take ungenerous advantages of her soft passion for him: and so, by degrees, put herself into his power; and too seldom, alas I have the noblest-minded of the seducing sex the mercy or the goodness to spare the poor creatures that do! Then 'tis another misfortune of people in love; they always think highly of the beloved object, and lowly of themselves, such a dismal mortifier is love! I say not this, Madam, to excuse the poor lady's fall; nothing can do that; because virtue is, and ought to be, preferable to all considerations, and to life itself. But, methinks, I love this dear lady so well for the sake of her edifying penitence, that I would fain extenuate her crime, if I could; and the rather, as in all probability, it was a _first love_ on _both_ sides; and so he could not appear to her as a _practised_ deceiver. Your ladyship will see, by what I have transcribed, how I behaved myself to the dear Miss Goodwin; and I am so fond of the little charmer, as well for the sake of her unhappy mother, though personally unknown to me, as for the relation she bears to the dear gentleman whom I am bound to love and honour, that I must beg your ladyship's interest to procure her to be given up to my care, when it shall be thought proper. I am sure I shall act by her as tenderly as if I was her own mother. And glad I am, that the poor unfaulty baby is so justly beloved by Mr. B. But I will here conclude this letter, with assuring your ladyship, and I am _your obliged and humble servant,_ P.B. LETTER XV MY GOOD LADY, I now come to your ladyship's remarks on my conduct to Mrs. Jewkes: which you are pleased to think too kind and forgiving considering the poor woman's baseness. Your ladyship says, that I ought not to have borne her in my sight, after the impudent assistance she gave to his lewd attempts; much less to have left her in her place, and rewarded her. Alas! my dear lady, what could I do? a poor prisoner as I was made, for weeks together, in breach of all the laws of civil society; without a soul who durst be my friend; and every day expecting to be ruined and undone, by one of the haughtiest and most determined spirits in the world!--and when it pleased God to turn his heart, and incline him to abandon his wicked attempts, and to profess honourable love to me, his poor servant, can it be thought I was to insist upon conditions with such a gentleman, who had me in his power; and who, if I had provoked him, might have resumed all his wicked purposes against me? Indeed, I was too much overjoyed, after all my dangers past (which were so great, that I could not go to rest, nor rise, but with such apprehensions, that I wished for death rather than life), to think of refusing any terms that I could yield to, and keep my honour. And though such noble ladies, as your ladyship and Lady Betty, who are born to independency, and are hereditarily, as I may say, on a foot with the highest-descended gentleman in the land, might have exerted a spirit, and would have a right to choose your own servants, and to distribute rewards and punishments to the deserving and undeserving, at your own good pleasure; yet what had I, a poor girl, who owed even my title to common notice, to the bounty of my late good lady, and had only a kind of imputed sightliness of person, though enough to make me the subject of vile attempts; who, from a situation of terror and apprehension, was lifted up to an hope, beyond my highest ambition, and was bid to pardon the bad woman, as an instance, that I could forgive his own hard usage of me; who had experienced so often the violence and impetuosity of his temper, which even his beloved mother never ventured to oppose till it began to subside, and then, indeed, he was all goodness and acknowledgment; of which I could give your ladyship more than one instance. What, I say, had I to do, to take upon me lady-airs, and to resent? But, my dear ladies (let me, in this instance, bespeak the attention of you both), I should be inexcusable, if I did not tell you all the truth; and that is, that I not only forgave the poor wretch, in regard to _his commands_, but from _my own inclination_ also. If I am wrong in saying this, I must submit it to your ladyships; and, as I pretend not to perfection, am ready to take the blame I deserve in your ladyships' judgments: but indeed, were it to be again, I verily think, I could not help forgiving her.--And were I not able to say this, I should be thought to have made a mean court to my master's passions, and to have done a wrong thing with my eyes open: which I humbly conceive, no one should do. When full power was given me over this poor creature (seemingly at least, though it might possibly have been resumed, and I might have been re-committed to hers, had I given him reason to think I made an arrogant use of it), you cannot imagine what a triumph I had in my mind over the mortified guilt, which (from the highest degree of insolence and imperiousness, that before had hardened her masculine features) appeared in her countenance, when she found the tables likely to be soon turned upon her. This change of behaviour, which at first discovered itself in a sullen awe, and afterwards in a kind of silent respect, shewed me, what an influence power had over her: and that when she could treat her late prisoner, when taken into favour, so obsequiously, it was the less wonder the bad woman could think it her duty to obey commands so unjust, when her obedience to them was required from her master. To be sure, if a look could have killed her, after some of her bad treatment, she had been slain over and over, as I may say: but to me, who was always taught to distinguish between the person and the action, I could not hold my resentment against the poor passive machine of mischief one day together, though her actions were so odious to me. I should indeed except that time of my grand trial when she appeared so much a wretch to me, that I saw her not (even after two days that she was kept from me) without great flutter and emotion of heart: and I had represented to your brother before, how hard a condition it was for me to forgive so much unwomanly wickedness. But, my dear ladies, when I considered the latter in _one_ particular light, I could the more easily forgive her; and _having_ forgiven her, _bear her in my sight_, and act by her (as a consequence of that forgiveness) as if she had not so horridly offended. Else how would it have been forgiveness? especially as she was ashamed of her crime, and there was no fear of her repeating it. Thus then I thought on the occasion: "Poor wretched agent, for purposes little less than infernal! I _will_ forgive thee, since _thy_ master and _my_ master will have it so. And indeed thou art beneath the resentment even of such a poor girl as I. I will _pity_ thee, base and abject as thou art. And she who is the object of my _pity_ is surely beneath my _anger_." Such were then my thoughts, my proud thoughts, so far was I from being guilty of _intentional_ meanness in forgiving, at Mr. B.'s interposition, the poor, low, creeping, abject _self_-mortified, and _master_-mortified, Mrs. Jewkes. And do you think, ladies, when you revolve in your thoughts, _who_ I was, and _what_ I was, and what I had been _designed_ for; when you revolve the amazing turn in my favour, and the prospects before me (so much above my hopes, that I left them entirely to Providence to direct for me, as it pleased, without daring to look forward to what those prospects seemed naturally to tend); when I could see my haughty persecutor become my repentant protector; the lofty spirit that used to make me tremble, and to which I never could look up without awe, except in those animating cases, where his guilty attempts, and the concern I had to preserve my innocence, gave a courage more than natural to my otherwise dastardly heart: when this impetuous spirit could stoop to request one whom he had sunk beneath even her usual low character of his servant, who was his prisoner, under sentence of a ruin worse than death, as he had intended it, and had seized her for that very purpose, could stoop to acknowledge the vileness of that purpose; could say, at one time, that my forgiveness of Mrs. Jewkes should stand me in greater stead than I was aware of: could tell her, before me, that she must for the future shew me all the respect due to one he must love; at another, acknowledged before her, that he had been stark naught, and that I was very forgiving; again, to Mrs. Jewkes, putting himself on a level with her, as to guilt, "We are both in generous hands: and, indeed, if Pamela did not pardon _you_, I should think she but half forgave _me_, because you acted by my instructions:" another time to the same, "We have been both sinners, and must be both included in one act of grace:"--when I was thus lifted up to the state of a sovereign forgiver, and my lordly master became a petitioner for himself, and the guilty creature, whom he put under my feet; what a triumph was here for the poor Pamela? and could I have been guilty of so mean a pride, as to trample upon the poor abject creature, when I found her thus lowly, thus mortified, and wholly in my power? Then, my dear ladies, while I was enjoying the soul-charming fruits of that innocence which the Divine Grace had enabled me to preserve, in spite of so many plots and contrivances on my master's side, and such wicked instigations and assistances on hers, and all my prospects were improving upon me beyond my wishes; when all was unclouded sunshine, and I possessed my mind in peace, and had only to be thankful to Providence, which had been so gracious to my unworthiness; when I saw my persecutor become my protector, my active enemy no longer my enemy, but creeping with slow, doubtful feet, and speaking to me with awful hesitating doubt of my acceptance; a stamp of an insolent foot now turned into curtseying half-bent knees; threatening hands into supplicating folds; and the eye unpitying to innocence, running over with the sense of her own guilt; a faltering accent on her late menacing tongue, and uplifted handkerchief, "I see she will be my lady: and then I know how it will go with me!"--Was not this, my ladies, a triumph of triumphs to the late miserable, now exalted, Pamela!--could I do less than pardon her? And having declared that I did so, was I not to shew the sincerity of my declaration? Would it not have shewn my master, that the low-born Pamela was incapable of a generous action, had she refused the only request her humble condition had given her the opportunity of granting, at that time, with innocence? Would he not have thought the humble cottager as capable of insolence, and vengeance too, in her turn, as the better born? and that she wanted but the power, to shew the like unrelenting temper, by which she had so grievously suffered? And might not this have given him room to think me (and to have resumed and prosecuted his purposes accordingly) fitter for an arrogant kept mistress, than an humble and obliged wife! "I see" (might he not have said?), "the girl has strong passions and resentments; and she that has, will be sometimes _governed_ by them. I will improve upon the hint she herself has now given me, by her inexorable temper: I will gratify her revenge, till I turn it upon herself: I will indulge her pride, till I make it administer to her fall; for a wife I cannot think of in the low-born cottager, especially when she has lurking in her all the pride and arrogance" (you know, my ladies, his haughty way of speaking of our sex) "of the better descended. And by a little perseverance, and watching her unguarded hours, and applying temptations to her passions, I shall first discover them, and then make my advantage of them." Might not this have been the language, and this the resolution, of such a dear wicked intriguer?--For, my lady, you can hardly conceive the struggles he apparently had to bring down his high spirit to so humble a level. And though, I hope, all would have been, even in this _worst_ case, ineffectual, through Divine Grace, yet how do I know what lurking vileness might have appeared by degrees in this frail heart, to encourage his designs, and to augment my trials and my dangers? And perhaps downright violence might have been used, if he could not, on one hand, have subdued his passions, nor, on the other, have overcome his pride--a pride, that every one, reflecting upon the disparity of birth and condition between us, would have dignified with the name of _decency_; a pride that was become such an essential part of the dear gentleman's character, in this instance of a wife, that although he knew he could not keep it up, if he made _me_ happy, yet it was no small motive of his choosing me, in one respect, because he expected from me more humility, more submission, than he thought would be paid him by a lady equally born and educated; and of this I will send you an instance, in a transcription from that part of my journal you have not seen, of his lessons to me, on my incurring his displeasure by interposing between yourself and him in your misunderstanding at the Hall: for, Madam, I intend to send, at times, any thing I think worthy of your ladyship's attention, out of those papers you were so kind as to excuse me from sending you in a lump, and many of which must needs have appeared very impertinent to such judges. Thus (could your ladyship have thought it?) have I ventured upon a strange paradox, that even this strongest instance of his debasing himself, is not the weakest of his pride: and he ventured once at Sir Simon Darnford's to say, in your hearing, as you may remember, that, in his conscience, he thought he should hardly have made a tolerable husband to any body but Pamela: and why? For the reasons you will see in the inclosed papers, which give an account of the noblest and earliest curtain-lecture that ever girl had: one of which is, that he expects to be _borne_ with (_complied_ with, he meant) even when in the wrong: another, that a wife should never so much as expostulate with him, though he was in the wrong, till, by complying with all he insisted upon, she should have shewn him, she designed rather to convince him, for his _own_ sake, than for _contradiction's_ sake; and then, another time, perhaps he might take better resolutions. I hope, from what I have said, it will appear to your lady-ship, and to Lady Betty too, that I am justified, or at least excused, in pardoning Mrs. Jewkes. But your dear brother has just sent me word, that supper waits for me: and the post being ready to go off, I defer till the next opportunity which I have to say as to these good effects: and am, in the mean time, _your ladyship's most obliged and faithful servant_, P.B. LETTER XVI MY DEAR LADY, I will now acquaint you with the good effects my behaviour to Mrs. Jewkes has had upon her, as a farther justification of my conduct towards the poor woman. That she began to be affected as I wished, appeared to me before I left the Hall, not only in the conversations I had with her after my happiness was completed; but in her general demeanour also to the servants, to the neighbours, and in her devout behaviour at church: and this still further appears by a letter I have received from Miss Darnford. I dare say your ladyship will be pleased with the perusal of the whole letter, although a part of it would answer my present design; and in confidence, that you will excuse, for the sake of its other beauties, the high and undeserved praises which she so lavishly bestows upon me, I will transcribe it all. _From Miss Darnford to Mrs. B._ "MY DEAR NEIGHBOUR THAT WAS, "I must depend upon your known goodness to excuse me for not writing before now, in answer to your letter of compliment to us, for the civilities and favours, as you call them, which you received from us in Lincolnshire, where we were infinitely more obliged to you than you to us. "The truth is, my papa has been much disordered with a kind of rambling rheumatism, to which the physicians, learnedly speaking, give the name of _arthritici vaga_, or the flying gout; and when he ails ever so little (it signifies nothing concealing his infirmities, where they are so well known, and when he cares not who knows them), he is so peevish, and wants so much attendance, that my mamma, and her two girls (one of which is as waspish as her papa; you may be sure I don't mean myself) have much ado to make his worship keep the peace; and I being his favourite, when he is indisposed, having most patience, if I may give myself a good word, he calls upon me continually, to read to him when he is grave, which is not often, and to tell him stories, and sing to him when he is merry; and so I have been employed as a principal person about him, till I have frequently become sad to make him cheerful, and happy when I could do it at any rate. For once, in a pet, he flung a book at my head, because I had not attended him for two hours, and he could not bear to be slighted by little bastards, that was his word, that were fathered upon him for his vexation! O these men! Fathers or husbands, much alike! the one tyrannical, the other insolent: so that, between one and t'other, a poor girl has nothing for it, but a few weeks' courtship, and perhaps a first month's bridalry, if that: and then she is as much a slave to her husband, as she was a vassal to her father--I mean if the father be a Sir Simon Darnford, and the spouse a Mr. B. "But I will be a little more grave; for a graver occasion calls for it, yet such as will give you real pleasure. It is the very great change that your example has had upon your housekeeper. "You desired her to keep up as much regularity as she could among the servants there; and she is next to exemplary in it, so that she has every one's good word. She speaks of her lady not only with respect, but reverence; and calls it a blessed day for all the family, and particularly for herself, that you came into Lincolnshire. She reads prayers, or makes one of the servants read them, every Sunday night; and never misses being at church, morning and afternoon; and is preparing herself, by Mr. Peters's advice and direction, for receiving the sacrament; which she earnestly longs to receive, and says it will be the seal of her reformation. "Mr. Peters gives us this account of her, and says she is full of contrition for her past mis-spent life, and is often asking him, if such and such sins can be forgiven? and among them, names her vile behaviour to her angel lady, as she calls you. "It seems she has written a letter to you, which passed Mr. Peters's revisal, before she had the courage to send it; and prides herself that you have favoured her with an answer to it, which, she says, when she is dead, will be found in a cover of black silk next her heart; for any thing from your hand, she is sure, will contribute to make her keep her good purposes: and for that reason she places it there; and when she has had any bad thoughts, or is guilty of any faulty word, or passionate expression, she recollects her lady's letter, which recovers her to a calm, and puts her again into a better frame. "As she has written to you 'tis possible I might have spared you the trouble of reading this account of her; but yet you will not be displeased, that so free a liver and speaker should have some testimonial besides her own assurances, to vouch for the sincerity of her reformation. "What a happy lady are you, that persuasion dwells upon your tongue, and reformation follows your example!" Your ladyship will forgive me what may appear like vanity in this communication. Miss Darnford is a charming young lady. I always admired her; but her letters are the sweetest, kindest!--Yet I am too much the subject of her encomiums, and so will say no more; but add here a copy of the poor woman's letter to me; and your ladyship will see what an ample correspondence you have opened to yourself, if you go on to countenance it. "HONOURED MADAM, "I have been long labouring under two difficulties; the desire I had to write to you, and the fear of being thought presumptuous if I did. But I will depend on your goodness, so often tried; and put pen to paper, in that very closet, and on that desk, which once were so much used by yourself, when I was acting a part that now cuts me to the heart to think of. But you forgave me. Madam, and shewed me you had too much goodness to revoke your forgiveness; and could I have silenced the reproaches of my heart, I should have had no cause to think I had offended. "But, Oh I Madam, how has your goodness to me, which once filled me with so much gladness, now, on reflection, made me sorrowful, and at times, miserable.--To think I should act so barbarously as I did, by so much sweetness, and so much forgiveness. Every place that I remember to have used you hardly in, how does it now fill me with sadness, and makes me often smite my breast, and sit down with tears and groans, bemoaning my vile actions, and my hard heart!--How many places are there in this melancholy fine house, that call one thing or other to my remembrance, that give me remorse! But the pond, and the woodhouse, whence I dragged you so mercilously, after I had driven you to despair almost, what thoughts do they bring to my remembrance! Then my wicked instigations.--What an odious wretch was I! "Had his honour been as abandoned as myself, what virtue had been destroyed between _his_ orders and _my_ too rigorous execution of them; nay, stretching them to shew my wicked zeal, to serve a master, whom, though I honoured, I should not (as you more than once hinted to me, but with no effect at all, so resolutely wicked was my heart) have so well obeyed in his unlawful commands! "His honour has made you amends, has done justice to your merits, and so atoned for _his_ fault. But as for _me_, it is out of my power ever to make reparation.--All that is left me, is, to let your ladyship see, that your pious example has made such an impression upon me, that I am miserable now in the reflection upon my past guilt. "_You_ have forgiven me, and _GOD_ will, I hope; for the creature cannot be more merciful than the Creator; that is all my hope!--Yet, sometimes, I dread that I am forgiven here, at least not punished, in order to be punished the more hereafter!--What then will become of the unhappy wretch, that has thus lived in a state of sin, and so qualified herself by a course of wickedness, as to be thought a proper instrument for the worst of purposes! "Pray your ladyship, let not my honoured master see this letter. He will think I have the boldness to reflect upon him: when, God knows my heart, I only write to condemn myself, and my _unwomanly_ actions, as you were pleased often most justly to call them. "But I might go on thus for ever accusing myself, not considering whom I am writing to, and whose precious time I am taking up. But what I chiefly write for is, to beg your ladyship's prayers for me. For, oh! Madam, I fear I shall else be ever miserable! We every week hear of the good you do, and the charity you extend to the bodies of the miserable. Extend, I beseech you, good Madam, to the unhappy Jewkes, the mercy of your prayers, and tell me if you think I have not sinned beyond hope of pardon; for there is a woe denounced against the presumptuous sinner. "Your ladyship assured me, at your departure, on the confession of my remorse for my misdoings, and my promise of amendment, that you would take it for proof of my being in earnest, if I would endeavour to keep up a regularity among the servants here; if I would subdue them with kindness, as I had owned myself subdued; and if I would endeavour to make every one think, that the best security they could give of doing their duty to their master in his _absence_, was by doing it to God Almighty, from whose all-seeing eye nothing can be hid. This, I remember, your ladyship told me, was the best test of fidelity and duty, that any servants could shew; since it was impossible, without religion, but that worldly convenience, or self-interest, must be the main tie; and so the worst actions might succeed, if servants thought they should find their sordid advantage in sacrificing their duty. "So well am I convinced of this truth, that I hope I have begun the example to good effect: and as no one in the family was so wicked as I, it was therefore less difficult to reform them; and you will have the pleasure to know, that you have now servants here, whom you need not be ashamed to call yours. "'Tis true, I found it a little difficult at first to keep them within sight of their duty, after your ladyship departed: but when they saw I was in earnest, and used them courteously, as you advised, and as your usage of me convinced me was the rightest usage; when they were told I had your commands to acquaint you how they conformed to your injunctions; the task became easy: and I hope we shall all be still more and more worthy of the favour of so good a lady and so bountiful a master. "I dare not presume upon the honour of a line to your unworthy servant. Yet it would pride me much, if I could have it. But I shall ever pray for your ladyship's and his honour's felicity, as becomes _your undeserving servant_, "K. JEWKES." I have already, with these transcribed letters of Miss Darnford and Mrs. Jewkes, written a great deal: but nevertheless, as there yet remains one passage in your ladyship's letter, relating to Mrs. Jewkes, that seems to require an answer, I will take notice of it, if I shall not quite tire your patience. That passage is this; Lady Betty rightly observes, says your ladyship, that he knew what a vile woman she [Mrs. Jewkes] was, when he put you into her power; and no doubt, employed her, because he was sure she would answer all his purposes: and therefore she should have had very little opinion of the sincerity of his reformation, while he was so solicitous in keeping her there. She would, she says, had she been in your case, have had one struggle for her dismission, let it have been taken as it would; and he that was so well pleased with your virtue, must have thought this a natural consequence of it, if in earnest to become virtuous himself. But, alas! Madam, he was not so well pleased with my virtue for virtue's sake, as Lady Betty thinks he was.--He would have been glad, even then, to have found me less resolved on that score. He did not so much as _pretend_ to any disposition to virtue. No, not he! He had entertained, as it proved, a strong passion for me, which had been heightened by my _resisting_ it. His pride, and his advantages both of person and fortune, would not let him brook control; and when he could not have me upon his own terms, God turned his evil purposes to good ones; and he resolved to submit to mine, or rather to such as he found I would not yield to him without. But Lady Betty thinks, I was to blame to put Mrs. Jewkes upon a foot, in the present I made on my nuptials, with Mrs. Jervis. But I rather put Mrs. Jervis on a foot with Mrs. Jewkes; for the dear gentleman had _named_ the sum for me to give Mrs. Jewkes, and I would not give Mrs. Jervis _less_, because I loved her better; nor _more_ could I give her, on that occasion, without making such a difference between two persons equal in station, on a solemnity too where one was present and assisting, the other not, as would have shewn such a partiality, as might have induced their master to conclude, I was not so sincere in my forgiveness, as he hoped from me, and as I really was. But a stronger reason still was behind; that I could, much more agreeably, both to Mrs. Jervis and myself, shew my love and gratitude to the dear good woman: and this I have taken care to do, in the manner I will submit to your ladyship; at the tribunal of whose judgment I am willing all my actions, respecting your dear brother, shall be tried. And I hope you will not have reason to think me a too profuse or lavish creature; yet, if you have, pray, my dear lady, don't spare me; for if you shall judge me profuse in one article, I will endeavour to save it in another. But I will make what I have to say on this head the subject of a letter by itself: and am, mean time, _your ladyship's most obliged and obedient servant_, P.B. LETTER XVII MY DEAR LADY, It is needful, in order to let you more intelligibly into the subject where I left off in my last, for your ladyship to know that your generous brother has made me his almoner, as I was my late dear lady's; and ordered Mr. Longman to pay me fifty pounds quarterly, for purposes of which he requires no account, though I have one always ready to produce. Now, Madam, as I knew Mrs. Jervis was far from being easy in her circumstances, thinking herself obliged to pay old debts for two extravagant children, who are both dead, and maintaining in schooling and clothes three of their children, which always keeps her bare, I said to her one day, as she and I sat together, at our needles (for we are always running over old stories, when alone)--"My good Mrs. Jervis, will you allow me to ask you after your own private affairs, and if you are tolerably, easy in them?" "You are very good, Madam," said she, "to concern yourself about my poor matters, so much as your thoughts are employed, and every moment of your time is taken up, from the hour you rise, to the time of your rest. But I can with great pleasure attribute it to your bounty, and that of my honoured master, that I am easier and easier every day." "But tell me, my dear Mrs. Jervis," said I, "how your matters _particularly_ stand. I love to mingle concerns with my friends, and as I hide nothing from _you_, I hope you'll treat me with equal freedom; for I always loved you, and always will; and nothing but death shall divide our friendship." She had tears of gratitude in her eyes, and taking off her spectacles, "I cannot bear," she said, "so much goodness!--Oh! my lady!" "Oh! my Pamela, say," replied I. "How often must I chide you for calling me any thing but your Pamela, when we are alone together?" "My heart," said she, "will burst with your goodness! I cannot bear it!" "But you _must_ bear it, and bear still greater exercises to your grateful heart, I can tell you that. A pretty thing, truly! Here I, a poor helpless girl, raised from poverty and distress by the generosity of the best of men, only because I was young and sightly, shall put on lady-airs to a gentlewoman born, the wisdom of whose years, her faithful services, and good management, make her a much greater merit in this family, than I can pretend to have! And shall I return, in the day of my power, insult and haughtiness for the kindness and benevolence I received from her in that of my indigence!--Indeed, I won't forgive you, my dear Mrs. Jervis, if I think you capable of looking upon me in any other light than as your daughter; for you have been a mother to me, when the absence of my own could not afford me the comfort and good counsel I received every day from you." Then moving my chair nearer, and taking her hand, and wiping, with my handkerchief in my other, her reverend cheek, "Come, my dear second mother," said I, "call me your daughter, your Pamela: I have passed many sweet hours with you under that name; and as I have but too seldom such an opportunity as this, open to me your worthy heart, and let me know, if I cannot make my _second_ mother as easy and happy as our dear master has made my _first_." She hung her head, and I waited till the discharge of her tears gave time for utterance to her words; provoking only her speech, by saying, "You used to have three grand-children to provide for in clothes and schooling. They are all living, I hope?" "Yes, Madam, they are living: and your last bounty (twenty guineas was a great sum, and all at once!) made me very easy and very happy!" "How easy and how happy, Mrs. Jervis?" "Why, my dear lady, I paid five to one old creditor of my unhappy sons; five to a second; and two and a half to two others, in proportion to their respective demands; and with the other five I paid off all arrears of the poor children's schooling and maintenance; and all are satisfied and easy, and declare they will never do harsh things by me, if they are paid no more." "But tell me, Mrs. Jervis, the whole you owe in the world; and you and I will contrive, with justice to our best friend, to do all we can to make you quite easy; for, at your time of life, I cannot bear that you shall have any thing to disturb you, which I can remove, and so, my dear Mrs. Jervis, let me know all. I know your debts (dear, just, good woman, as you are!) like David's sins, are ever before you: so come," putting my hand in her pocket, "let me be a friendly pick-pocket; let me take out your memorandum-book, and we will see how all matters stand, and what can be done. Come, I see you are too much moved; your worthy heart is too much affected" (pulling out her book, which she always had about her); "I will go to my closet, and return presently." So I left her, to recover her spirits, and retired with the good woman's book to my closet. Your dear brother stepping into the parlour just after I had gone out, "Where's your lady, Mrs. Jervis?" said he. And being told, came up to me:--"What ails the good woman below, my dear?" said he: "I hope you and she have had no words?" "No, indeed, Sir," answered I. "If we had, I am sure it would have been my fault: but I have picked her pocket of her memorandum-book, in order to look into her private affairs, to see if I cannot, with justice to our common benefactor, make her as easy as you. Sir, have made my other dear parents." "A blessing," said he, "upon my charmer's benevolent heart!--I will leave every thing to your discretion, my dear.--Do all the good you prudently can to your Mrs. Jervis." I clasped my bold arms about him, the starting tear testifying my gratitude.--"Dearest Sir," said I, "you affect me as much as I did Mrs. Jervis; and if any one but you had a right to ask, what ails your Pamela? as you do, what ails Mrs. Jervis? I must say, I am hourly so much oppressed by your goodness, that there is hardly any bearing one's own joy." He saluted me, and said, I was a dear obliging creature. "But," said he, "I came to tell you, that after dinner we'll take a turn, if you please, to Lady Arthur's: she has a family of London friends for her guests, and begs I will prevail upon you to give her your company, and attend you myself, only to drink tea with her; for I have told her we are to have friends to sup with us." "I will attend you, Sir," replied I, "most willingly; although I doubt I am to be made a shew of." "Something like it," said he, "for she has promised them this favour." "I need not dress otherwise than I am?" "No," he was pleased to say, I was always what he wished me to be. So he left me to my _good works_ (those were his kind words) and I ran over Mrs. Jervis's accounts, and found a balance drawn of all her matters in one leaf, and a thankful acknowledgment to God, for her master's last bounty, which had enabled her to give satisfaction to others, and to do herself great pleasure, written underneath. The balance of all was thirty-five pounds eleven shillings and odd pence; and I went to my escritoir, and took out forty pounds, and down I hasted to my good Mrs. Jervis, and I said to her, "Here, my dear good friend, is your pocket-book; but are thirty-five or thirty-six pounds all you owe, or are bound for in the world?" "It is, Madam," said she, "and enough too. It is a great sum; but 'tis in four hands, and they are all in pretty good circumstances, and so convinced of my honesty, that they will never trouble me for it; for I have reduced the debt every year something, since I have been in my master's service." "Nor shall it ever be in any body's _power_," said I, "to trouble you: I'll tell you how we'll order it." So I sat down, and made her sit by me. "Here, my dear Mrs. Jervis, is forty pounds. It is not so much to me now, as the two guineas were to you, that you would have given me at my going away from this house to my father's, as I thought. I will not _give_ it you neither, at least at _present_, as you shall hear: indeed I won't make you so uneasy as that comes to. But take this, and pay the thirty-five pounds odd money to the utmost farthing; and the remaining four pounds odd will be a little fund in advance towards the children's schooling. And thus you shall repay it; I always designed, as our dear master added five guineas per annum to your salary, in acknowledgement of the pleasure he took in your services, when I was Pamela Andrews, to add five pounds per annum to it from the time I became Mrs. B. But from that time, for so many years to come, you shall receive no more than you did, till the whole forty pounds be repaid. So, my dear Mrs. Jervis, you won't have any obligation to me, you know, but for the advance; and that is a poor matter, not to be spoken of: and I will have leave for it, for fear I should die." Had your ladyship seen the dear good woman's behaviour, on this occasion, you would never have forgotten it. She could not speak; tears ran down her cheeks in plentiful currents: her modest hand put gently from her my offering hand, her bosom heav'd, and she sobb'd with the painful tumult that seemed to struggle within her, and which, for some few moments, made her incapable of speaking. At last, I rising, and putting my arm round her neck, wiping her eyes, and kissing her cheek, she cried, "My excellent lady! 'tis too much! I cannot bear all this."--She then threw herself at my feet; for I was not strong enough to hinder it; and with uplifted hands--"May God Almighty," said she--I kneeled by her, and clasping her hands in mine, both uplifted together--"May God Almighty," said I, drowning her voice with my louder voice, "bless us both together, for many happy years! And bless and reward the dear gentleman, who has thus enabled me to make _the widow's heart to sing for joy!_" And thus, my lady, did I force upon the good woman's acceptance the forty pounds. Permit me, Madam, to close this letter here, and to resume the subject in my next: till when I have the honour to be _your ladyship's most obliged and faithful servant_, P.B. LETTER XVIII MY DEAR LADY, I now resume my last subject where I left off, that your ladyship may have the whole before you at one view. I went after dinner, with my dear benefactor, to Lady Arthur's; and met with fresh calls upon me for humility, having the two natural effects of the praises and professed admiration of that lady's guests, as well as my dear Mr. B.'s, and those of Mr. and Mrs. Arthur, to guard myself against: and your good brother was pleased to entertain me in the chariot, going and coming, with an account of the orders he had given in relation to the London house, which is actually taken, and the furniture he should direct for it; so that I had no opportunity to tell him what I had done in relation to Mrs. Jervis. But after supper, retiring from company to my closet, when his friends were gone, he came up to me about our usual bedtime: he enquired kindly after my employment, which was trying to read in the French Telemachus: for, my lady, I'm learning French, I'll assure you! And who, do you think, is my master?--Why, the best I _could_ have in the world, your dearest brother, who is pleased to say, I am no dunce: how inexcusable should I be, if I was, with such a master, who teaches me on his knee, and rewards me with a kiss whenever I do well, and says, I have already nearly mastered the accent and pronunciation, which he tells me is a great difficulty got over. I requested him to render for me into English two or three places that were beyond my reach; and when he had done it, he asked me, in French, what I had done for Mrs. Jervis. I said, "Permit me, Sir (for I am not proficient enough to answer you in my new tongue), in English, to say, I have made the good woman quite happy; and if I have your approbation, I shall be as much so myself in this instance, as I am in all others." "I dare answer for your prudence, my dear," he was pleased to say: "but this is your favourite: let me know, when you have so bountiful a heart to strangers, what you do for your favourites?" I then said, "Permit my bold eye, Sir, to watch yours, as I obey you; and you know you must not look full upon me then; for if you do, how shall I look at you again; how see, as I proceed, whether you are displeased? for you will not chide me in words, so partial have you the goodness to be to all I do." He put his arm round me, and looked down now and then, as I desired! for O! Madam, he is all condescension and goodness to his unworthy, yet grateful Pamela! I told him all I have written to you about the forty pounds.--"And now, dear Sir," said I, half hiding my face on his shoulder, "you have heard what I have done, chide or beat your Pamela, if you please: it shall be all kind from you, and matter of future direction and caution." He raised my head, and kissed me two or three times, saying, "Thus then I chide, I beat, my angel!--And yet I have one fault to find with you, and let Mrs. Jervis, if not in bed, come up to us, and hear what it is; for I will _expose_ you, as you deserve before her."--My Polly being in hearing, attending to know if I wanted her assistance to undress, I bade her call Mrs. Jervis. And though I thought from his kind looks, and kind words, as well as tender behaviour, that I had not much to fear, yet I was impatient to know what my fault was, for which I was to be exposed. The good woman came; and as she entered with all that modesty which is so graceful in her, he moved his chair further from me, and, with a set aspect, but not unpleasant, said, "Step in, Mrs. Jervis: your lady" (for so, Madam, he will always call me to Mrs. Jervis, and to the servants) "has incurred my censure, and I would not tell her in what, till I had you face to face." She looked surprised--now on me, now on her dear master; and I, not knowing what he would say, looked a little attentive. "I am sorry--I am very sorry for it, Sir," said she, curtseying low:--"but should be more sorry, if _I_ were the unhappy occasion." "Why, Mrs. Jervis, I can't say but it is on your account that I must blame her." This gave us both confusion, but especially the good woman; for still I hoped much from his kind behaviour to me just before--and she said, "Indeed, Sir, I could never deserve----" He interrupted her--"My charge against you, Pamela," said he, "is that of niggardliness, and no other; for I will put you both out of your pain: you ought not to have found out the method of repayment. "The dear creature," said he, to Mrs. Jervis, "seldom does any thing that can be mended; but, I think, when your good conduct deserved an annual acknowledgment from me, in addition to your salary, the lady should have shewed herself no less pleased with your service than the gentleman. Had it been for old acquaintance-sake, for sex-sake, she should not have given me cause to upbraid her on this head. But I will tell you, that you must look upon the forty pounds you have, as the effect of just distinction on many accounts: and your salary from last quarter-day shall be advanced, as the dear niggard intended it some years hence; and let me only add, that when my Pamela first begins to shew a coldness to her Mrs. Jervis, I shall then suspect she is beginning to decline in that humble virtue, which is now peculiar to herself and makes her the delight of all who converse with her." He was thus pleased to say: thus, with the most graceful generosity, and a nobleness of mind _truly_ peculiar to himself, was he pleased to _act_: and what could Mrs. Jervis or I say to him?--Why, indeed, nothing at all!--We could only look upon one another, with our eyes and our hearts full of a gratitude that would not permit either of us to speak, but which expressed itself at last in a manner he was pleased to call more elegant than words--with uplifted folded hands, and tears of joy. O my dear lady! how many opportunities have the beneficent _rich_ to make _themselves_, as well as their _fellow-creatures_, happy! All that I could think, or say, or act, was but my duty before; what a sense of obligation then must I lie under to this most generous of men! But here let me put an end to this tedious subject; the principal part of which can have no excuse, if it may not serve as a proof of my cheerful compliance with your ladyship's commands, that I recite _every_ thing of concern to me, and with the same freedom as I used to do to my dear parents. I have done it, and at the same time offered what I had to plead in behalf of my conduct to the two housekeepers, which you expected from me; and I shall therefore close this my humble defence, if I may so call it, with the assurance that I am, _my dearest lady, your obliged and faithful servant_, P.B. LETTER XIX _From Lady Davers to Mrs. B. in answer to the six last Letters._ "_Where she had it, I can't tell I but I think I never met with the fellow of her in my life, at any age_;" are, as I remember, my brother's words, speaking of his Pamela in the early part of your papers. In truth, thou art a surprising creature; and every letter we have from you, we have new subjects to admire you for.--"Do you think, Lady Betty," said I, when I had read to the end of the subject about Mrs. Jervis, "I will not soon set out to hit this charming girl a box of the ear or two?"--"For what, Lady Davers?" said she. "For what!" replied I.--"Why, don't you see how many slaps of the face the bold slut hits me! _I'll_ LADY-AIRS her! I will. _I'll_ teach her to reproach me, and so many of her betters, with her cottage excellencies, and improvements, that shame our education." Why, you dear charming Pamela, did you only excel me in _words_, I could forgive you: for there may be a knack, and a volubility, as to _words_, that a natural talent may supply; but to be thus out-done in _thought_ and in _deed_, who can bear it? And in so young an insulter too! Well, Pamela, look to it, when I see you: you shall feel the weight of my hand, or--the pressure of my lip, one or t'other, depend on it, very quickly; for here, instead of my stooping, as I thought I would be, to call _you_ sister, I shall be forced to think, in a little while, that you ought not to own _me as yours_, till I am nearer your standard. But to come to business, I will summarily take notice of the following particulars in all your obliging letters, in order to convince you of my friendship, by the freedom of my observations on the subjects you touch upon. First, then, I am highly pleased with what you write of the advantages you received from the favour of my dear mother; and as you know many things of her by your attendance upon her the last three or four years of her life, I must desire you will give me, as opportunity shall offer, all you can recollect in relation to the honoured lady, and of her behaviour and kindness to you, and with a retrospect to your own early beginnings, the dawnings of this your bright day of excellence: and this not only I, but the countess, and Lady Betty, with whom I am going over your papers again, and her sister, Lady Jenny, request of you. 2. I am much pleased with your Kentish account; though we wished you had been more particular in some parts of it; for we are greatly taken with your descriptions: and your conversation pieces: yet I own, your honest father's letters, and yours, a good deal supply that _defect_. 3. I am highly delighted with your account of my brother's breaking to you the affair of Sally Godfrey, and your conduct upon it. 'Tis a sweet story as he brought it in, and as you relate it. The wretch has been very just in his account of it. We are in love with your charitable reflections in favour of the poor lady; and the more, as she certainly deserved them, and a better mother too than she had, and a faithfuller lover than she met with. 4. You have exactly hit his temper in your declared love of Miss Goodwill. I see, child, you know your man; and never fear but you'll hold him, if you can go on thus to act, and outdo your sex. But I should think you might as well not insist upon having her with you; you'd better see her now and then at the dairy-house, or at school, than have her with you. But this I leave to your own discretion. 5. You have satisfactorily answered our objections to your behaviour to Mrs. Jewkes. We had not considered your circumstances quite so thoroughly as we ought to have done. You are a charming girl, and all your motives are so just, that we shall be a little more cautious for the future how we censure you. In short, I say with the countess, "This good girl is not without her pride; but it is the pride that becomes, and can only attend the innocent heart; and I'll warrant," said her ladyship, "nobody will become her station so well, as one who is capable of so worthy a pride as this." But what a curtain-lecture hadst thou, Pamela! A noble one, dost thou call it?--Why, what a wretch hast thou got, to expect thou shouldst never expostulate against his lordly will, even when in the wrong, till thou hast obeyed it, and of consequence, joined in the evil he imposes! Much good may such a husband do you, says Lady Betty!--Every body will _admire_ you, but no one will have reason to _envy_ you upon those principles. 6. I am pleased with your promise of sending what you think I shall like to see, out of those papers you choose not to shew me collectively: this is very obliging. You're a good girl; and I love you dearly. 7. We have all smiled at your paradox, Pamela, that his marrying you was an instance of his pride.--The thought, though, is pretty enough, and ingenious; but whether it will hold or not, I won't just now examine. 8. Your observation on the _forget_ and _forgive_ we are much pleased with. 9. You are very good in sending me a copy of Miss Darnford's letter. She is a charming young lady. I always had a great opinion of her merit; her letter abundantly confirms me in it. I hope you'll communicate to me every letter that passes between you, and pray send in your next a copy of your answer to her letter: I must insist upon it, I think. 10. I am glad, with all my heart, to hear of poor Jewkes's reformation: Your example carries all before it. But pray oblige me with your answer to her letter, don't think me unreasonable: 'tis all for your sake. Pray--have you shewn Jewkes's letter to your good friend?--Lady Betty wants to know (if you _have_) what he could say to it? For, she says, it cuts him to the quick. And I think so too, if he takes it as he ought: but, as you say, he's above loving virtue for _virtue's sake_. 11. Your manner of acting by Mrs. Jervis, with so handsome a regard to my brother's interest, her behaviour upon it, and your relation of the whole, and of his generous spirit in approving, reproving, and improving, your prudent generosity, make no inconsiderable figure in your papers. And Lady Betty says, "Hang him, he has some excellent qualities too.--It is impossible not to think well of him; and his good actions go a great way towards atoning for his bad." But you, Pamela, have the glory of all. 12. I am glad you are learning French: thou art a happy girl in thy teacher, and he is a happy man in his scholar. We are pleased with your pretty account of his method of instructing and rewarding. 'Twould be strange, if you did not thus learn any language quickly, with such encouragements, from the man you love, were your genius less apt than it is. But we wished you had enlarged on that subject: for such fondness of men to their wives, who have been any time married, is so rare, and so unexpected from _my_ brother, that we thought you should have written a side upon that subject at least. What a bewitching girl art thou! What an exemplar to wives now, as well as thou wast before to maidens! Thou canst tame lions, I dare say, if thoud'st try.--Reclaim a rake in the meridian of his libertinism, and make such an one as my brother, not only marry thee, but love thee better at several months' end, than he did the first day, if possible! Now, my dear Pamela, I think I have taken notice of the most material articles in your letters, and have no more to say to you; but write on, and oblige us; and mind to send me the copy of your letter to Miss Darnford, of that you wrote to poor penitent Jewkes, and every article I have written about, and all that comes into your head, or that passes, and you'll oblige _yours, &c,_ B. DAVERS. LETTER XX MY DEAR LADY, I read with pleasure your commands, in your last kind and obliging letter: and you may be sure of a ready obedience in every one of them, that is in my power. That which I can most easily do, I will first do; and that is, to transcribe the answer I sent to Miss Darnford, and that to Mrs. Jewkes, the former of which, (and a long one it is) is as follows: "DEAR MISS DARNFORD, "I begin now to be afraid I shall not have the pleasure and benefit I promised myself of passing a fortnight or three weeks at the Hall, in your sweet conversation, and that of your worthy family, as well as those others in your agreeable neighbourhood, whom I must always remember with equal honour and delight. "The occasion will be principally, that we expect, very soon, Lord and Lady Davers, who propose to tarry here a fortnight at least; and after that, the advanced season will carry us to London, where Mr. B. has taken a house for his winter residence, and in order to attend parliament: a service he says, which he has been more deficient in hitherto, than he can either answer to his constituents, or to his own conscience; for though he is but one, yet if any good motion should be lost by one, every absent member, who is independent, has to reproach himself with the consequence of the loss of that good which might otherwise redound to the commonwealth. And besides, he says, such excuses as he could make, _every one_ might plead; and then public affairs might as well be left to the administration, and no parliament be chosen. "See you, my dear Miss Darnford, from the humble cottager, what a public person your favourite friend is grown! How easy is it for a bold mind to look forward, and, perhaps, forgetting what she was, now she imagines she has a stake in the country, takes upon herself to be as important, as significant, as if, like my dear Miss Darnford, she had been born to it! "Well; but may I not ask, whether, if the mountain cannot come to Mahomet, Mahomet will not come to the mountain? Since Lady Davers's visit is so uncertain as to its beginning and duration, and so great a favour as I am to look upon it, and really shall, it being her first visit to _me_:--and since we must go and take possession of our London residence, why can't Sir Simon spare to us the dear lady whom he could use hardly, and whose attendance (though he is indeed entitled to all her duty) he did not, just in that instance, quite so much deserve? "'Well, but after all, Sir Simon,' would I say, if I had been in presence at his peevish hour, 'you are a fine gentleman, are you not? to take such a method to shew your good daughter, that because she did not come _soon enough_ to you, she came _too soon_! And did ever papa before you put a _good book_ (for such I doubt not it was, _because_ you were in affliction, though so little affected by its precepts) to such a _bad use_? As parents' examples are so prevalent, suppose your daughter had taken it, and flung it at her sister; Miss Nancy at her waiting-maid; and so it had gone through the family; would it not have been an excuse for every one to say, that the father, and head of the family had set the example? "'You almost wish, my dear Miss tells me, that I would undertake _you_!--This is very good of you. Sir Simon,' I might (would his patience have suffered me to run on thus) have added; 'but I hope, since you are so sensible that you _want_ to be undertaken, (and since this peevish rashness convinces me that you _do_) that you will undertake _yourself_; that you will not, when your indisposition requires the attendance and duty of your dear lady and daughter, make it more uncomfortable to them, by _adding_ a difficulty of being pleased, and an impatience of spirit, to the concern their duty and affection make them have for you; and, _at least_, resolve never to take a book into your hand again, if you cannot make a better use of it, than you did then.' "But Sir Simon will say, I have _already undertaken_ him, were he to see this. Yet my Lady Darnford once begged I would give him a hint or two on this subject, which, she was pleased to say, would be better received from me than from any body: and if it be a little too severe, it is but a just reprisal made by one whose ears, he knows, he has cruelly wounded more than once, twice, or thrice, besides, by what he calls his _innocent_ double entendres, and who, if she had not resented it, when an opportunity offered, must have been believed, by him, to be neither more nor less than a hypocrite. There's for you, Sir Simon: and so here ends all my malice; for now I have spoken my mind. "Yet I hope your dear papa will not be so angry as to deny me, for this my freedom, the request I make to _him_, to your _mamma_, and to your _dear self_, for your beloved company, for a month or two in Bedfordshire, and at London: and if you might be permitted to winter with us at the latter, how happy should I be! It will be half done the moment you desire it. Sir Simon loves you too well to refuse you, if you are earnest in it. Your honoured mamma is always indulgent to your requests: and Mr. B. as well in kindness to me, as for the great respect he bears you, joins with me to beg this favour of you, and of Sir Simon and my lady. "If it can be obtained, what pleasure and improvement may I not propose to myself, with so polite a companion, when we are carried by Mr. B. to the play, the opera, and other of the town diversions! We will work, visit, read, and sing together, and improve one another; you _me_, in every word you shall speak, in every thing you shall do; I _you_, by my questions, and desire of information, which will make you open all your breast to me: and so unlocking that dear storehouse of virtuous knowledge, improve your own notions the more for communicating them. O my dear Miss Damford I how happy is it in your power to make me! "I am much affected with your account of Mrs. Jewkes's reformation, I could have wished, had I not _other_ and _stronger_ inducements (in the pleasure of so agreeable a neighbourhood, and so sweet a companion), I could have been down at the Hall, in hopes to have confirmed the poor woman in her newly assumed penitence. God give her grace to persevere in it!--To be an humble means of saving a soul from perdition! O my dear Miss Darnford, let me enjoy that heart-ravishing hope!--To pluck such a brand as this out of the fire, and to assist to quench its flaming susceptibility for mischief, and make it useful to edifying purposes, what a pleasure does this afford one! How does it encourage one to proceed in the way one has been guided to pursue! How does it make me hope, that I am raised to my present condition, in order to be an humble instrument in the hand of Providence to communicate great good to others, and so extend to many those benefits I have received, which, were they to go no further than myself, what a vile, what an ungrateful creature should I be! "I see, my dearest Miss Darnford, how useful in every condition of life a virtuous and a serious turn of mind may be! "In hopes of seeing you with us, I will not enlarge on several agreeable subjects, which I could touch upon with pleasure, besides what I gave you in my former (of my reception here, and of the kindness of our genteel neighbours): such, particularly, as the arrival here of my dear parents, and the kind, generous entertainment they met with from my best friend; his condescension in not only permitting me to attend them to Kent, but accompanying us thither, and settling them in a most happy manner, beyond their wishes and my own; but yet so much in character, as I may say, that every one must approve his judicious benevolence; the favours of my good Lady Davers to me, who, pleased with my letters, has vouchsafed to become my correspondent; and a thousand things, which I want personally to communicate to my dear Miss Darnford. "Be pleased to present my humble respects to Lady Darnford, and to Miss Nancy; to good Madam Jones, and to your kind friends at Stamford; also to Mr. and Mrs. Peters, and their kins-woman: and beg of that good gentleman from me to encourage his new proselyte all he can; and I doubt not, she will do credit, poor woman! to the pains he shall take with her. In hopes of your kind compliance with my wishes for your company, I remain, _dearest Miss Darnford, your faithful and obliged friend and servant,_ "P.B." This, my good lady, is the long letter I sent to Miss Darnford, who, at parting, engaged me to keep up a correspondence with her, and put me in hopes of passing a month or two at the Hall, if we came down, and if she could persuade Sir Simon and her mamma to spare her to my wishes. Your ladyship will excuse me for so faintly mentioning the honours you confer upon me: but I would not either add or diminish in the communications I make to you. The following is the copy of what I wrote to Mrs. Jewkes: "You give me, Mrs. Jewkes, very great pleasure, to find, that, at length, God Almighty has touched your heart, and let you see, while health and strength lasted, the error of your ways. Many an unhappy one has not been so graciously touched, till they have smarted under some heavy afflictions, or been confined to the bed of sickness, when, perhaps, they have made vows and resolutions, that have held them no longer than the discipline lasted; but you give me much better hopes of the sincerity of your conversion; as you are so well convinced, before some sore evil has overtaken you: and it ought to be an earnest to you of the Divine favour, and should keep you from despondency. "As to me, it became me to forgive you, as I most cordially did; since your usage of me, as it proved, was but a necessary means in the hand of Providence, to exalt me to that state of happiness, in which I have every day more and more cause given me to rejoice, by the kindest and most generous of gentlemen. "As I have often prayed for you, even when you used me the most unkindly, I now praise God for having heard my prayers, and with high delight look upon you as a reclaimed soul given to my supplication. May the Divine goodness enable you to persevere in the course you have begun! And when you can taste the all-surpassing pleasure that fills the worthy breast, on being placed in a station where your example may be of advantage to the souls of others, as well as to your own--a pleasure that every good mind glories in, and none else can truly relish; then may you be assured, that nothing but your perseverance, and the consequential improvement resulting from it, is wanted to convince you, that you are in a right way, and that the woe that is pronounced against the presumptuous sinner, belongs not to you. "Let me, therefore, dear Mrs. Jewkes (for now _indeed_ you are dear to me), caution you against two things; the one, that you return not to your former ways, and wilfully err after this repentance; for the Divine goodness will then look upon itself as mocked by you, and will withdraw itself from you; and more dreadful will your state then be, than if you had never repented: the other, that you don't despair of the Divine mercy, which has so evidently manifested itself in your favour, and has awakened you out of your deplorable lethargy, without those sharp medicines and operations, which others, and perhaps _not more faulty_ persons, have suffered. But go on cheerfully in the same happy path. Depend upon it, you are now in the right way, and turn not either to the right hand or to the left; for the reward is before you, in reputation and a good fame in this life, and everlasting felicity beyond it. "Your letter is that of a sensible woman, as I always thought you; and of a truly contrite one, as I hope you will prove yourself to be: and I the rather hope it, as I shall be always desirous, then of taking every opportunity that offers of doing you real service, as well with regard to your present as future life: for I am, _good_ Mrs. Jewkes, as I now hope I may call you, _your loving friend to serve you_, P.B. "Whatever good books the worthy Mr. Peters will be so kind as to recommend to you, and to those under your direction, send for them either to Lincoln, Stamford, or Grantham, and place them to my account: and may they be the effectual means of confirming you and them in the good way you are in! I have done as much for all here: and, I hope, to no bad effect: for I shall now tell them, by Mrs. Jervis, if there be occasion, that I hope they will not let me be out-done in Bedfordshire, by Mrs. Jewkes in Lincolnshire; but that the servants of both houses may do credit to the best of masters. Adieu, _good_ woman; as once more I take pleasure to style you." * * * * * Thus, my good lady, have I obeyed you, in transcribing these two letters. I will now proceed to your ladyship's twelve articles. As to the 1. I will oblige your ladyship, as I have opportunity, in my future letters, with such accounts of my dear lady's favour and goodness to me, as I think will be acceptable to you, and to the noble ladies you mention. 2. I am extremely delighted, that your ladyship thinks so well of my dear honest parents: they are good people, and ever had minds that set them above low and sordid actions: and God and your good brother has rewarded them most amply in this world, which is more than they ever expected, after a series of unprosperousness in all they undertook. Your ladyship is pleased to say, that people in upper life love to see how plain nature operates in honest minds, who have hardly any thing else for their guide: and if I might not be thought to descend too low for your ladyship's attention (for, as to myself, I shall, I hope, always look back with pleasure to what I _was_, in order to increase my thankfulness for what I _am_), I would give you a scene of resignation, and contented poverty, of which otherwise you can hardly have a notion. I _will_ give it, because it will be a scene of nature, however low, which your ladyship loves, and it shall not tire you by its length. It was upon occasion of a great loss and disappointment which happened to my dear parents; for though they were never high in life, yet they were not always so low as my honoured lady found them, when she took me. My poor father came home; and as the loss was of such a nature, as that he could not keep it from my mother, he took her hand, and said, after he had acquainted her with it, "Come, my dear, let us take comfort, that we did for the best. We left the issue to Providence, as we ought, and that has turned it as it pleased; and we must be content, though not favoured as we wished.--All the business is, our lot is not cast for this life. Let us resign ourselves to the Divine will, and continue to do our duty, and this short life will soon be past. Our troubles will be quickly overblown; and we shall be happy in a better, I make no doubt." Then my dear mother threw her arms about his neck, and said, with tears, "God's will be done, my dear love! All cannot be rich and happy. I am contented, and had rather say, I have a poor honest husband, than a guilty rich one. What signifies repining: let the world go as it will, we shall have our length and our breadth at last. And Providence, I doubt not, will be a better friend to our good girl here, because she is good, than we could be, if this had not happened," pointing to me, who, then about eleven years old (for it was before my lady took me), sat weeping in the chimney corner, over a few dying embers of a fire, at their moving expressions. I arose, and kissing both their hands, and blessing them, said, "And this length and breadth, my dear parents, will be, one day, all that the rich and the great can possess; and, it may be, their ungracious heirs will trample upon their ashes, and rejoice they are gone: while such a poor girl as I, am honouring the memories of mine, who, in their good names, and good lessons, will have left me the best of portions." And then they both hugged me to their fond bosoms, by turns; and all three were filled with comfort in one another. For a farther proof that _honest poverty_ is not such a deplorable thing as some people imagine, let me ask, what pleasure can those over-happy persons know, who, from the luxury of their tastes, and their affluent circumstances, always eat before they are hungry, and drink before they are thirsty? This may be illustrated by the instance of a certain eastern monarch, who, as I have read, marching at the head of a vast army, through a wide extended desert, which afforded neither river nor spring, for the first time, found himself (in common with his soldiers) overtaken by a craving thirst, which made him pant after a cup of water. And when, after diligent search, one of his soldiers found a little dirty puddle, and carried him some of the filthy water in his nasty helmet, the monarch greedily swallowing it, cried out, that in all his life he never tasted so sweet a draught! But when I talk or write of my worthy parents, how I run on!--Excuse me, my good lady, and don't think me, in this respect, too much like the cat in the fable, turned into a fine lady; for though I would never forget what I was, yet I would be thought to know _how_ gratefully to enjoy my present happiness, as well with regard to my obligations to God, as to your dear brother. But let me proceed to your ladyship's third particular. 3. And you cannot imagine. Madam, how much you have set my heart at rest, when you say, that my dear Mr. B. gave me a just narrative of this affair with Miss Godfrey: for when your ladyship desired to know how he had recounted that story, lest you should make a misunderstanding between us unawares, I knew not what to think. I was afraid some blood had been shed on the occasion by him: for the lady was ruined, and as to her, nothing could have happened worse. The regard I have for Mr. B.'s future happiness, which, in my constant supplication for him in private, costs me many a tear, gave me great apprehensions, and not a little uneasiness. But as your ladyship tells me that he gave me a just account, I am happy again. I now come to your ladyship's fourth particular. And highly delighted I am for having obtained your approbation of my conduct to the child, as well as of my behaviour towards the dear gentleman, on the unhappy lady's score. Your ladyship's wise intimations about having the child with me, make due impressions upon me; and I see in them, with grateful pleasure, your unmerited regard for me. Yet, I don't know how it is, but I have conceived a strange passion for this dear baby; I cannot but look upon her poor mamma as my sister in point of trial; and shall not the prosperous sister pity and love the poor dear sister that, in so slippery a path, has _fallen_, while _she_ had the happiness to keep her feet? The rest of your ladyship's articles give me the greatest pleasure and satisfaction; and if I can but continue myself in the favour of your dear brother, and improve in that of his noble sister, how happy shall I be! I will do all I can to deserve both. And I hope you will take as an instance of it, my cheerful obedience to your commands, in writing to so fine a judge, such crude and indigested stuff, as, otherwise I ought to be ashamed to lay before you. I am impatient for the honour of your presence here; and yet I perplex myself with the fear of appearing so unworthy in your eye when near you, as to suffer in your opinion; but I promise myself, that however this may be the case on your first visit, I shall be so much improved by the benefits I shall reap from your lessons and good example, that whenever I shall be favoured with a _second_ you shall have fewer faults to find with me; till, as I shall be more and more favoured, I shall in time be just what your ladyship will wish me to be, and, of consequence, more worthy than I am of the honour of stiling myself _your ladyship's most humble and obedient servant_, P.B. LETTER XXI _From Miss Darnford, in answer to Mrs. B.'s, p_. 60. MY DEAR MRS. B., You are highly obliging in expressing so warmly your wishes to have me with you. I know not any body in this world, out of our own family, in whose company I should be happier; but my papa won't part with me, I think; though I have secured my mamma in my interest; and I know Nancy would be glad of my absence, because the dear, perversely envious, thinks _me_ more valued than _she_ is; and yet, foolish girl, she don't consider, that if her envy be well grounded, I should return with more than double advantages to what I now have, improved by your charming conversation. My papa affects to be in a fearful pet, at your lecturing of him So justly; for my mamma would show him the letter; and he says he will positively demand satisfaction of Mr. B. for your treating him so freely. And yet he shall hardly think him, he says, on a rank with him, unless Mr. B. will, on occasion of the new commission, take out his Dedimus: and then if he will bring you down to Lincolnshire, and join with him to commit you prisoner for a month at the Hall, all shall be well. It is very obliging in Mr. B. to join in your kind invitation: but--yet I am loth to say it to you--the character of your worthy gentleman, I doubt, stands a little in the way with my papa. My mamma pleaded his being married. "Ads-dines, Madam," said he, "what of all that!" "But, Sir," said I, "I hope, if I may not go to Bedfordshire, you'll permit me to go to London, when Mrs. B. goes?" "No," said he, "positively no!" "Well, Sir, I have done. I could hope, however, you would enable me to give a better reason to good Mrs. B. why I am not permitted to accept of the kind invitation, than that which I understand you have been pleased to assign." He stuck his hands in his sides, with his usual humourous positiveness. "Why, then tell her she is a very saucy lady, for her last letter to you, and her lord and master is not to be trusted; and it is my absolute will and pleasure that you ask me no more questions about it." "I will very faithfully make this report, Sir."--"Do so." And so I have. And your poor Polly Darnford is disappointed of one of the greatest pleasures she could have had. I can't help it--if you truly pity me you can make me easier under the disappointment, than otherwise possible, by favouring me with an epistolary conversation, since I am denied a personal one; and my mamma joins in the request; particularly let us know how Lady Davers's first visit passes; which Mrs. Peters and Mrs. Jones, who know my lady so well, likewise long to hear. And this will make us the best amends in your power for the loss of your good neighbourhood, which we had all promised to ourselves. This denial of my papa comes out, since I wrote the above, to be principally owing to a proposal made him of an humble servant to one of his daughters: he won't say which, he tells us, in his usual humourous way, lest we should fall out about it. "I suppose," I tell him, "the young gentleman is to pick and choose which of the two he likes best." But be he a duke, 'tis all one to Polly, if he is not something above our common Lincolnshire class of fox-hunters. I have shewn Mr. and Mrs. Peters your letter. They admire you beyond expression; and Mr. Peters says, he does not know, that ever he did any thing in his life, that gave him so much inward reproach, as his denying you the protection of his family, which Mr. Williams sought to move him to afford you, when you were confined at the Hall, before Mr. B. came down to you, with his heart bent on mischief; and all he comforts himself with is, that very denial, as well as the other hardships you have met with, were necessary to bring about that work of Providence which was to reward your unexampled virtue. Yet, he says, he doubts he shall not be thought excusable by you, who are so exact in _your_ own duty, since he had the unhappiness to lose such an opportunity to have done honour to his function, had he had the fortitude to have done _his;_ and he has begged of me to hint his concern to you on this head; and to express his hopes, that neither religion nor his cloth may suffer in your opinion, for the fault of one of its professors, who never was wanting in his duty so much before. He had it often upon his mind, he says, to write to you on this very subject; but he had not the courage; and besides, did not know _how_ Mr. B. might take it, if he should see that letter, as the case had such delicate circumstances in it, that in blaming himself, as he should very freely have done, he must, by implication, have cast still greater blame upon him. Mr. Peters is certainly a very good man, and my favourite for that reason; and I hope _you,_ who could so easily forgive the late wicked, but now penitent Jewkes, will overlook with kindness a fault in a good man, which proceeded more from pusillanimity and constitution, than from want of principle: for once, talking of it to my mamma, before me, he accused himself on this score, to her, with tears in his eyes. She, good lady, would have given you this protection at Mr. Williams's desire; but wanted the power to do it. So you see, my dear Mrs. B., how your virtue has shamed every one into such a sense of what they ought to have done, that good, bad, and indifferent, are seeking to make excuses for past misbehaviour, and to promise future amendment, like penitent subjects returning to their duty to their conquering sovereign, after some unworthy defection. Happy, happy lady! May you ever be so! May you always convert your enemies, invigorate the lukewarm, and every day multiply your friends, wishes _your most affectionate,_ POLLY DARNFORD. P.S. How I rejoice in the joy of your honest parents! God bless 'em! I am glad Lady Davers is so wise. Every one I have named desire their best respects. Write oftener, and omit not the minutest thing: for every line of yours carries instruction with it. LETTER XXII From Sir Simon Darnford to Mr. B. SIR, Little did I think I should ever have occasion to make a formal complaint against a person very dear to you, and who I believe deserves to be so; but don't let her be so proud and so vain of obliging and pleasing you, as to make her not care how she affronts every body else. The person is no other than the wife of your bosom, who has taken such liberties with me as ought not to be taken, and sought to turn my own child against me, and make a dutiful girl a rebel. If people will set up for virtue, and all that, let 'em be uniformly virtuous, or I would not give a farthing for their pretences. Here I have been plagued with gouts, rheumatisms, and nameless disorders, ever since you left us, which have made me call for a little more attendance than ordinary; and I had reason to think myself slighted, where an indulgent father can least bear to be so, that is, where he most loves; and that by young upstarts, who are growing up to the enjoyment of those pleasures which have run away from me, fleeting rascals as they are! before I was willing to part with them. And I rung and rung, and "Where's Polly?" (for I honour the slut with too much of my notice), "Where's Polly?" was all my cry, to every one who came up to ask what I rung for. And, at last, in burst the pert baggage, with an air of assurance, as if she thought all must be well the moment she appeared, with "Do you want me, papa?" "Do I want you, Confidence? Yes, I do. Where have you been these two hours, that you never came near me, when you knew 'twas my time to have my foot rubbed, which gives me mortal pain?" For you must understand, Mr. B., that nobody's hand's so soft as Polly's. She gave me a saucy answer, as I was disposed to think it, because I had just then a twinge, that I could scarce bear; for pain is a plaguy thing to a man of my lively spirits. She gave me, I say, a careless answer, and turning upon her heel; and not coming to me at my first word, I flung a book which I had in my hand, at her head. And, this fine lady of your's, this paragon of meekness and humility, in so many words, bids me, or, which is worse, tells my own daughter to bid me, never to take a book into my hands again, if I won't make a better use of it:--and yet, what better use can an offended father make of the best books, than to correct a rebellious child with them, and oblige a saucy daughter to jump into her duty all at once? Mrs. B. reflects upon me for making her blush formerly, and saying things before my daughters, that, truly, I ought to be ashamed of? then avows malice and revenge. Why neighbour, are these things to be borne?--Do you allow your lady to set up for a general corrector of every body's morals but your own?--Do you allow her to condemn the only instances of wit that remain to this generation; that dear polite _double entendre_, which keeps alive the attention, and quickens the apprehension, of the best companies in the world, and is the salt, the sauce, which gives a poignancy to all our genteeler entertainments! Very fine, truly! that more than half the world shall be shut out of society, shall be precluded their share of conversation amongst the gay and polite of both sexes, were your lady to have her will! Let her first find people who can support a conversation with wit and good sense like her own, and then something may be said: but till then, I positively say, and will swear upon occasion, that double entendre shall not be banished from our tables; and where this won't raise a blush, or create a laugh, we will, if we please, for all Mrs. B. and her new-fangled notions, force the one and the other by still plainer hints; and let her help herself how she can. Thus, Sir, you find my complaints are of a high nature, regarding the quiet of a family, the duty of a child to a parent, and the freedom and politeness of conversation; in all which your lady has greatly offended; and I insist upon satisfaction from you, or such a correction of the fair transgressor, as is in your power to inflict, and which may prevent worse consequences from _your offended friend and servant_, SIMON DARNFORD. LETTER XXIII _From Mr. B. in Answer to the preceding one._ DEAR SIR SIMON, You cannot but believe that I was much surprised at your letter, complaining of the behaviour of my wife. I could no more have expected such a complaint from such a gentleman, than I could, that she would have deserved it: and I am very sorry on _both_ accounts. I have talked to her in such a manner, that, I dare say, she will never give you like cause to appeal to me. It happened, that the criminal herself received it from her servant, and brought it to me in my closet; and, making her honours (for I can't say but she is very obliging to me, though she takes such saucy freedoms with my friends) away she tript; and I, inquiring for her, when, with surprise, as you may believe, I had read your charge, found she was gone to visit a poor sick neighbour; of which indeed I knew before because she took the chariot; but I had forgot it in my wrath. At last, in she came, with that sweet composure in her face which results from a consciousness of doing _generally_ just and generous things. I resumed, therefore, that sternness and displeasure which her entrance had almost dissipated. I took her hand; her charming eye (you know what an eye she has, Sir Simon) quivered at my overclouded aspect; and her lips, half drawn to a smile, trembling with apprehension of a countenance so changed from what she left it. And then, all stiff and stately as I could look, did I accost her--"Come along with me, Pamela, to my closet. I want to talk with you." "What have I done? Let me know, good Sir!" looking round, with her half-affrighted eyes, this way and that, on the books, and pictures, and on me, by turns. "You shall know soon," said I, "the _crime_ you have been guilty of."--"_Crime_, Sir! Pray let me--This closet, I hoped, would not be a _second_ time witness to the flutter you put me in." _There_ hangs a tale, Sir Simon, which I am not very fond of relating, since it gave beginning to the triumphs of this little sorceress. I still held one hand, and she stood before me, as criminals ought to do before their judge, but said, "I see, Sir, sure I do,--or what will else become of me!--less severity in your eyes, than you affect to put on in your countenance. Dear Sir, let me but know my fault: I will repent, acknowledge, and amend." "You must have great presence of mind, Pamela, such is the nature of your fault, if you can look me in the face, when I tell it you." "Then let me," said the irresistible charmer, hiding her face in my bosom, and putting her other arm about my neck, "let me thus, my dear Mr. B., hide this guilty face, while I hear my fault told; and I will not seek to extenuate it, by my tears, and my penitence." I could hardly hold out. What infatuating creatures are these women, when they thus soothe and calm the tumults of an angry heart! When, instead of _scornful_ looks darted in return for _angry_ ones, words of _defiance_ for words of _peevishness,_ persisting to defend _one_ error by _another_, and returning _vehement wrath_ for _slight indignation,_ and all the hostile provocations of the marriage warfare; they can thus hide their dear faces in our bosoms, and wish but to _know_ their faults, to _amend_ them! I could hardly, I say, resist the sweet girl's behaviour; nay, I believe, I did, and in defiance to my resolved displeasure, press her forehead with my lips, as the rest of her face was hid on my breast; but, considering it was the cause of my _friend,_ I was to assert, my _injured_ friend, wounded and insulted, in so various a manner by the fair offender, thus haughtily spoke I to the trembling mischief, in a pomp of style theatrically tragic: "I will not, too inadvertent, and undistinguishing Pamela, keep you long in suspense, for the sake of a circumstance, that, on this occasion, ought to give you as much joy, as it has, till now, given me--since it becomes an advocate in your favour, when otherwise you might expect very severe treatment. Know then, that the letter you gave me before you went out, is a letter from a friend, a neighbour, a worthy neighbour, complaining of your behaviour to him;--no other than Sir Simon Darnford" (for I would not amuse her too much), "a gentleman I must always respect, and whom, as my friend, I expected _you_ should: since, by the value a wife expresses for one esteemed by her husband, whether she thinks so well of him herself, or not, a man ought always to judge of the sincerity of her regards to himself." She raised her head at once on this:--"Thank Heaven," said she, "it is no worse!--I was at my wit's end almost, in apprehension: but I know how this must be. Dear Sir, how could you frighten me so?--I know how all this is!--I can now look you in the face, and hear all that Sir Simon can charge me with! For I am sure, I have not so affronted him as to make him angry indeed. And truly" (ran she on, secure of pardon as she seemed to think), "I should respect Sir Simon not only as your friend, but on his own account, if he was not so sad a rake at a time of life--" Then I interrupted her, you must needs think. Sir Simon; for how could I bear to hear my worthy friend so freely treated! "How now, Pamela!" said I; "and is it thus, by _repeating_ your fault, that you _atone_ for it? Do you think I can bear to hear my friend so freely treated?" "Indeed," said she, "I do respect Sir Simon very much as your _friend_, permit me to repeat; but cannot for his wilful failings. Would it not be, in some measure, to approve of faulty conversation, if one can hear it, and not discourage it, when the occasion comes in so pat?--And, indeed, I was glad of an opportunity," continued she, "to give him a little rub; I must needs own it: but if it displeases you, or has made him angry in earnest, I am sorry for it, and will be less bold for the future." "Read then," said I, "the heavy charge, and I'll return instantly to hear your answer to it." So I went from her, for a few minutes. But, would you believe it, Sir Simon? she seemed, on my return, very little concerned at your just complaints. What self-justifying minds have the meekest of these women!--Instead of finding her in repentant tears, as one would expect, she took your angry letter for a jocular one; and I had great difficulty to convince her of the heinousness of _her_ fault, or the reality of your resentment. Upon which, being determined to have justice done to my friend, and a due sense of her own great error impressed upon her, I began thus: "Pamela, take heed that you do not suffer the purity of your own mind, in breach of your charity, to make you too rigorous a censurer of other people's actions: don't be so puffed up with your own perfections, as to imagine, that, because other persons allow themselves liberties you cannot take, _therefore_ they must be wicked. Sir Simon is a gentleman who indulges himself in a pleasant vein, and, I believe, as well as you, _has been_ a great rake and libertine:" (You'll excuse me, Sir Simon, because I am taking your part), "but what then? You see it is all over with him now. He says, that he _must_, and therefore he _will_ be virtuous: and is a man for ever to hear the faults of his youth, when so willing to forget them?" "Ah! but, Sir, Sir," said the bold slut, "can you say he is _willing_ to forget them?--Does he not repine in this very letter, that he _must_ forsake them; and does he not plainly cherish the _inclination_, when he owns--" She hesitated--"Owns what?"--"You know what I mean. Sir, and I need not speak it: and can there well be a more censurable character?--Then before his maiden daughters! his virtuous lady! _before_ any body!--What a sad thing is this, at a time of life, which should afford a better example! "But, dear Sir," continued the bold prattler, (taking advantage of a silence more owing to displeasure than approbation) "let me, for I would not be too _censorious_" (No, not she! in the very act of censoriousness to say this!), "let me offer but one thing: don't you think Sir Simon himself would be loth to be thought a reformed gentleman? Don't you see his delight, when speaking of his former pranks, as if sorry he could not play them over again? See but how he simpers, and _enjoys_, as one may say, the relations of his own rakish actions, when he tells a bad story!" "But," said I, "were this the case" (for I profess, Sir Simon, I was at a grievous loss to defend you), "for you to write all these free things against a father to his daughter, is that right, Pamela?" "O, Sir! the good gentleman himself has taken care, that such a character as I presumed to draw to Miss of her papa, was no strange one to her. You have seen yourself, Mr. B., whenever his arch leers, and his humourous attitude on those occasions, have taught us to expect some shocking story, how his lady and daughters (used to him as they are), have suffered in their apprehensions of what he would say, before he spoke it: how, particularly, dear Miss Darnford has looked at me with concern, desirous, as it were, if possible, to save her papa from the censure, which his faulty expressions must naturally bring upon him. And, dear Sir, is it not a sad thing for a young lady, who loves and honours her papa, to observe, that he is discrediting himself, and _wants_ the example he ought to _give?_ And pardon me, Sir, for smiling on so serious an occasion; but is it not a fine sight to see a gentleman, as we have often seen Sir Simon, when he has thought proper to read a passage in some bad book, pulling off _his spectacles_, to talk filthily upon it? Methinks I see him now," added the bold slut, "splitting his arch face with a broad laugh, shewing a mouth, with hardly a tooth in it, and making obscene remarks upon what he has read." And then the dear saucy-face laughed out, to bear _me_ company; for I could not, for the soul of me, avoid laughing heartily at the figure she brought to my mind, which I have seen my old friend more than once make, with his dismounted spectacles, arch mouth, and gums of shining jet, succeeding those of polished ivory, of which he often boasts, as one ornament of his youthful days.--And I the rather in my heart, Sir Simon, gave you up, because, when I was a sad fellow, it was always my maxim to endeavour to touch a lady's heart without wounding her ears. And, indeed, I found my account sometimes in observing it. But, resuming my gravity--"Hussy, said I, do you think I will have my old friend thus made the object of your ridicule?--Suppose a challenge should have ensued between us on your account--what might have been the issue of it? To see an old gentleman, stumping, as he says, on crutches, to fight a duel in defence of his wounded honour!"--"Very bad, Sir, to be sure: I see that, and am sorry for it: for had you carried off Sir Simon's crutch, as a trophy, he must have lain sighing and groaning like a wounded soldier in the field of battle, till another had been brought him, to have stumped home with." But, dear Sir Simon, I have brought this matter to an issue, that will, I hope, make all easy;--Miss Polly, and my Pamela, shall both be punished as they deserve, if it be not your own fault. I am told, that the sins of your youth don't sit so heavily upon your limbs, as in your imagination; and I believe change of air, and the gratification of your revenge, a fine help to such lively spirits as yours, will set you up. You shall then take coach, and bring your pretty criminal to mine; and when we have them together, they shall humble themselves before us, and you can absolve or punish them, as you shall see proper. For I cannot bear to have my worthy friend insulted in so heinous a manner, by a couple of saucy girls, who, if not taken down in time, may proceed from fault to fault, till there will be no living with them. If (to be still more serious) your lady and you will lend Miss Darnford to my Pamela's wishes, whose heart is set upon the hope of her wintering with us in town, you will lay an obligation upon us both; which will be acknowledged with great gratitude by, dear Sir, _your affectionate and humble servant_. LETTER XXIV _From Sir Simon Darnford in reply._ Hark ye, Mr. B.--A word in your ear:--to be plain: I like neither you nor your wife well enough to trust my Polly with you. But here's war declared against my poor gums, it seems. Well, I will never open my mouth before your lady as long as I live, if I can help it. I have for these ten years avoided to put on my cravat; and for what reason, do you think?--Why, because I could not bear to see what ruins a few years have made in a visage, that used to inspire love and terror as it pleased. And here your--what-shall-I-call-her of a wife, with all the insolence of youth and beauty on her side, follows me with a glass, and would make me look in it, whether I will or not. I'm a plaguy good-humoured old fellow--if I am an old fellow--or I should not bear the insults contained in your letter. Between you and your lady, you make a wretched figure of me, that's certain.--And yet 'tis _taking my part_. But what must I do?--I'd be glad at any rate to stand in your lady's graces, that I would; nor would I be the last rake libertine unreformed by her example, which I suppose will make virtue the fashion, if she goes on as she does. But here I have been used to cut a joke and toss the squib about; and, as far as I know, it has helped to keep me alive in the midst of pains and aches, and with two women-grown girls, and the rest of the mortifications that will attend on _advanced years_; for I won't (hang me if I will) give it up as absolute _old age!_ But now, it seems, I must leave all this off, or I must be mortified with a looking glass held before me, and every wrinkle must be made as conspicuous as a furrow--And what, pray, is to succeed to this reformation?--I can neither fast nor pray, I doubt.--And besides, if my stomach and my jest depart from me, farewell, Sir Simon Darnford! But cannot I pass as one necessary character, do you think: as a foil (as, by-the-bye, some of your own actions have been to your lady's virtue) to set off some more edifying example, where variety of characters make up a feast in conversation? Well, I believe I might have trusted you with my daughter, under your lady's eye, rake as you have been yourself; and fame says wrong, if you have not been, for your time a bolder sinner than ever I was, with your maxim of touching ladies' hearts, without wounding their ears, which made surer work with them, that was all; though 'tis to be hoped you are now reformed; and if you are, the whole country round you, east, west, north, and south, owe great obligations to your fair reclaimer. But here is a fine prim young fellow, coming out of Norfolk, with one estate in one county, another in another, and jointures and settlements in his hand, and more wit in his head, as well as more money in his pocket, than he can tell what to do with, to visit our Polly; though I tell her I much question the former quality, his wit, if he is for marrying. Here then is the reason I cannot comply with your kind Mrs. B.'s request. But if this matter should go off; if he should not like _her_, or she _him_; or if I should not like _his_ terms, or he _mine_;--or still another _or_, if he should like Nancy better why, then perhaps, if Polly be a good girl, I may trust to her virtue, and to your honour, and let her go for a month or two. Now, when I have said this, and when I say, further, that I can forgive your severe lady, and yourself too, (who, however, are less to be excused in the airs you assume, which looks like one chimney-sweeper calling another a sooty rascal) I gave a proof of my charity, which I hope with Mrs. B. will cover a multitude of faults; and the rather, since, though I cannot be a _follower_ of her virtue in the strictest sense, I can be an _admirer_ of it; and that is some little merit: and indeed all that can be at present pleaded by _yourself_, I doubt, any more than _your humble servant_, SIMON DARNFORD. LETTER XXV MY HONOURED AND DEAR PARENTS, I hope you will excuse my long silence, which has been owing to several causes, and having had nothing new to entertain you with: and yet this last is but a poor excuse to you, who think every trifling subject agreeable from your daughter. I daily expect here my Lord and Lady Davers. This gives me no small pleasure, and yet it is mingled with some uneasiness at times; lest I should not, when viewed so intimately near, behave myself answerably to her ladyship's expectations. But I resolve not to endeavour to move out of the sphere of my own capacity, in order to emulate her ladyship. She must have advantages, by conversation, as well as education, which it would be arrogance in me to assume, or to think of imitating. All that I will attempt to do, therefore, shall be, to shew such a respectful obligingness to my lady, as shall be consistent with the condition to which I am raised; so that she may not have reason to reproach me of pride in my exaltation, nor her dear brother to rebuke me for meanness in condescending: and, as to my family arrangement, I am the less afraid of inspection, because, by the natural bias of my own mind, I bless God, I am above dark reserves, and have not one selfish or sordid view, to make me wish to avoid the most scrutinising eye. I have begun a correspondence with Miss Darnford, a young lady of uncommon merit. But yet you know her character from my former writings. She is very solicitous to hear of all that concerns me, and particularly how Lady Davers and I agree together. I loved her from the moment I saw her first; for she has the least pride, and the most benevolence and solid thought, I ever knew in a young lady, and does not envy any one. I shall write to her often: and as I shall have so many avocations besides to fill up my time, I know you will excuse me, if I procure from this lady the return of my letters to her, for your perusal, and for the entertainment of your leisure hours. This will give you, from time to time, the accounts you desire of all that happens here. But as to what relates to our own particulars, I beg you will never spare writing, as I shall not answering; for it is one of my greatest delights, that I have such worthy parents (as I hope in God, I long shall) to bless me and to correspond with me. The papers I send herewith will afford you some diversion, particularly those relating to Sir Simon Darnford; and I must desire, that when you have perused them (as well as what I shall send for the future), you will return them to me. Mr. Longman greatly pleased me, on his last return, in his account of your health, and the satisfaction you take in your happy lot; and I must recite to you a brief conversation on this occasion, which, I dare say, will please you as much as it did me. After having adjusted some affairs with his dear principal, which took up two hours, my best beloved sent for me. "My dear," said he, seating me by him, and making the good old gentleman sit down, (for he will always rise at my approach) "Mr. Longman and I have settled, in two hours, some accounts, which would have taken up as many months with some persons: for never was there an exacter or more methodical accomptant. He gives me (greatly to my satisfaction, because I know it will delight you) an account of the Kentish concern, and of the pleasure your father and mother take in it.--Now, my charmer," said he, "I see your eyes begin to glisten: O how this subject raises your whole soul to the windows of it!--Never was so dutiful a daughter, Mr. Longman; and never did parents better deserve a daughter's duty." I endeavoured before Mr. Longman to rein in a gratitude, that my throbbing heart confessed through my handkerchief, as I perceived: but the good old gentleman could not hinder his from shewing itself at his worthy eyes, to see how much I was favoured--_oppressed_, I should say--with the tenderest goodness to me, and kind expressions.--"Excuse me," said he, wiping his cheeks: "my delight to see such merit so justly rewarded will not be contained, I think." And so he arose and walked to the window. "Well, good Mr. Longman," said I, as he returned towards us, "you give me the pleasure to know that my father and mother are well; and happy then they _must_ be, in a goodness and bounty, that I, and many more, rejoice in." "Well and happy, Madam;--ay, that they are, indeed! A worthier couple never lived. Most nobly do they go on in the farm. Your honour is one of the happiest gentlemen in the world. All the good you do, returns upon you in a trice. It may well be said _you cast your bread upon the waters_; for it presently comes to you again, richer and heavier than when you threw it in. All the Kentish tenants, Madam, are hugely delighted with their good steward: every thing prospers under his management: the gentry love both him and my dame; and the poor people adore them." Thus ran Mr. Longman on, to my inexpressible delight, you may believe; and when he withdrew--"'Tis an honest soul," said my dear Mr. B. "I love him for his respectful love to my angel, and his value for the worthy pair. Very glad I am, that every thing answers _their_ wishes. May they long live, and be happy!" The dear man makes me spring to his arms, whenever be touches this string: for he speaks always thus kindly of you; and is glad to hear, he says, that you don't live only to yourselves; and now and then adds, that he is as much satisfied with your prudence, as he is with mine; that parents and daughter do credit to one another: and that the praises he hears of you from every mouth, make him take as great pleasure in you, as if you were his own relations. How delighting, how transporting rather, my dear parents, must this goodness be to your happy daughter! And how could I forbear repeating these kind things to you, that you may see how well every thing is taken that you do? When the expected visit from Lord and Lady Davers is over, the approaching winter will call us to London; and as I shall then be nearer to you, we may oftener hear from one another, which will be a great heightening to my pleasures. But I hear such an account of the immoralities which persons may observe there, along with the public diversions, that it takes off a little from the satisfaction I should otherwise have in the thought of going thither. For, they say, quarrels, and duels, and gallantries, as they are called, so often happen in London, that those enormities are heard of without the least wonder or surprise. This makes me very thoughtful at times. But God, I hope, will preserve our dearest benefactor, and continue to me his affection, and then I shall be always happy; especially while your healths and felicity confirm and crown the delights of _your ever dutiful daughter,_ P.B. LETTER XXVI MY DEAREST CHILD, It may not be improper to mention ourselves, what the nature of the kindnesses is, which we confer on our poor neighbours, and the labouring people, lest it should be surmised, by any body, that we are lavishing away wealth that is not our own. Not that we fear either your honoured husband or you will suspect so, or that the worthy Mr. Longman would insinuate as much; for he saw what we did, and was highly pleased with it, and said he would make such a report of it as you write he did. What we do is in small things, though the good we hope from them is not small perhaps: and if a very distressful case should happen among our poor neighbours, requiring any thing considerable, and the objects be deserving, we would acquaint you with it, and leave it to you to do as God should direct you. My dear child, you are very happy, and if it _can_ be, may you be happier still! Yet I verily think you cannot be more happy than your father and mother, except in this one thing, that all our happiness, under God, proceeds from you; and, as other parents bless their children with plenty and benefits, you have blessed your parents (or your honoured husband rather for your sake) with all the good things this world can afford. Your papers are the joy of our leisure hours; and you are kind beyond all expression, in taking care to oblige us with them. We know how your time is taken up, and ought to be very well contented, if but now and then you let us hear of your health and welfare. But it is not enough with such a good daughter, that you have made our lives _comfortable_, but you will make them _joyful_ too, by communicating to us, all that befals you: and then you write so piously, and with such a sense of God's goodness to you, and intermix such good reflections in your writings, that whether it be our partial love or not, I cannot tell, but, truly, we think nobody comes up to you: and you make our hearts and eyes so often overflow, as we read, that we join hand in hand, and say to each other, in the same breath--"Blessed be God, and blessed be you, my love,"--"For such a daughter," says the one--"For such a daughter," says the other--"And she has your own sweet temper," cry I.--"And she has your own honest heart," cries she: and so we go on, blessing God, and you, and blessing your spouse, and ourselves!--Is any happiness like ours, my dear daughter? We are really so enraptured with your writings, that when our spirits flag, through the infirmity of years, which hath begun to take hold of us, we have recourse to some of your papers:--"Come, my dear," cry I, "what say you to a banquet now?"--She knows what I mean. "With all my heart," says she. So I read although it be on a Sunday, so good are your letters; and you must know, I have copies of many, and after a little while we are as much alive and brisk, as if we had no nagging at all, and return to the duties of the day with double delight. Consider then, my dear child, what joy your writings give us: and yet we are afraid of oppressing you, who have so much to do of other kinds; and we are heartily glad you have found out a way to save trouble to yourself, and rejoice us, and oblige so worthy a young lady as Miss Darnford, all at one time. I never shall forget her dear goodness, and notice of me at the Hall, kindly pressing my rough hands with her fine hands, and looking in my face with _so_ much kindness in her eyes!--What good people, as well as bad, there are in high stations!--Thank God there are; else our poor child would have had a sad time of it too often, when she was obliged to _step out of herself_, as once I heard you phrase it, into company you could not _live with_. Well, but what shall I say more? and yet how shall I end?--Only, with my prayers, that God will continue to you the blessing and comforts you are in possession of!--And pray now, be not over-thoughtful about London; for why should you let the dread of future evils lessen your present joys?--There is no absolute perfection in this life, that's true; but one would make one's self as easy as one could. 'Tis time enough to be troubled when troubles come--"_Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof_." Rejoice, then, as you have often said you would, in your present blessings, and leave the event of things to the Supreme Disposer of all events. And what have _you_ to do but to rejoice? _You_, who cannot see a sun rise, but it is to bless you, and to raise up from their beds numbers to join in the blessing! _You_ who can bless your high-born friends, and your low-born parents, and obscure relations! the rich by your example, and the poor by your bounty; and bless besides so good and so brave a husband;--O my dear child, what, let me repeat it, have _you_ to do but rejoice?--_For many daughters have done wisely, but you have excelled them all_. I will only add, that every thing the 'squire ordered is just upon the point of being finished. And when the good time comes, that we shall be again favoured with his presence and yours, what a still greater joy will this afford to the already overflowing hearts of _your ever loving father and mother_, JOHN _and_ ELIZ. ANDREWS. LETTER XXVII MY DEAREST MISS DARNFORD, The interest I take in everything that concerns you, makes me very importunate to know how you approve the gentleman, whom some of your best friends and well-wishers have recommended to your favour. I hope he will deserve your good opinion, and then he must excel most of the unmarried gentlemen in England. Your papa, in his humourous manner, mentions his large possessions and riches; but were he as rich as Croesus, he should not have my consent, if he has no greater merit; though that is what the generality of parents look out for first; and indeed an easy fortune is so far from being to be disregarded, that, when attended with equal merit, I think it ought to have a _preference_ given to it, supposing affections disengaged. For 'tis certain, that a man or woman may stand as good a chance for happiness in marriage with a person of fortune, as with one who has not that advantage; and notwithstanding I had neither riches nor descent to boast of, I must be of opinion with those who say, that they never knew any body despise either, that had them. But to permit riches to be the _principal_ inducement, to the neglect of superior merit, that is the fault which many a one smarts for, whether the choice be their own, or imposed upon them by those who have a title to their obedience. Here is a saucy body, might some who have not Miss Darnford's kind consideration for her friend, be apt to say, who being thus meanly descended, nevertheless presumes to give her opinion, in these high cases, unasked.--But I have this to say; that I think myself so entirely divested of partiality to my own case, that, as far as my judgment shall permit, I will never have that in view, when I am presuming to hint my opinion of general rules. For, most surely, the honours I have received, and the debasement to which my best friend had subjected himself, have, for their principal excuse, that the gentleman was entirely independent, had no questions to ask, and had a fortune sufficient to make himself, as well as the person he chose, happy, though she brought him nothing at all; and that he had, moreover, such a character for good sense, and knowledge of the world, that nobody could impute to him any other inducement, but that of a noble resolution to reward a virtue he had so frequently, and, I will say, so wickedly, tried, and could not subdue. My dear Miss, let me, as a subject very pleasing to me, touch upon your kind mention of the worthy Mr. Peters's sentiments to that part of his conduct to me, which (oppressed by the terrors and apprehensions to which I was subjected) once I censured; and the readier, as I had so great an honour for his cloth, that I thought, to be a clergyman, and all that was compassionate, good, and virtuous, was the same thing. But when I came to know Mr. Peters, I had a high opinion of his worthiness, and as no one can be perfect in this life, thus I thought to myself: How hard was then my lot, to be the cause of stumbling to so worthy a heart. To be sure, a gentleman, one who knows, and practises so well, his duty, in every other instance, and preaches it so efficaciously to others, must have been _one day_ sensible, that it would not have mis-become his function and character to have afforded that protection to oppressed innocence, which was requested of him: and how would it have grieved his considerate mind, had my ruin been completed, that he did not! But as he had once a namesake, as one may say, that failed in a much greater instance, let not _my_ want of charity exceed _his_ fault; but let me look upon it as an infirmity, to which the most perfect are liable; I was a stranger to him; a servant girl carried off by her master, a young gentleman of violent and lawless passions, who, in this very instance, shewed how much in earnest he was set upon effecting all his vile purposes; and whose heart, although _God_ might touch, it was not probable any lesser influence could. Then he was not sure, that, though he might assist my escape, I might not afterwards fall again into the hands of so determined a violator: and that difficulty would not, with such an one, enhance his resolution to overcome all obstacles. Moreover, he might think, that the person, who was moving him to this worthy measure, possibly sought to gratify a view of his own, and that while endeavouring to save, to outward appearance, a virtue in danger, he was, in reality, only helping another to a wife, at the hazard of exposing himself to the vindictiveness of a violent temper, and a rich neighbour, who had power as well as will to resent; for such was his apprehension, entirely groundless as it was, though not improbable, as it might seem to him. For all these considerations, I must pity, rather than too rigorously censure, the worthy gentleman, and I will always respect him. And thank him a thousand times, my dear, in my name, for his goodness in condescending to acknowledge, by your hand, his infirmity, as such; for this gives an excellent proof of the natural worthiness of his heart; and that it is beneath him to seek to extenuate a fault, when he thinks he has committed one. Indeed, my dear friend, I have so much honour for the clergy of all degrees, that I never forget in my prayers one article, that God will make them shining lights to the world; since so much depends on their ministry and examples, as well with respect to our public as private duties. Nor shall the faults of a few make impression upon me to the disadvantage of the order; for I am afraid a very censorious temper, in this respect, is too generally the indication of an uncharitable and perhaps a profligate heart, levelling characters, in order to cover some inward pride, or secret enormities, which they are ashamed to avow, and will not be instructed to amend. Forgive, my dear, this tedious scribble; I cannot for my life write short letters to those I love. And let me hope that you will favour me with an account of your new affair, and how you proceed in it; and with such of your conversations, as may give me some notion of a polite courtship. For, alas! your poor friend knows nothing of this. All her courtship was sometimes a hasty snatch of the hand, a black and blue gripe of the arm, and--"Whither now?"--"Come to me when I bid you!" And Saucy-face, and Creature, and such like, on his part--with fear and trembling on mine; and--"I will, I will!--Good Sir, have mercy!" At other times a scream, and nobody to hear or mind me; and with uplift hands, bent knees, and tearful eyes--"For God's sake, pity your poor servant." This, my dear Miss Darnford, was the hard treatment that attended my courtship--pray, then, let me know, how gentlemen court their equals in degree; how they look when they address you, with their knees bent, sighing, supplicating, and _all that_, as Sir Simon says, with the words Slave, Servant, Admirer, continually at their tongue's end. But after all, it will be found, I believe, that be the language and behaviour ever so obsequious, it is all designed to end alike--The English, the plain English, of the politest address, is,--"I am now, dear Madam, your humble servant: pray be so good as to let me be your master,"--"Yes, and thank you too," says the lady's heart, though not her lips, if she likes him. And so they go to church together; and, in conclusion, it will be happy, if these obsequious courtships end no worse than my frightful one. But I am convinced, that with a man of sense, a woman of tolerable prudence _must_ be happy. That whenever you marry, it may be to such a man, who then must value you as you deserve, and make you happy as I now am, notwithstanding all that's past, wishes and prays _your obliged friend and servant,_ P.B. [N.B.--Although Miss Darnford could not receive the above letter so soon, as to answer it before others were sent to her by her fair correspondent; yet we think it not amiss to dispense with the order of time, that the reader may have the letter and answer at one view, and shall on other occasions take the like liberty.] LETTER XXVIII _In answer to the preceding_ MY DEAR MRS. B., You charm us all with your letters. Mr. Peters says, he will never go to bed, nor rise, but he will pray for you, and desires I will return his thankful acknowledgment for your favourable opinion of him, and kind allowances. If there be an angel on earth, he says, you are one. My papa, although he has seen your stinging reflection upon his refusal to protect you, is delighted with you too; and says, when you come down to Lincolnshire again, he will be _undertaken_ by you in good earnest: for he thinks it was wrong in him to deny you his protection. We all smiled at the description of your own uncommon courtship. And, as they say the days of courtship are the happiest part of life, if we had not known that your days of marriage are happier by far than any other body's courtship, we must needs have pitied. But as the one were days of trial and temptation, the others are days of reward and happiness: may the last always continue to be so, and you'll have no occasion to think any body happier than Mrs. B.! I thank you heartily for your good wishes as to the man of sense. Mr. Murray has been here, and continues his visits. He is a lively gentleman, well enough in his person, has a tolerable character, yet loves company, and will take his bottle freely; my papa likes him ne'er the worse for that: he talks a good deal; dresses gay, and even richly, and seems to like his own person very well--no great pleasure this for a lady to look forward to; yet he falls far short of that genteel ease and graceful behaviour, which distinguish your Mr. B. from any body I know. I wish Mr. Murray would apply to my sister. She is an ill-natured girl; but would make a good wife, I hope; and fancy she'd like him well enough. I can't say I do. He laughs too much; has something boisterous in his conversation: his complaisance is not pretty; he is, however, well versed in country sports; and my papa loves him for that too, and says--"He is a most accomplished gentleman."--"Yes Sir," cry I, "as gentlemen go."--"You _must_ be saucy," says Sir Simon, "because the man offers himself to your acceptance. A few years hence, perhaps, if you remain single, you'll alter your note, Polly, and be willing to jump at a much less worthy tender." I could not help answering that, although I paid due honour to all my papa was pleased to say, I could not but hope he would be mistaken in this. But I have broken my mind to my dear mamma, who tells me, she will do me all the pleasure she can; but would be loth the youngest daughter should go _first_, as she calls it. But if I could come and live with you a little now and then, I did not care who married, unless such an one offered as I never expect. I have great hopes the gentleman will be easily persuaded to quit me for Nancy; for I see he has not delicacy enough to love with any great distinction. He says, as my mamma tells me by the bye, that I am the handsomest, and best humoured, and he has found out as he thinks, that I have some wit, and have ease and freedom (and he tacks innocence to them) in my address and conversation. 'Tis well for me, _he_ is of this opinion: for if he thinks justly, which I must question, _any body_ may think so still much more; for I have been far from taking pains to engage his good word, having been under more reserve to him, than ever I was before to any body. Indeed, I can't help it: for the gentleman is forward without delicacy; and (pardon me, Sir Simon) my papa has not one bit of it neither; but is for pushing matters on, with his rough raillery, that puts me out of countenance, and has already adjusted the sordid part of the preliminaries, as he tells me. Yet I hope Nancy's three thousand pound fortune more than I am likely to have, will give her the wished-for preference with Mr. Murray; and then, as to a brother-in-law, in prospect, I can put off all restraint, and return to my usual freedom. This is all that occurs worthy of notice from us: but from you, we expect an account of Lady Davers's visit, and of the conversations that offer among you; and you have so delightful a way of making every thing momentous, either by your subject or reflections, or both, that we long for every post-day, in hopes of the pleasure of a letter. And yours I will always carefully preserve, as so many testimonies of the honour I receive in this correspondence: which will be always esteemed as it deserves, by, my dear Mrs. B., _your obliged and faithful_ POLLY DARNFORD. Mrs. Peters, Mrs. Jones, my papa, mamma, and sister, present their respects. Mr. Peters I mentioned before. He continues to give a very good account of poor Jewkes; and is much pleased with her. LETTER XXIX MY DEAR MISS DARNFORD, At your desire, and to oblige your honoured mamma, and your good neighbours, I will now acquaint you with the arrival of Lady Davers, and will occasionally write what passes among us, I will not say worthy of notice; for were I only to do so, I should be more brief, perhaps, by much, than you seem to expect. But as my time is pretty much taken up, and I find I shall be obliged to write a bit now, and a bit then, you must excuse me, if I dispense with some forms, which I ought to observe, when I write to one I so dearly love; and so I will give it journal-wise, as it were, and have no regard, when it would fetter or break in upon my freedom of narration, to inscription or subscription; but send it as I have opportunity, and if you please to favour me so far, as to lend it me, after you have read the stuff, for the perusal of my father and mother, to whom my duty, and promise require me to give an account of my proceedings, it will save me transcription, for which I shall have no time; and then you will excuse blots and blurs, and I will trouble myself no farther for apologies on that score, but this once for all. If you think it worth while when they have read it, you shall have it again. WEDNESDAY MORNING, SIX O'CLOCK. For my dear friend permits me to rise an hour sooner than usual, that I may have time to scribble; for he is always pleased to see me so employed, or in reading; often saying, when I am at my needle, (as his sister once wrote) "Your maids can do this, Pamela: but they cannot write as you can." And yet, as he says, when I choose to follow my needle, as a diversion from too intense study, (but, alas! I know not what study is, as may be easily guessed by my hasty writing, putting down every thing as it comes) I shall then do as I please. But I promised at setting out, what a good wife I'd endeavour to make: and every honest body should try to be as good as her word, you know, and such particulars as I then mentioned, I think I ought to dispense with as little as possible; especially as I promised no more than what was my duty to perform, if I had _not_ promised. But what a preamble is here? Judge by it what impertinences you may expect as I proceed. Yesterday evening arrived here my Lord and Lady Davers, their nephew, and the Countess of C., mother of Lady Betty, whom we did not expect, but took it for the greater favour. It seems her ladyship longed, as she said, to see _me_; and this was her principal inducement. The two ladies, and their two women, were in Lord Davers's coach and six, and my lord and his nephew rode on horseback, attended with a train of servants. We had expected them to dinner; but they could not reach time enough; for the countess being a little incommoded with her journey, the coach travelled slowly. My lady would not suffer her lord, nor his nephew, to come hither before her, though on horseback, because she would be present, she said, when his lordship first saw me, he having quite forgot _her mother's Pamela_; that was her word. It rained when they came in; so the coach drove directly to the door, and Mr. B. received them there; but I was in a little sort of flutter, which Mr. B. observing, made me sit down in the parlour to compose myself. "Where's Pamela?" said my lady, as soon as she alighted. I stept out, lest she should take it amiss: and she took my hand, and kissed me: "Here, my lady countess," said she, presenting me to her, "here's the girl; see if I said too much in praise of her person." The countess saluted me with a visible pleasure in her eye, and said, "Indeed, Lady Davers, you have not. 'Twould have been strange (excuse me, Mrs. B., for I know your story), if such a fine flower had not been transplanted from the field to the garden." I made no return, but by a low curtsey, to her ladyship's compliment. Then Lady Davers taking my hand again, presented me to her lord: "See here, my lord, my mother's Pamela."--"And see here, my lord," said her generous brother, taking my other hand most kindly, "see here your brother's Pamela too!" My lord saluted me: "I do," said he to his lady, and to his brother; "and I see the first person in her, that has exceeded my expectation, when every mouth had _prepared_ me to expect a wonder." Mr. H., whom every one calls Lord Jackey, after his aunt's example, when she is in good humour with him, and who is a very _young_ gentleman, though about as old as my best friend, came to me next, and said, "Lovelier and lovelier, by my life!--I never saw your peer, Madam." Will you excuse me, my dear, all this seeming vanity, for the sake of repeating exactly what passed? "Well, but," said my lady, taking my hand, in her free quality way, which quite dashed me, and holding it at a distance, and turning me half round, her eye fixed to my waist, "let me observe you a little, my sweet-faced girl;--I hope I am right: I hope you will do credit to my brother, as he has done you credit. Why do you let her lace so tight, Mr. B.?" I was unable to look up, as you may believe, Miss: my face, all over scarlet, was hid in my bosom, and I looked so _silly!_-- "Ay," said my naughty lady, "you may well look down, my good girl: for works of this nature will not be long hidden.--And, oh! my lady," (to the countess) "see how like a pretty _thief_ she looks!" "Dear my lady!" said I: for she still kept looking at me: and her good brother, seeing my confusion, in pity to me, pressed my blushing face a moment to his generous breast, and said, "Lady Davers, you should not be thus hard upon my dear girl, the moment you see her, and before so many witnesses:--but look up, my best love, take your revenge of my sister, and tell her, you wish her in the same way." "It is so then?" said my lady. "I'm glad of it with all my heart. I will now love you better and better: but I almost doubted it, seeing her still so slender. But if, my good child, you lace too tight, I'll never forgive you." And so she gave me a kiss of congratulation, as she said. Do you think I did not look very silly? My lord, smiling, and gazing at me from head to foot; Lord Jackey grinning and laughing, like an oaf, as I then, in my spite, thought. Indeed the countess said, encouragingly to me, but severely in persons of birth, "Lady Davers, you are as much too teazing, as Mrs. B. is too bashful. But you are a happy man, Mr. B., that your lady's bashfulness is the principal mark by which we can judge she is not of quality." Lord Jackey, in the language of some character in a play, cried out, "_A palpable hit, by Jupiter!_" and laughed egregiously, running about from one to another, repeating the same words. We talked only upon common topics till supper-time, and I was all ear, as I thought it became me to be; for the countess had, by her first compliment, and by an aspect as noble as intelligent, overawed me, as I may say, into a respectful silence, to which Lady Davers's free, though pleasant raillery (which she could not help carrying on now-and-then) contributed. Besides, Lady Davers's letters had given me still greater reason to revere her wit and judgment than I had before, when I reflected on her passionate temper, and such parts of the conversation I had had with her ladyship in your neighbourhood; which (however to be admired) fell short of her letters. When we were to sit down at table, I looked, I suppose, a little diffidently: for I really then thought of my lady's anger at the Hall, when she would not have permitted me to sit at table with her; and Mr. B. saying, "Take your place, my dear; you keep our friends standing;" I sat down in my usual seat. And my lady said, "None of your reproaching eye, Pamela; I know what you hint at by it; and every letter I have received from you has made me censure myself for my _lady-airs_, as you call 'em, you sauce-box you: I told you, I'd _lady-airs_ you when I saw you; and you shall have it all in good time." "I am sure," said I, "I shall have nothing from your ladyship, but what will be very agreeable: but, indeed, I never meant any thing particular by that, or any other word that I wrote; nor could I think of any thing but what was highly respectful to your ladyship." Lord Davers was pleased to say, that it was impossible I should either write or speak any thing that could be taken amiss. Lady Davers, after supper, and the servants were withdrawn, began a discourse on titles, and said, "Brother, I think you should hold yourself obliged to my Lord Davers; for he has spoken to Lord S. who made him a visit a few days ago, to procure you a baronet's patent. Your estate, and the figure you make in the world, are so considerable, and your family besides is so ancient, that, methinks, you should wish for some distinction of that sort." "Yes, brother," said my lord, "I did mention it to Lord S. and told him, withal, that it was without your knowledge or desire that I spoke about it; and I was not very sure you would accept of it; but 'tis a thing your sister has wished for a good while." "What answer did my Lord S. make to it?" said Mr. B. "He said, 'We,' meaning the ministers, I suppose, 'should be glad to oblige a man of Mr. B.'s figure in the world; but you mention it so slightly, that you can hardly expect courtiers will tender it to any gentleman that is so indifferent about it; for, Lord Davers, we seldom grant honours without a view: I tell you that,' added he, smiling." "My Lord S. might mention this as a jest," returned Mr. B., "but he spoke the truth. But your lordship said well, that I was indifferent about it. 'Tis true, 'tis an hereditary title; but the rich citizens, who used to be satisfied with the title of Knight, (till they made it so common, that it is brought into as great contempt almost as that of the French knights of St. Michael,[1] and nobody cares to accept of it) now are ambitious of this; and, as I apprehend, it is hastening apace into like disrepute. Besides, 'tis a novel honour, and what the ancestors of our family, who lived at its institution, would never accept of. But were it a peerage, which has some essential privileges and splendours annexed to it, to make it desirable to some men, I would not enter into conditions for it. Titles at best," added he, "are but shadows; and he that has the substance should be above valuing them; for who that has the whole bird, would pride himself upon a single feather?" "But," said my lady, "although I acknowledge that the institution is of late date, yet, as abroad, as well as at home, it is regarded as a title of dignity, and the best families among the gentry are supposed to be distinguished by it, I should wish you to accept of it. And as to citizens who have it, they are not many; and some of this class of people, or their immediate descendants, have bought themselves into the peerage itself of the one kingdom or the other." [Footnote 1: This order was become so scandalously common in France, that, to order to suppress it, the hangman was vested with the ensigns of it, which effectually abolished it.] "As to what it is looked upon abroad," said Mr. B., "this is of no weight at all; for when an Englishman travels, be he of what degree he will, if he has an equipage, and squanders his money away, he is a lord of course with foreigners: and therefore Sir Such-a-one is rather a diminution to him, as it gives him a lower title than his vanity would perhaps make him aspire to be thought in the possession of. Then, as to citizens, in a trading nation like this, I am not displeased in the main, with seeing the overgrown ones creeping into nominal honours; and we have so many of our first titled families, who have allied themselves to trade, (whose inducements were money only) that it ceases to be either a wonder as to the fact, or a disgrace as to the honour." "Well, brother," said my lady, "I will tell you farther, the thing may be had for asking for; if you will but go to court, and desire to kiss the king's hand, that will be all the trouble you'll have: and pray now oblige me in it." "If a title would make me either a better or a wiser man," replied Mr. B., "I would embrace it with pleasure. Besides, I am not so satisfied with some of the measures now pursuing, as to owe any obligation to the ministers. Accepting of a small title from them, is but like putting on their badge, or listing under their banners; like a certain lord we all know, who accepted of one degree more of title to shew he was theirs, and would not have an higher, lest it should be thought a satisfaction tantamount to half the pension he demanded: and could I be easy to have it supposed, that I was an ungrateful man for voting as I pleased, because they gave me the title of a baronet?" The countess said, the world always thought Mr. B. to be a man of steady principles, and not attached to any party; but, in her opinion, it was far from being inconsistent with any gentleman's honour and independency, to accept of a title from a prince he acknowledged as his sovereign. "'Tis very true. Madam, that I am attached to no party, nor ever will. I will be a _country gentleman_, in the true sense of the word, and will accept of no favour that shall make any one think I would _not_ be of the opposition when I think it a necessary one; as, on the other hand, I should scorn to make myself a round to any man's ladder of preferment, or a caballer for the sake of my own." "You say well, brother," returned Lady Davers; "but you may undoubtedly keep your own principles and independency, and yet pay your duty to the king, and accept of this title; for your family and fortune will be a greater ornament to the title, than the title to you." "Then what occasion have I for it, if that be the case, Madam?" "Why, I can't say, but I should be glad you had it, for your family's sake, as it is an hereditary honour. Then it would mend the style of your spouse here; for the good girl is at such a loss for an epithet when she writes, that I see the constraint she lies under. It is, '_My dear gentleman, my best friend, my benefactor, my dear Mr. B._' whereas Sir William would turn off her periods more roundly, and no other softer epithets would be wanting." "To me," replied he, "who always desire to be distinguished as my Pamela's best friend, and think it an honour to be called _her dear Mr. B. and her dear man_, this reason weighs very little, unless there were no other Sir William in the kingdom than _her_ Sir William: for I am very emulous of her favour, I can tell you, and think it no small distinction." I blushed at this too great honour, before such company, and was afraid my lady would be a little picqued at it. But after a pause, she said, "Well, then, brother, will you let Pamela decide upon this point?" "Rightly put," said the countess. "Pray let Mrs. B. choose for you, Sir. My lady has hit the thing." "Very good, by my soul," says Lord Jackey; "let my _young aunt_," that was his word, "choose for you, Sir." "Well, then, Pamela," said Mr. B., "give us your opinion, as to this point." "But, first," said Lady Davers, "say you will be determined by it; or else she will be laid under a difficulty." "Well, then," replied he, "be it so--I will be determined by your opinion, my dear; give it me freely." Lord Jackey rubbed his hands together, "Charming, charming, as I hope to live! By Jove, this is just as I wished!" "Well, now, Pamela," said my lady, "speak your true heart without disguise: I charge you do." "Why then, gentlemen and ladies," said I, "if I must be so bold as to speak on a subject, upon which on several accounts, it would become me to be silent, I should be _against_ the title; but perhaps my reason is of too private a nature to weigh any thing: and if so, it would not become me to have any choice at all." They all called upon me for my reason; and I said, looking down a little abashed, "It is this: Here my dear Mr. B. has disparaged himself by distinguishing, as he has done, such a low creature as I; and the world will be apt to say, he is seeking to repair _one way_ the honour he has lost _another!_ and then perhaps, it will be attributed to my pride and ambition: 'Here, they will perhaps say, 'the proud cottager will needs be a lady in hopes to conceal her descent;' whereas, had I such a vain thought, it would be but making it the more remembered against both Mr. B. and myself. And indeed, as to my own part, I take too much pride in having been lifted up into this distinction for the causes to which I owe it, your brother's _bounty_ and _generosity_, than to be ashamed of what I _was_: only now-and-then I am concerned for his own sake, lest he should be too much censured. But this would not be prevented, but rather be promoted by the title. So I am humbly of opinion against the title." Mr. B. had hardly patience to hear me out, but came to me and folding his arms about me, said, "Just as I wished, have you answered, my beloved Pamela; I was never yet deceived in you; no, not once." "Madam," said he to the countess, "Lord Davers, Lady Davers, do we want any titles, think you, to make us happy but what we can confer upon ourselves?" And he pressed my hand to his lips, as he always honours me most in company and went to his place highly pleased; while his fine manner drew tears from my eyes, and made his noble sister's and the countess's glisten too. "Well, for my part," said Lady Davers, "thou art a strange girl: where, as my brother once said, gottest thou all this?" Then pleasantly humorous, as if she was angry, she changed her tone, "What signify thy _meek_ words and _humble_ speeches when by thy _actions_, as well as _sentiments_, thou reflectest upon us all? Pamela," said she, "have less merit, or take care to conceal it better: I shall otherwise have no more patience with thee, than thy monarch has just now shewn." The countess was pleased to say, "You're a happy couple indeed!" Such sort of entertainment as this you are to expect from your correspondent. I cannot do better than I can; and it may appear such a mixture of self-praise, vanity, and impertinence, that I expect you will tell me freely, as soon as this comes to your hand, whether it be tolerable to you. Yet I must write on, for my dear father and mother's sake, who require it of me, and are prepared to approve of every thing that comes from me, for no other reason but that: and I think you ought to leave me to write to them only, as I cannot hope it will be entertaining to any body else, without expecting as much partiality and favour from others, as I have from my dear parents. Mean time I conclude here my first conversation-piece; and am, and will be, _always yours, &c._ P.B. LETTER XXX THURSDAY MORNING, SIX O'CLOCK. Our breakfast conversation yesterday (at which only Mrs. Worden, my lady's woman, and my Polly attended) was so whimsically particular, (though I doubt some of it, at least, will appear too trifling) that I must acquaint my dear Miss Darnford with it, who is desirous of knowing all that relates to Lady Davers's conduct towards me. You must know, then, I have the honour to stand very high in the graces of Lord Davers, who on every occasion is pleased to call me his _good Sister_, his _dear Sister_, and sometimes his _charming Sister_, and he says, he will not be out of my company for an hour together, while he stays here, if he can help it. My lady seems to relish this very well in the main, though she cannot quite so readily, yet, frame her mouth to the sound of the word _Sister_, as my lord does; of which this that follows is one instance. His lordship had called me by that tender name twice before, and saying, "I will drink another dish, I think, my _good Sister_." My lady said, "Your lordship has got a word by the end, that you seem mighty fond of: I have taken notice, that you have called Pamela _Sister, Sister, Sister_, no less than three times in a quarter of an hour." My lord looked a little serious: "I shall one day," said he, "be allowed to choose my own words and phrases, I hope--Your sister, Mr. B.," added he, "often questions whether I am at age or not, though the House of Peers made no scruple of admitting me among them some years ago." Mr. B. said severely, but with a smiling air, "'Tis well she has such a gentleman as your lordship for a husband, whose affectionate indulgence to her makes you overlook all her saucy sallies! I am sure, when you took her out of our family into your own, we all thought ourselves, I in particular, bound to pray for you." I thought this a great trial of my lady's patience: but it was from Mr. B. And she said, with a half-pleasant, half-serious air, "How now, Confidence!--None but my brother could have said this, whose violent spirit was always much more intolerable than mine: but I can tell you, Mr. B., I was always thought very good-humoured and obliging to every body, till your impudence came from college, and from your travels; and then, I own, your provoking ways made me now-and-then a little out of the way." "Well, well, sister, we'll have no more of this subject; only let us see that my Lord Davers wants not his proper authority with you, although you used to keep _me_ in awe formerly." "Keep _you_ in awe!--That nobody could ever do yet, boy or man. But, my lord, I beg your pardon; for this brother will make mischief betwixt us if he can--I only took notice of the word _Sister_ so often used, which looked more like affectation than affection." "Perhaps, Lady Davers," said my lord, gravely, "I have two reasons for using the word so frequently." "I'd be glad to hear them," said the dear taunting lady; "for I don't doubt they're mighty good ones. What are they, my lord?" "One is, because I love, and am fond of my new relation: the other, that you are so sparing of the word, that I call her so for us both." "Your lordship says well," replied Mr. B., smiling: "and Lady Davers can give two reasons why she does _not_." "Well," said my lady, "now we are in for't, let us hear _your_ two reasons likewise; I doubt not they're wise ones too." "If they are _yours_, Lady Davers, they must be so. One is, That every condescension (to speak in a proud lady's dialect) comes with as much difficulty from her, as a favour from the House of Austria to the petty princes of Germany. The second, Because those of your sex--(Excuse me, Madam," to the countess) "who have once made scruples, think it inconsistent with themselves to be over hasty to alter their own conduct, choosing rather to persist in an error, than own it to be one." This proceeded from his impatience to see me in the least slighted by my lady; and I said to Lord Davers, to soften matters, "Never, my lord, were brother and sister so loving in earnest, and yet so satirical upon each other in jest, as my good lady and Mr. B. But your lordship knows their way." My lady frowned at her brother, but turned it off with an air: "I love the mistress of this house," said she, "very well; and am quite reconciled to her: but methinks there is such a hissing sound in the word _Sister_, that I cannot abide it. 'Tis a true English word, but a word I have not been used to, having never had a sis-s-s-ter before, as you know,"--Speaking the first syllable of the word with an emphatical hiss. Mr. B. said, "Observe you not, Lady Davers, that you used a word (to avoid that) which had twice the hissing in it that _sister_ has? And that was mis-s-s-tress, with two other hissing words to accompany it, of this-s-s hous-s-e: but to what childish follies does not pride make one stoop!--Excuse, Madam" (to the countess), "such poor low conversation as we are dwindled into." "O Sir," said her ladyship, "the conversation is very agreeable;--and I think, Lady Davers, you're fairly caught." "Well," said my lady, "then help me, good _sister_--there's for you!--to a little sugar. Will that please you, Sir?" "I am always pleased," replied her brother, smiling, "when Lady Davers acts up to her own character, and the good sense she is mistress of." "Ay, ay, my good brother, like other wise men, takes it for granted that it is a mark of good sense to approve of whatever _he_ does.--And so, for this one time, I am a very sensible body with him--And I'll leave off, while I have his good word. Only one thing I must say to you, my dear," turning to me, "that though I call you Pamela, as I please, be assured, I love you as well as if I called you _sister_, as Lord Davers does, at every word." "Your ladyship gives me great pleasure," said I, "in this kind assurance; and I don't doubt but I shall have the honour of being called by that tender name, if I can be so happy as to deserve it; and I'll lose no opportunity that shall be afforded me, to show how sincerely I will endeavour to do so." She was pleased to rise from her seat: "Give me a kiss, my dear girl; you deserve every thing: and permit me to say Pamela sometimes, as the word occurs: for I am not used to speak in print; and I will call you _sister_ when I think of it, and love you as well as ever sister loved another." "These proud and passionate folks," said Mr. B., "how good they can be, when they reflect a little on what becomes their characters!" "So, then," rejoined my lady, "I am to have no merit of my own, I see, do what I will. This is not quite so generous in my brother, as one might expect." "Why, you saucy sister--excuse me. Lord Davers--what merit _would_ you assume? Can people merit by doing their duty? And is it so great a praise, that you think fit to own for a sister so deserving a girl as this, whom I take pride in calling my wife?" "Thou art what thou always wert," returned my lady; "and were I in this my imputed pride to want an excuse, I know not the creature living, that ought so soon to make one for me, as you." "I _do_ excuse you," said he, "for _that_ very reason, if you please: but it little becomes either your pride, or mine, to do any thing that wants excuse." "Mighty moral! mighty grave, truly!--Pamela, friend, sister,--there's for you!--thou art a happy girl to have made such a reformation in thy honest man's way of _thinking_ as well as _acting_. But now we are upon this topic, and only friends about us, I am resolved to be even with thee, brother--Jackey, if you are not for another dish, I wish you'd withdraw. Polly Barlow, we don't want you. Beck, you may stay." Mr. H. obeyed; and Polly went out; for you must know, Miss, that my Lady Davers will have none of the men-fellows, as she calls them, to attend upon us at tea. And I cannot say but I think her entirely in the right, for several reasons that might be given. When they were withdrawn, my lady repeated, "Now we are upon this topic of reclaiming and reformation, tell me, thou bold wretch; for you know I have seen all your rogueries in Pamela's papers; tell me, if ever rake but thyself made such an attempt as thou didst, on this dear good girl, in presence of a virtuous woman, as Mrs. Jervis was always noted to be? As to the other vile creature, Jewkes, 'tis less wonder, although in _that_ thou hadst the impudence of _him_ who set thee to work: but to make thy attempt before Mrs. Jervis, and in spite of _her_ struggles and reproaches, was the very stretch of shameless wickedness." Mr. B. seemed a little disconcerted, and said, "Surely, Lady Davers, this is going too far! Look at Pamela's blushing face, and downcast eye, and wonder at yourself for this question, as much as you do at me for the action you speak of." The countess said to me, "My dear Mrs. B., I wonder not at this sweet confusion on so affecting a question!--but, indeed, since it is come in so naturally, I must say, Mr. B., that we have all, and my daughters too, wondered at this, more than at any part of your attempts; because, Sir, we thought you one of the most civilized men in England, and that you could not but wish to have saved appearances at least." "Though this is to you, my Pamela, the renewal of griefs; yet hold up your dear face. You may--The triumph was yours--the shame and the blushes ought to be mine--And I will humour my saucy sister in all she would have me say." "Nay," said Lady Davers, "you know the question; I cannot put it stronger." "That's very true," replied he: "But would you expect I should give you a _reason_ for an attempt that appears to you so very shocking?" "Nay, Sir," said the countess, "don't say _appears_ to Lady Davers; for (excuse me) it will appear so to every one who hears of it." "I think my brother is too hardly used," said Lord Davers; "he has made all the amends he could make:--and _you_, my sister, who were the person offended, forgive him now, I hope; don't you?" I could not answer; for I was quite confounded; and made a motion to withdraw: but Mr. B. said, "Don't go, my dear: though I ought to be ashamed of an action set before me in so full a glare, in presence of Lord Davers and the countess; yet I will not have you stir because I forget how you represented it, and you must tell me." "Indeed, Sir, I cannot," said I; "pray, my dear ladies--pray, my good lord--and, dear Sir, don't thus _renew my griefs_, as you were pleased justly to phrase it." "I have the representation of that scene in my pocket," said my lady; "for I was resolved, as I told Lady Betty, to shame the wicked wretch with it the first opportunity; and I'll read it to you; or rather, you shall read it yourself, Bold-face, if you can." So she pulled those leaves out of her pocket, wrapped up carefully in a paper. "Here,--I believe he who could act thus, must read it; and, to spare Pamela's confusion, read it to yourself; for we all know how it was." "I think," said he, taking the papers, "I can say something to abate the heinousness of this heavy charge, or else I should not stand thus at the insolent bar of my sister, answering her interrogatories." I send you, my dear Miss Darnford, a transcript of the charge. To be sure, you'll say, he was a very wicked man. Mr. B. read it to himself, and said, "This is a dark affair, as here stated; and I can't say, but Pamela, and Mrs. Jervis too, had great reason to apprehend the worst: but surely readers of it, who were less parties in the supposed attempt, and not determined at all events to condemn me, might have made a more favourable construction for me, than you, Lady Davers, have done in the strong light in which you have set this heinous matter before us. "However, since my lady," bowing to the countess, "and Lord Davers seem to expect me particularly to answer this black charge, I will, at a proper time, if agreeable, give you a brief history of my passion for this dear girl; how it commenced and increased, and my own struggles with it, and this will introduce, with some little advantage to myself perhaps, what I have to say, as to this supposed attempt: and at the same time enable you the better to account for some facts which you have read in my pretty accuser's papers." This pleased every one, and they begged him to begin _then_; but he said, it was time we should think of dressing, the morning being far advanced; and if no company came in, he would, in the afternoon, give them the particulars they desired to hear. The three gentlemen rode out, and returned to dress before dinner: my lady and the countess also took an airing in the chariot. Just as they returned, compliments came from several of the neighbouring ladies to our noble guests, on their arrival in these parts; and to as many as sent, Lady Davers desired their companies for to-morrow afternoon, to tea; but Mr. B. having fallen in with some of the gentlemen likewise, he told me, we should have most of our visiting neighbours at dinner, and desired Mrs. Jervis might prepare accordingly for them. After dinner Mr. H. took a ride out, attended by Mr. Colbrand, of whom he is very fond, ever since he frightened Lady Davers's footmen at the Hall, threatening to chine them, if they offered to stop his lady: for, he says, he loves a man of courage: very probably knowing his own defects that way, for my lady often calls him a chicken-hearted fellow. And then Lord and Lady Davers, and the countess, revived the subject of the morning; and Mr. B. was pleased to begin in the manner I shall mention by-and-bye. For here I am obliged to break off. Now, my dear Miss Darnford, I will proceed. "I began," said Mr. B., "very early to take notice of this lovely girl, even when she was hardly thirteen years old; for her charms increased every day, not only in my eye, but in the eyes of all who beheld her. My mother, as _you_ (Lady Davers) know, took the greatest delight in her, always calling her, her Pamela, her good child: and her waiting-maid and her cabinet of rarities were her boasts, and equally shewn to every visitor: for besides the beauty of her figure, and the genteel air of her person, the dear girl had a surprising memory, a solidity of judgment above her years, and a docility so unequalled, that she took all parts of learning which her lady, as fond of instructing her as she of improving by instruction, crowded upon her; insomuch that she had masters to teach her to dance, sing, and play on the spinnet, whom she every day surprised by the readiness wherewith she took every thing. "I remember once, my mother praising her girl before me, and my aunt B. (who is since dead), I could not but notice her fondness for her, and said, 'What do you design, Madam, to do _with_ or _for_, this Pamela of yours? The accomplishments you give her will do her more hurt than good; for they will set her so much above her degree, that what you intend as a kindness, may prove her ruin.' "My aunt joined with me, and spoke in a still stronger manner against giving her such an education: and added, as I well remember, 'Surely, sister, you do wrong. One would think, if one knew not my nephew's discreet pride, that you design her for something more than your own waiting-maid.' "'Ah! sister,' said the old lady, 'there is no fear of what you hint at; his family pride, and stately temper, will secure my son: he has too much of his father in him. And as for Pamela, you know not the girl. She has always in her thoughts, and in her mouth, too, her parents' mean condition, and I shall do nothing for _them_, at least at present, though they are honest folks, and deserve well, because I will keep the girl humble.' "'But what can I do with the little baggage?' continued my mother; 'she conquers every thing so fast, and has such a thirst after knowledge, and the more she knows, I verily think, the humbler she is, that I cannot help letting go, as my son, when a little boy, used to do to his kite, as fast as she pulls; and to what height she'll soar, I can't tell. "'I intended,' proceeded the good lady, 'at first, only to make her mistress of some fine needle-work, to qualify her (as she has a delicacy in her person, that makes it a pity ever to put her to hard work) for a genteel place; but she masters that so fast, that now as my daughter is married and gone from me, I am desirous to qualify her to divert and entertain me in my thoughtful hours: and were _you_, sister, to know what she is capable of, and how diverting her innocent prattle is to me, and her natural simplicity, which I encourage her to preserve amidst all she learns, you would not, nor my son neither, wonder at the pleasure I take in her. Shall I call her in?' "'I don't want,' said I, 'to have the girl called in: if you, Madam, are diverted with her, that's enough. To be sure, Pamela is a better companion for a lady, than a monkey or a harlequin: but I fear you'll set her above herself, and make her vain and pert; and that, at last, in order to support her pride, she may fall into temptations which may be fatal to herself, and others too.' "'I'm glad to hear this from my _son_,' replied the good lady. 'But the moment I see my favour puffs her up, I shall take other measures.' "'Well,' thought I to myself, 'I only want to conceal my views from your penetrating eye, my good mother; and I shall one day take as much delight in your girl, and her accomplishments, as you now do; so go on, and improve her as fast as you will. I'll only now and then talk against her, to blind you; and doubt not that all you do will qualify her the better for my purpose. Only,' thought I, 'fly swiftly on, two or three more tardy years, and I'll nip this bud by the time it begins to open, and place it in my bosom for a year or two at least: for so long, if the girl behaves worthy of her education, I doubt not, she'll be new to me.--Excuse me, ladies;--excuse me, Lord Davers;--if I am not ingenuous, I had better be silent." I will not interrupt this affecting narration, by mentioning my own alternate blushes, confusions, and exclamations, as the naughty man went on; nor the censures, and many _Out upon you's_ of the attentive ladies, and _Fie, brother's_, of Lord Davers; nor yet with apologies for the praises on myself, so frequently intermingled--contenting myself to give you, as near as I can recollect, the very sentences of the dear relator. And as to our occasional exclaimings and observations, you may suppose what they were. "So," continued Mr. B., "I went on dropping hints against her now and then; and whenever I met her in the passages about the house, or in the garden, avoiding to look at, or to speak to her, as she passed me, curtseying, and putting on a thousand bewitching airs of obligingness and reverence; while I (who thought the best way to demolish the influence of such an education, would be not to alarm her fears on one hand, or to familiarize myself to her on the other, till I came to strike the blow) looked haughty and reserved, and passed by her with a stiff nod at most. Or, if I spoke, 'How does your lady this morning, girl?--I hope she rested well last night:' then, covered with blushes, and curtseying at every word, as if she thought herself unworthy of answering my questions, she'd trip away in a kind of confusion, as soon as she had spoken. And once I heard her say to Mrs. Jervis, 'Dear Sirs, my young master spoke to me, and called me by my name, saying--How slept your lady last night, Pamela?--Was not that very good, Mrs. Jervis?'--'Ay,' thought I, 'I am in the right way, I find: this will do in proper time. Go on, my dear mother, improving as fast as you will: I'll engage to pull down in three hours, what you'll be building up in as many years, in spite of all the lessons you can teach her.' "'Tis enough for me, that I am establishing in you, ladies, and in you, my lord, a higher esteem for my Pamela (I am but too sensible I shall lose a good deal of my own reputation) in the relation I am now giving you. "I dressed, grew more confident, and as insolent withal, as if, though I had not Lady Davers's wit and virtue, I had all her spirit--(excuse me, Lady Davers;) and having a pretty bold heart, which rather put me upon courting than avoiding a danger or difficulty, I had but too much my way with every body; and many a menaced complaint have I _looked down_, with a haughty air, and a promptitude, like that of Colbrand's to your footmen at the Hall, to clap my hand to my side; which was of the greater service to my bold enterprise, as two or three gentlemen had found I knew how to be in earnest." "Ha!" said my lady, "thou wast ever an impudent fellow: and many a vile roguery have I kept from my poor mother.--Yet, to my knowledge, she thought you no saint." "Ay, poor lady," continued he, "she used now-and-then to catechize me; and was _sure_ I was not so good as I ought to be:--'For, son,' she would cry, 'these late hours, these all night works, and to come home so _sober_ cannot be right.-I'm not sure, if I were to know all, (and yet I'm afraid of inquiring after your ways) whether I should not have reason to wish you were brought home in wine, rather than to come in so sober, and so late, as you do.' "Once, I remember, in the summer-time, I came home about six in the morning, and met the good lady unexpectedly by the garden back-door, of which I had a key to let myself in at all hours. I started, and would have avoided her: but she called me to her, and then I approached her with an air, 'What brings you, Madam, into the garden at so early an hour?' turning my face from her; for I had a few scratches on my forehead--with a thorn, or so--which I feared she would be more inquisitive about than I cared she should. "'And what makes you,' said she, 'so early here, Billy?--What a rakish figure dost thou make!--One time or other these courses will yield you but little comfort, on reflection: would to God thou wast but happily married!' "'So, Madam, the old wish!--I'm not so bad as you think me:--I hope I have not merited so great a punishment.' "These hints I give, not as matter of glory, but shame: yet I ought to tell you all the truth, or nothing. 'Meantime,' thought I, (for I used to have some compunction for my vile practices, when cool reflection, brought on by satiety, had taken hold of me) 'I wish this sweet girl was grown to years of susceptibility, that I might reform this wicked course of life, and not prowl about, disturbing honest folks' peace, and endangering myself.' And as I had, by a certain very daring and wicked attempt, in which, however, I did not succeed, set a hornet's nest about my ears, which I began to apprehend would sting me to death, having once escaped an ambush by dint of mere good luck; I thought it better to remove the seat of my warfare into another kingdom, and to be a little more discreet for the future in my amours. So I went to France a second time, and passed a year there in the best of company, and with some improvement both to my morals and understanding; and had a very few sallies, considering my love of intrigue, and the ample means I had to prosecute successfully all the desires of my heart. "When I returned, several matches were proposed to me, and my good mother often requested me to make her so happy, as she called it, as to see me married before she died; but I could not endure the thoughts of the state: for I never saw a lady whose temper and education I liked, or with whom I thought I could live tolerably. She used in vain therefore to plead family reasons to me:--like most young fellows, I was too much a self-lover, to pay so great a regard to posterity; and, to say truth, had little solicitude at that time, whether my name were continued or not, in my own descendants. However, I looked upon my mother's Pamela with no small pleasure, and I found her so much improved, as well in person as behaviour, that I had the less inducement either to renew my intriguing life, or to think of a married state. "Yet, as my mother had all her eyes about her, as the phrase is, I affected great shyness, both before her, and to the girl; for I doubted not, my very looks would be watched by them both; and what the one discovered would not be a secret to the other; and laying myself open too early to a suspicion, I thought, would but ice the girl over, and make her lady more watchful. "So I used to go into my mother's apartment, and come out of it, without taking the least notice of her, but put on stiff airs; and as she always withdrew when I came in, I never made any pretence to keep her there. "Once, indeed, my mother, on my looking after her, when her back was turned, said, 'My dear son, I don't like your eye following my girl so intently.--Only I know that sparkling lustre natural to it, or I should have some fear for my Pamela, as she grows older.' "'_I_ look after her. Madam!-_My_ eyes sparkle at such a girl as that! No indeed! She may be your favourite as a waiting-maid; but I see nothing but clumsy curtseys and awkward airs about her. A little rustic affectation of innocence, that to such as cannot see into her, may pass well enough.' "'Nay, my dear,' replied my mother, 'don't say that, of all things. She has no affectation, I am sure.' "'Yes, she has, in my eye, Madam, and I'll tell you how it is; you have taught her to assume the airs of a gentlewoman, to dance, and to enter a room with a grace; and yet bid her keep her low birth and family in view: and between the one character, which she wants to get into, and the other she dares not get out of, she trips up and down mincingly, and knows not how to set her feet: so 'tis the same in every gesture: her arms she knows not whether to swim with, or to hold before her, nor whether to hold her head up or down; and so does neither, but hangs it on one side: a little awkward piece of one-and-t'other I think her. And, indeed, you'd do the girl more kindness to put her into your dairy, than to keep her about your person; for she'll be utterly spoiled, I doubt, for any useful purpose.' "'Ah, son!' said she, 'I fear, by your description, you have minded her too much in one sense, though not enough in another. 'Tis not my intention to recommend her to your notice, of all men; and I doubt not, if it please God I live, and she continues a good girl, but she will make a man of some middling, genteel business, very happy.' "Pamela came in just then, with an air so natural, so humble, and yet so much above herself, that I was forced to turn my head from her, lest my mother should watch my eye again, and I be inclined to do her that justice, which my heart assented to, but which my lips had just before denied her. "All my difficulty, in apprehension, was my good mother; the effect of whose lessons to her girl, I was not so much afraid of as her vigilance. 'For,' thought I, 'I see by the delicacy of her person, the brilliancy of her eye, and the sweet apprehensiveness that plays about every feature of her face, she must have tinder enough in her constitution, to catch a well-struck spark; and I'll warrant I shall know how to set her in a blaze, in a few months more.' "Yet I wanted, as I passed, to catch her attention too: I expected her to turn after me, and look so as to shew a liking towards me; for I had a great opinion of my person and air, which had been fortunately distinguished by the ladies, whom, of course, my vanity made me allow to be very good judges of these outward advantages. "But to my great disappointment, Pamela never, by any favourable glance, gave the least encouragement to my vanity. 'Well,' thought I, 'this girl has certainly nothing ethereal in her mould: all unanimated clay!--But the dancing and singing airs my mother is teaching her, will better qualify her in time, and another year will ripen her into my arms, no doubt of it. Let me only go on thus, and make her _fear_ me: that will enhance in her mind every favour I shall afterwards vouchsafe to shew her: and never question old _humdrum_ Virtue,' thought I, 'but the tempter _without_, and the tempter _within_, will be too many for the perversest nicety that ever the sex boasted.' "Yet, though I could not once attract her eye towards me, she never failed to draw mine after her, whenever she went by me, or wherever I saw her, except, as I said, in my mother's presence; and particularly when she had passed me, and could not see me look at her, without turning her head, as I expected so often from her in vain. "You will wonder, Lord Davers, who, I suppose, was once in love, or you'd never have married such an hostile spirit as my sister's there-" "Go on, sauce--box," said she, "I won't interrupt you." "You will wonder how I could behave so coolly as to escape all discovery so long from a lady so watchful as my mother, and from the apprehensiveness of the girl. "But, to say nothing of her tender years, and that my love was not of this bashful sort, I was not absolutely determined, so great was my pride, that I ought to think her worthy of being my _mistress_, when I had not much reason, as I thought, to despair of prevailing upon persons of higher birth (were I disposed to try) to live with me upon my own terms. My pride, therefore, kept my passion at bay, as I may say: so far was I from imagining I should ever be brought to what has since happened! But to proceed: "Hitherto my mind was taken up with the beauties of her person only. My EYE had drawn my HEART after it, without giving myself any trouble about that sense and judgment which my mother was always praising in her Pamela, as exceeding her years and opportunities: but an occasion happened, which, though slight in itself, took the HEAD into the party, and I thought of her, young as she was, with a distinction, that before I had not for her. It was this: "Being with my mother in her closet, who was talking to me on the old subject, _matrimony_, I saw Pamela's commonplace book, as I may call it; in which, by her lady's direction, from time to time, she had transcribed from the Bible, and other good books, such passages as most impressed her as she read--A method, I take it, my dear" (_turning to me_), "of great service to you, as it initiated you into writing with that freedom and ease, which shine in your saucy letters and journals; and to which my present fetters are not a little owing: just as pedlars catch monkeys in the baboon kingdoms, provoking the attentive fools, by their own example, to put on shoes and stockings, till the apes of imitation, trying to do the like, entangle their feet, and so cannot escape upon the boughs of the tree of liberty, on which before they were wont to hop and skip about, and play a thousand puggish tricks. "I observed the girl wrote a pretty hand, and very swift and free; and affixed her points or stops with so much judgment (her years considered), that I began to have an high opinion of her understanding. Some observations likewise upon several of the passages were so just and solid, that I could not help being tacitly surprised at them. "My mother watched my eye, and was silent: I seemed not to observe that she did; and after a while, laid down the book, shutting it with great indifference, and talking of another subject. "Upon this, my mother said, 'Don't you think Pamela writes a pretty hand, son?' "'I did not mind it much,' said I, with a careless air. 'This is her writing, is it?' taking the book, and opening it again, at a place of Scripture. 'The girl is mighty pious!' said I. "'I wish _you_ were so, child.' "'I wish so too, Madam, if it would please _you_.' "'I wish so, for your _own_ sake, child.' "'So do I, Madam;' and down I laid the book again very carelessly. "'Look once more in it,' said she, 'and see if you can't open it upon some place that may strike you.' "I opened it at--'_Train up a child in the way it should go_,' &c. 'I fancy,' said I, 'when I was of Pamela's age, I was pretty near as good as she.' "'Never, never,' said my mother; 'I am sure I took great pains with you; but, alas I to very little purpose. You had always a violent headstrong will.' "'Some allowances for boys and girls, I hope, Madam; but you see I am as good for a man as my sister for a woman.' "'No indeed, you are not, I do assure you.' "'I am sorry for that. Madam; you give me a sad opinion of myself.'" "Brazen wretch!" said my lady; "but go on." "'Turn to one of the girl's observations on some text,' said my mother. "I did; and was pleased with it more than I would own. 'The girl's well enough,' said I, 'for what she is; but let's see what she'll be a few years hence. Then will be the trial.' "'She'll be always good, I doubt not.' "'So much the better for her. But can't we talk of any other subject? You complain how seldom I attend you; and when you are always talking of matrimony, or of this low-born, raw girl, it must needs lessen the pleasure of approaching you.' "But now, as I hinted to you, ladies, and my lord, I had a still higher opinion of Pamela; and esteemed her more worthy of my attempts. 'For,' thought I, 'the girl has good sense, and it will be some pleasure to watch by what gradations she may be made to rise into love, and into a higher life, than that to which she was born.' And so I began to think she would be worthy in time of being my _mistress,_ which, till now, as I said before, I had been a little scrupulous about. "I took a little tour soon after this in company of some friends, with whom I had contracted an intimacy abroad, into Scotland and Ireland, they having a curiosity to see those countries, and we spent six or eight months on this expedition; and when I had landed them in France, I returned home, and found my good mother in a very indifferent state of health, but her Pamela arrived to a height of beauty and perfection which exceeded all my expectations. I was so taken with her charms when I first saw her, which was in the garden, with a book in her hand, just come out of a little summer-house, that I then thought of obliging her to go back again, in order to begin a parley with her: but while I was resolving, she tript away with her curtesies and reverences, and was out of my sight before I could determine. "I was resolved, however, not to be long without her; and Mrs. Jewkes having been recommended to me a little before, by a brother-rake, as a woman of tried fidelity, I asked her if she would be faithful, if I had occasion to commit a pretty girl to her care? "She hoped, she said, it would be with the lady's own consent, and she should make no scruple in obeying me. "So I thought I would way-lay the girl, and carry her first to a little village in Northamptonshire, to an acquaintance of Mrs. Jewkes's. And when I had brought her to be easy and pacified a little, I designed that Jewkes should attend her to Lincolnshire: for I knew there was no coming at her here, under my mother's wing, by her own consent, and that to offer terms to her, would be to blow up my project all at once. Besides, I was sensible, that Mrs. Jervis would stand in the way of my proceedings as well as my mother. "The method I had contrived was quite easy, as I imagined, and such as could not have failed to answer my purpose, as to carrying her off; and I doubted not of making her well satisfied in her good fortune very quickly; for, having a notion of her affectionate duty to her parents, I was not displeased that I could make the terms very easy and happy to them all. "What most stood in my way, was my mother's fondness for her: but supposing I had got her favourite in my hands, which appeared to me, as I said, a task very easy to be conquered, I had actually formed a letter for her to transcribe, acknowledging a love-affair, and laying her withdrawing herself so privately, to an implicit obedience to her husband's commands, to whom she was married that morning, and who, being a young gentleman of genteel family, and dependent on his friends, was desirous of keeping it all a profound secret; and begging, on that account, her lady not to divulge it, so much as to Mrs. Jervis. "And to prepare for this, and make her escape the more probable, when matters were ripe for my plot, I came in one night, and examined all the servants, and Mrs. Jervis, the latter in my mother's hearing, about a genteel young man, whom I pretended to find with a pillion on the horse he rode upon, waiting about the back door of the garden, for somebody to come to him; and who rode off, when I came up to the door, as fast as he could. Nobody knew any thing of the matter, and they were much surprised at what I told them: but I begged Pamela might be watched, and that no one would say any thing to her about it. "My mother said, she had two reasons not to speak of it to Pamela: one to oblige me: the other and chief, because it would break the poor innocent girl's heart, to be suspected. 'Poor dear child!' said she, 'whither can she go, to be so happy as with me? Would it not be inevitable ruin to her to leave me? There is nobody comes after her: she receives no letters, but now-and-then one from her father and mother, and those she shews me.' "'Well,' replied I, 'I hope she can have no design; 'twould be strange if she had formed any to leave so good a mistress; but you can't be _sure_ all the letters she receives are from her father; and her shewing to you those he writes, looks like a cloak to others she may receive from another hand. But it can be no harm to have an eye upon her. You don't know, Madam, what tricks there are in the world.' "'Not I, indeed; but only this I know, that the girl shall be under no restraint, if she is resolved to leave me, well as I love her.' "Mrs. Jervis said, she would have an eye upon Pamela, in obedience to my command, but she was sure there was no need; nor would she so much wound the poor child's peace, as to mention the matter to her. "This I suffered to blow off, and seemed to my mother to have so good an opinion of her Pamela, that I was sorry, as I told her, I had such a surmise: saying, that though the fellow and the pillion were odd circumstances, yet I dared to say, there was nothing in it: for I doubted not, the girl's duty and gratitude would hinder her from doing a foolish or rash thing. "This my mother heard with pleasure: although my motive was but to lay Pamela on the thicker to her, when she was to be told she had escaped. "She was _glad_ I was not an enemy to the poor child. 'Pamela has no friend but me,' continued she; 'and if I don't provide for her, I shall have done her more harm than good (as you and your aunt B. have often said,) in the accomplishments I have given her: and yet the poor girl, I see that,' added she, 'would not be backward to turn her hand to any thing for the sake of an honest livelihood, were she put to it; which, if it please God to spare me, and she continues good, she never shall be.' "I wonder not, Pamela, at your tears on this occasion. Your lady was an excellent woman, and deserved this tribute to her memory. All my pleasure now is, that she knew not half my wicked pranks, and that I did not vex her worthy heart in the prosecution of this scheme; which would have given me a severe sting, inasmuch as I might have apprehended, with too much reason, that I had shortened her days by the knowledge of the one and the other. "I had thus every thing ready for the execution of my project: but my mother's ill state of health gave me too much concern, to permit me to proceed. And, now-and-then, as my frequent attendance in her illness gave me an opportunity of observing more and more of the girl; her affectionate duty, and continual tears (finding her often on her knees, praying for her mistress,) I was moved to pity her; and while those scenes of my mother's illness and decline were before me, I would resolve to conquer, if possible, my guilty passion, as those scenes taught me, while their impressions held, justly to call it; and I was much concerned to find it so difficult a task; for, till now, I thought it principally owing to my usual enterprising temper, and a love of intrigue; and that I had nothing to do but to resolve against it, and to subdue it. "But I was greatly mistaken: for I had insensibly brought myself to admire her in every thing she said or did; and there was so much gracefulness, humility, and innocence in her whole behaviour, and I saw so many melting scenes between her lady and her, that I found I could not master my esteem for her. "My mother's illness increasing beyond hopes of recovery, and having settled all her greater affairs, she talked to me of her servants; I asked what she would have done for Pamela and Mrs. Jervis. "'Make Mrs. Jervis, my dear son, as happy as you can: she is a gentlewoman born, you know; let her always be treated as such; but for your own sake, don't make her independent; for then you'll want a faithful manager. Yet if you marry, and your lady should not value her as she deserves, allow her a competency for the rest of her life, and let her live as she pleases. "'As for Pamela, I hope you will be her protector!--She is a good girl: I love her next to you and your dear sister. She is just arriving at a trying time of life. I don't know what to say for her. What I had designed was, that if any man of a genteel calling should offer, I would give her a little pretty portion, had God spared my life till then. But were she made independent, some idle fellow might snap her up; for she is very pretty: or if she should carry what you give her to her poor parents, as her duty would lead her to do, they are so unhappily involved, that a little matter would be nothing to them, and the poor girl might be to seek again. Perhaps Lady Davers will take her. But I wish she was not so pretty! She may be the bird for which some wicked fowler will spread his snares; or, it may be, every lady will not choose to have such a waiting-maid. You are a young gentleman, and I am sorry to say, not better than I wish you to be--Though I hope my Pamela would not be in danger from her master, who owes all his servants protection, as much as the king does to his subjects. Yet I don't know how to wish her to stay with you, for your own reputation's sake, my dear son;--for the world will censure as it lists.--Would to God!' said she, 'the dear girl had the small-pox in a mortifying manner: she'd be lovely though in the genteelness of her person and the excellencies of her mind; and more out of danger of suffering from the transcient beauties of countenance. Yet I think,' added she, 'she might be safe and happy under Mrs. Jervis's care; and if you marry, and your lady parts with Mrs. Jervis, let 'em go together, and live as they like. I think that will be the best for both. And you have a generous spirit enough: I will not direct you in the _quantum_. But, my dear son, remember that I am the less concerned, that I have not done for the poor girl myself, because I depend upon you: the manner how fitly to provide for her, has made me defer it till now, that I have so much more important concerns on my hands; life and strength ebbing so fast, that I am hardly fit for any thing, or to wish for any thing, but to receive the last releasing stroke.'" Here he stopped, being under some concern himself, and we in much more. At last he resumed the subject. "You will too naturally think, my lord--and you, my good ladies--that the mind must be truly diabolical, that could break through the regard due to the solemn injunctions of a dying parent. They _did_ hold me a good while indeed; and as fast as I found any emotions of a contrary nature rise in my breast, I endeavoured for some time to suppress them, and to think and act as I ought; but the dear bewitching girl every day rose in her charms upon me: and finding she still continued the use of her pen and ink, I could not help entertaining a jealousy, that she was writing to somebody who stood well in her opinion; and my love for her, and my own spirit of intrigue, made it a sweetheart of course. And I could not help watching her emotions; and seeing her once putting a letter she had just folded up, into her bosom, at my entrance into my mother's dressing-room, I made no doubt of detecting her, and her correspondent; and so I took the letter from her stays, she trembling and curtseying with a sweet confusion: and highly pleased I was to find it contained only innocence and duty to the deceased mistress, and the loving parents, expressing her joy that, in the midst of her grief for losing the one, she was not obliged to return to be a burden to the other; and I gave it her again, with words of encouragement, and went down much better satisfied than I had been with her correspondence. "But when I reflected upon the innocent simplicity of her style, I was still more in love with her, and formed a stratagem, and succeeded in it, to come at her other letters, which I sent forward, after I had read them, all but three or four, which I kept back, when my plot began to ripen for execution; although the little slut was most abominably free with my character to her parents. "You will censure me, no doubt, that my mother's injunctions made not a more lasting impression. But really I struggled hard with myself to give them their due force: and the dear girl, as I said, every day grew lovelier, and more accomplished. Her letters were but so many links to the chains in which she had bound me; and though once I had resolved to part with her to Lady Davers, and you, Madam, had an intention to take her, I could not for my life give her up; and thinking more honourably then of the state of a mistress than I have done since, I could not persuade myself (since I intended to do as handsomely by her as ever man did to a lady in that situation) but that I should do better for her than my mother had wished me to do, and so _more_ than answer all her injunctions, as to the providing for her: and I could not imagine I should meet with a resistance I had seldom encountered from persons much her superiors as to descent; and was amazed at it; for it confounded me in all the notions I had of her sex, which, like a true libertine, I supposed wanted nothing but _importunity_ and _opportunity_, a bold attempter, and a mind not ungenerous. Sometimes I admired her for her virtue; at other times, impetuous in my temper, and unused to control, I could have beat her. She well, I remember, describes the tumults of my soul, repeating what once passed between us, in words like, these:--'Take the little witch from me, Mrs. Jervis.--I can neither bear, nor forbear her--But stay-you shan't go--Yet be gone!--No, come back again.'--She thought I was mad, she says in her papers. Indeed I was little less. She says, I took her arm, and griped it black and blue, to bring her back again; and then sat down and looked at her as silly as such a poor girl as she!--Well did she describe the passion I struggled with; and no one can conceive how much my pride made me despise myself at times for the little actions my love for her put me upon, and yet to find that love increasing every day, as her charms and her resistance increased.--I have caught myself in a raging fit, sometimes vowing I would have her, and, at others, jealous that, to secure herself from my attempts, she would throw herself into the arms of some menial or inferior, whom otherwise she would not have thought of. "Sometimes I soothed, sometimes threatened her; but never was such courage, when her virtue seemed in danger, mixed with so much humility, when her fears gave way to her hopes of a juster treatment.--Then I would think it impossible (so slight an opinion had I of woman's virtue) that such a girl as this, cottage-born, who owed every thing to my family, and had an absolute dependence upon my pleasure: myself not despicable in person or mind, as I supposed; she unprejudiced in any man's favour, at an age susceptible of impressions, and a frame and constitution not ice or snow: 'Surely,' thought I, 'all this frost must be owing to the want of fire in my attempts to thaw it: I used to dare more, and succeed better. Shall such a girl as this awe me by her rigid virtue? No, she shall not.' "Then I would resolve to be more in earnest. Yet my love was a traitor, that was more faithful to _her_ than to _me_; it had more honour in it at bottom than I had designed. Awed by her unaffected innocence, and a virtue I had never before encountered, so uniform and immovable, the moment I _saw_ her I was half disarmed; and I courted her consent to that, which, though I was not likely to obtain, yet it went against me to think of extorting by violence. Yet marriage was never in my thoughts: I scorned so much as to promise it. "To what numberless mean things did not this unmanly passion subject me!--I used to watch for her letters, though mere prittle-prattle and chit-chat, received them with delight, though myself was accused in them, and stigmatized as I deserved. "I would listen meanly at her chamber-door, try to overhear her little conversation; in vain attempted to suborn Mrs. Jervis to my purposes, inconsistently talking of honour, when no one step I took, or action I attempted, shewed any thing like it: lost my dignity among my servants; made a party in her favour against me, of every body, but whom my money corrupted, and that hardly sufficient to keep my partisans steady to my interest; so greatly did the virtue of the servants triumph over the vice of the master, when confirmed by such an example! "I have been very tedious, ladies and my Lord Davers, in my narration: but I am come within view of the point for which I now am upon my trial at your dread tribunal (_bowing to us all_). "After several endeavours of a smooth and rough nature, in which my devil constantly failed me, and her good angel prevailed, I had talked to Mrs. Jervis to seduce the girl (to whom, in hopes of frightening her, I had given warning, but which she rejected to take, to my great disappointment) to desire to stay; and suspecting Mrs. Jervis played me booty, and rather confirmed her in her coyness, and her desire of leaving me, I was mean enough to conceal myself in the closet in Mrs. Jervis's room, in order to hear their private conversation; but really not designing to make any other use of my concealment, than to tease her a little, if she should say any thing I did not like; which would give me a pretence to treat her with greater freedoms than I had ever yet done, and would be an introduction to take off from her unprecedented apprehensiveness another time. "But the dear prattler, not knowing I was there, as she undressed herself, begun such a bewitching chit-chat with Mrs. Jervis, who, I found, but ill kept my secret, that I never was at such a loss what to resolve upon. One while I wished myself, unknown to them, out of the closet, into which my inconsiderate passion had meanly led me; another time I was incensed at the freedom with which I heard myself treated: but then, rigidly considering that I had no business to hearken to their private conversation, and it was such as became _them_, while I ought to have been ashamed to give occasion for it, I excused them both, and admired still more and more the dear prattler. "In this suspense, the undesigned rustling of my night-gown, from changing my posture, alarming the watchful Pamela, she in a fright came towards the closet to see who was there. What could I then do, but bolt out upon the apprehensive charmer; and having so done, and she running to the bed, screaming to Mrs. Jervis, would not any man have followed her thither, detected as I was? But yet, I said, if she forbore her screaming, I would do her no harm; but if not, she should take the consequence. I found, by their exclamations, that this would pass with both for an attempt of the worst kind; but really I had no such intentions as they feared. When I found myself detected; when the dear frightened girl ran to the bed; when Mrs. Jervis threw herself about her; when they would not give over their hideous squallings; when I was charged by Mrs. Jervis with the worst designs; it was enough to make me go farther than I designed; and could I have prevailed upon Mrs. Jervis to go up, and quiet the maids, who seemed to be rising, upon the other screaming, I believe, had Pamela kept out of her fit, I should have been a little freer with her, than ever I had been; but, as it was, I had no thought but of making as honourable a retreat as I could, and to save myself from being exposed to my whole family: and I was not guilty of any freedoms, that her modesty, unaffrighted, could reproach herself with having suffered; and the dear creature's fainting fits gave _me_ almost as great apprehensions as I could give _her_. "Thus, ladies--and, my lord--have I tediously, and little enough to my own reputation, given you my character, and told you more against myself than any _one_ person could accuse me of. Whatever redounds to the credit of my Pamela, redounds in part to my own; and so I have the less regret to accuse myself, since it exalts her. But as to a formed intention to hide myself in the closet, in order to attempt the girl by violence, and in the presence of a good woman, as Mrs. Jervis is, which you impute to me, bad as I was, I was not so vile, so abandoned as that. "Love, as I said before, subjects its inconsiderate votaries to innumerable meannesses, and unlawful passion to many more. I could not live without this dear girl. I hated the thoughts of matrimony with any body: and to be brought to the state by my mother's waiting-maid.--'Forbid it, pride!' thought I; 'forbid it, example! forbid it, all my past sneers, and constant ridicule, both on the estate, and on those who descended to inequalities in it! and, lastly, forbid it my family spirit, so visible in Lady Davers, as well as in myself, to whose insults, and those of all the world, I shall be obnoxious, if I take such a step!' "All this tends to demonstrate the strength of my passion: I could not conquer my love; so I conquered a pride, which every one thought unconquerable; and since I could not make an innocent heart vicious, I had the happiness to follow so good an example; and by this means, a vicious heart is become virtuous. I have the pleasure of rejoicing in the change, and hope I shall do so still more and more; for I really view with contempt my past follies; and it is now a greater wonder to me how I could act as I did, than that I should detest those actions, which made me a curse, instead of a benefit to society. I am not yet so pious as my Pamela; but that is to come; and it is one good sign, that I can truly say, I delight in every instance of her piety and virtue: and now I will conclude my tedious narration." Thus he ended his affecting relation: which in the course of it gave me a thousand different emotions; and made me often pray for him, that God will entirely convert a heart so generous and worthy, as his is on most occasions. And if I can but find him not deviate, when we go to London, I shall greatly hope that nothing will affect his morals again. I have just read over again the foregoing account of himself. As near as I remember (and my memory is the best faculty I have), it is pretty exact; only he was fuller of beautiful similitudes, and spoke in a more flowery style, as I may say. Yet don't you think, Miss (if I have not done injustice to his spirit), that the beginning of it, especially, is in the saucy air of a man too much alive to such notions? For so the ladies observed in his narration.--Is it very like the style of a true penitent?--But indeed he went on better, and concluded best of all. But don't you observe what a dear good lady I had? A thousand blessings on her beloved memory! Were I to live to see my children's children, they should be all taught to lisp her praises before they could speak. _My_ gratitude should always be renewed in _their_ mouths; and God, and my dear father and mother, my lady, and my master that was, my best friend that is, but principally, as most due, the FIRST, who inspired all the rest, should have their morning, their noontide, and their evening praises, as long as I lived! I will only observe farther, as to this my third conversation-piece, that my Lord Davers offered to extenuate some parts of his dear brother-in-law's conduct, which he did not himself vindicate; and Mr. B. was pleased to say, that my lord was always very candid to him, and kind in his allowances for the sallies of ungovernable youth. Upon which my lady said, a little tartly, "Yes, and for a very good reason, I doubt not; for who cares to condemn himself?" "Nay," said my lord pleasantly, "don't put us upon a foot, neither: for what sallies I made before I knew your ladyship, were but like those of a fox, which now and then runs away with a straggling pullet, when nobody sees him, whereas those of my brother were like the invasions of a lion, breaking into every man's fold, and driving the shepherds, as well as the sheep, before him."--"Ay," said my lady, "but I can look round me, and have reason, perhaps, to think the invading lion has come off, little as he deserved it, better than the creeping fox, who, with all his cunning, sometimes suffers for his pilfering theft." O, my dear, these gentlemen are strange creatures!--What can they think of themselves? for they say, there is not one virtuous man in five; but I hope, for our sex's sake, as well as for the world's sake, all is not true that evil fame reports; for you know every man-trespasser must _find_ or _make_ a woman-trespasser!--And if so, what a world is this!--And how must the innocent suffer from the guilty! Yet, how much better is it to suffer one's self, than to be the cause of another's sufferings? I long to hear of you, and must shorten my future accounts, or I shall do nothing but write, and tire _you_ into the bargain, though I cannot my dear father and mother. I am, my dear Miss, _always yours_, P.B. LETTER XXXI _From Miss Darnford to Mrs. B._ DEAR MRS. B., Every post you more and more oblige us to admire and love you: and let me say, I will gladly receive your letters upon your own terms: only when your worthy parents have perused them, see that I have every line of them again. Your account of the arrival of your noble guests, and their behaviour to you, and yours to them; your conversation, and wise determination, on the offered title of Baronet; the just applauses conferred upon you by all, particularly the good countess; your breakfast conversation, and the narrative of your saucy abominable _master_, though amiable _husband_; all delight us beyond expression. Do go on, dear excellent lady, with your charming journals, and let us know all that passes. As to the state of matters with us, I have desired my papa to allow me to decline Mr. Murray's addresses. The good man loved me most violently, nay, he could not live without me: life was no life, unless I favoured him: but yet, after a few more of these flights, he is trying to sit down satisfied without my papa's foolish perverse girl, as Sir Simon calls me, and to transpose his affections to a worthier object, my sister Nancy; and it would make you smile to see how, a little while before he _directly_ applied to her, she screwed up her mouth to my mamma, and, truly, she'd have none of Polly's leavings; no, not she!--But no sooner did he declare himself in form, than the _gaudy wretch_, as he was before with her, became a _well-dressed_ gentleman;--the _chattering magpie_ (for he talks and laughs much), _quite conversable_, and has something _agreeable_ to say upon _every subject_. Once he would make a good master of the buck-hounds; but now, really, the _more_ one is in his company, the _more polite_ one finds him. Then, on his part,--he happened to see Miss Polly first; and truly, he could have thought himself very happy in so agreeable a young lady; yet there was always something of majesty (what a stately name for ill nature!) in Miss Nancy, something so awful; that while Miss Polly engaged the affections at first sight, Miss Nancy struck a man with reverence; insomuch, that the one might he loved as a woman, but the other revered as something more: a goddess, no doubt! I do but think, that when he comes to be lifted up to her celestial sphere, as her fellow constellation, what a figure Nancy and her _ursus major_ will make together; and how will they glitter and shine to the wonder of all beholders! Then she must make a brighter appearance by far, and a more pleasing one too: for why? She has three thousand _satellites_, or little stars, in her train more than poor Polly can pretend to. Won't there be a fine twinkling and sparkling, think you, when the greater and lesser bear-stars are joined together? But excuse me, dear Mrs. B.; this saucy girl has vexed me just now, by her ill-natured tricks; and I am even with her, having thus vented my spite, though she knows nothing of the matter. So, fancy you see Polly Darnford abandoned by her own fault; her papa angry at her; her mamma pitying her, and calling her silly girl; Mr. Murray, who is a rough lover, growling over his mistress, as a dog over a bone he fears to lose; Miss Nancy, putting on her prudish pleasantry, snarling out a kind word, and breaking through her sullen gloom, for a smile now and then in return; and I laughing at both in my sleeve, and thinking I shall soon get leave to attend you in town, which will be better than twenty humble servants of Mr. Murray's cast: or, if I can't, that I shall have the pleasure of your correspondence here, and enjoy, unrivalled, the favour of my dear parents, which this ill-tempered girl is always envying me. Forgive all this nonsense. I was willing to write something, though worse than nothing, to shew how desirous I am to oblige you, had I a capacity or subject, as you have. But nobody can love you better, or admire you more, of this you may be assured (however unequal in all other respects), than _your_ POLLY DARNFORD. I send you up some of your papers for the good couple in Kent. Pray, pay my respects to them: and beg they'll let me have 'em again as soon as they can, by your conveyance. Our Stamford friends desire their kindest respects; they mention you with delight in every letter. LETTER XXXII _The Journal continued._ THURSDAY, FRIDAY EVENING. My dear Miss Darnford, I am returned from a very busy day, having had no less than fourteen of our neighbours, gentlemen and ladies, to dinner: the occasion, principally, to welcome our noble guests into these parts; Mr. B. having, as I mentioned before, turned the intended visit into an entertainment, after his usual generous manner.--He and Lord Davers are gone part of the way with them home; and Lord Jackey, mounted with his favourite Colbrand, as an escort to the countess and Lady Davers, who are taking an airing in the chariot. They offered to take the coach, if I would have gone; but being fatigued, I desired to be excused. So I retired to my closet; and Miss Damford, who is seldom out of my thoughts, coming into my mind, I had a new recruit of spirits, which enabled me to resume my pen, and thus I proceed with my journal. Our company was, the Earl and Countess of D., who are so fashionable a married couple, that the earl made it his boast, and his countess bore it like one accustomed to such treatment, that he had not been in his lady's company an hour abroad before for seven years. You know his lordship's character: every body does; and there is not a worse, as report says, in the peerage. Sir Thomas Atkyns, a single gentleman, not a little finical and ceremonious, and a mighty beau, though of the tawdry sort, and affecting foreign airs; as if he was afraid it would not be judged by any other mark that he had travelled. Mr. Arthur and his lady, a moderately happy couple, who seem always, when together, to behave as if upon a compromise; that is, that each should take it in turn to say free things of the other; though some of their freedoms are of so cutting a nature, that it looks as if they intended to divert the company at their own expense. The lady, being of a noble family, strives to let every one know that she values herself not a little upon that advantage; but otherwise has many good qualities. Mr. Brooks and his lady. He is a free joker on serious subjects, but a good-natured man, and says sprightly things with no ill grace: the lady a little reserved, and haughty, though to-day was freer than usual; as was observed at table by Lady Towers, who is a maiden lady of family, noted for her wit and repartee, and who says many good things, with so little doubt and really so good a grace, that one cannot help being pleased with her. This lady is generally gallanted by Mr. Martin of the Grove, so called, to distinguish him from a rich citizen of that name, settled in these parts, but being covetous and proud, is seldom admitted among the gentry in their visits or parties of pleasure. Mr. Dormer, one of a very courteous demeanour, a widower, was another, who always speaks well of his deceased lady, and of all the sex for her sake. Mr. Chapman and his lady, a well-behaved couple, not ashamed to be very tender and observing to each other, but without that censurable fondness which sits so ill upon some married folks in company. Then there was the dean, our good minister, whom I name last, because I would close with one of the worthiest; and his daughter, who came to supply her mamma's place, who was indisposed; a well-behaved prudent young lady. And here were our fourteen guests. The Countess of C., Lord and Lady Davers, Mr. H., my dear Mr. B. and your humble servant, made up the rest of the company. Thus we had a capacious and brilliant circle; and all the avenues to the house were crowded with their equipages. The subjects of discourse at dinner were various, as you may well suppose; and the circle was too large to fall upon any regular or very remarkable topics. A good deal of sprightly wit, however, flew about, between the Earl of D., Lady Towers, and Mr. Martin, in which that lord suffered as he deserved; for he was no match for the lady, especially as the presence of the dean was a very visible restraint upon him, and Mr. Brooks too: so much awe will the character of a good clergyman always have upon even forward spirits, where he is known to have had an inviolable regard to it himself.--Besides, the good gentleman has, naturally, a genteel and inoffensive vein of raillery, and so was too hard for them at their own weapons. But after dinner, and the servants being withdrawn, Mr. Martin singled me out, as he loves to do, for a subject of encomium, and made some high compliments to my dear Mr. B. upon his choice; and wished (as he often does), he could find just such another for himself. Lady Towers told him it was a thing as unaccountable as it was unreasonable, that every rake who loved to destroy virtue, should expect to be rewarded with it: and if his _brother_ B. had come off so well, she thought no one else ought to expect it. Lady Davers said, it was a very just observation: and she thought it a pity there was not a law, that every man who made a harlot of an honest woman, should be obliged to marry one of another's making. Mr. B. said, that would be too severe; it would be punishment enough, if he was to marry his own; and especially if he had not seduced her under promise of marriage. "Then you'd have a man be obliged to stand to his promise, I suppose, Mr. B.?" replied Lady Davers. "Yes, madam."--"But," said she, "the proof would be difficult perhaps: and the most unguilty heart of our sex might be least able to make it out.--But what say you, my Lord D.; will you, and my Lord Davers, join to bring a bill into the House of Peers, for the purposes I mentioned? I fancy my brother would give it all the assistance he could in the Lower House." "Indeed," said Mr. B., "if I may be allowed to speak in the plural number, _we_ must not pretend to hold an argument on this subject.--What say you, Mr. H.? Which side are you of?"--"Every gentleman," replied he, "who is not of the ladies' side, is deemed a criminal; and I was always of the side that had the power of the gallows." "That shews," returned Lady Towers, "that Mr. H. is more afraid of the _punishment_, than of deserving it."--"'Tis well," said Mr. B.," that any consideration deters a man of Mr. H.'s time of life. What may be _fear_ now, may improve to _virtue_ in time." "Ay," said Lady Davers, "Jackey is one of his uncle's _foxes_: he'd be glad to snap up a straggling pullet, if he was not well looked after, perhaps."--"Pray, my dear," said Lord Davers, "forbear: you ought not to introduce two different conversations into different companies." "Well, but," said Lady Arthur, "since you seem to have been so hard put to it, as _single_ men, what's to be done with the married man who ruins an innocent body?--What punishment, Lady Towers, shall we find out for such an one; and what reparation to the injured?" This was said with a particular view to the earl, on a late scandalous occasion; as I afterwards found. "As to the punishment of the gentleman," replied Lady Towers, "where the law is not provided for it, it must be left, I believe, to his conscience. It will then one day be heavy enough. But as to the reparation to the woman, so far as it can be made, it will be determinable as the unhappy person _may_ or may _not_ know, that her seducer is a married man: if she knows he is, I think she neither deserves redress nor pity, though it elevate not _his_ guilt. But if the case be otherwise, and _she_ had no means of informing herself that he was married, and he promised to make her his wife, to be sure, though _she_ cannot be acquitted, _he_ deserves the severest punishment that can be inflicted.--What say you, Mrs. B.?" "If I must speak, I think that since custom now exacts so little regard to virtue from men, and so much from women, and since the designs of the former upon the latter are so flagrantly avowed and known, the poor creature, who suffers herself to be seduced, either by a _single_ or _married_ man, _with_ promises, or _without_, has only to sequester herself from the world, and devote the rest of her days to penitence and obscurity. As to the gentleman," added I, "he must, I doubt, be left to his conscience, as you say, Lady Towers, which he will one day have enough to do to pacify." "Every young lady has not your angelic perfection, Madam," said Mr. Dormer. "And there are cases in which the fair sex deserve compassion, ours execration. Love may insensibly steal upon a soft heart; when once admitted, the oaths, vows, and protestations of the favoured object, who declaims against the deceivers of his sex, confirm her good opinion of him, till having lull'd asleep her vigilance, in an unguarded hour he takes advantage of her unsuspecting innocence. Is not such a poor creature to be pitied? And what punishment does not such a seducer deserve?" "You have put, Sir," said I, "a moving case, and in a generous manner. What, indeed, does not such a deceiver deserve?"--"And the more," said Mrs. Chapman, "as the most innocent heart is generally the most credulous."--"Very true," said my countess; "for such an one as would do no harm to others, seldom suspects any _from_ others; and her lot is very unequally cast; admired for that very innocence which tempts some brutal ravager to ruin it."--"Yet, what is that virtue," said the dean, "which cannot stand the test?" "But," said Lady Towers, very satirically, "whither, ladies, are we got? We are upon the subject of virtue and honour. Let us talk of something in which the _gentlemen_ can join with us. This is such an one, you see, that none but the dean and Mr. Dormer can discourse upon."--"Let us then," retorted Mr. Martin, "to be even with _one_ lady at least find a subject that will be _new_ to her: and that is CHARITY." "Does what I said concern Mr. Martin more than any other gentleman," returned Lady Towers, "that he is disposed to take offence at it?" "You must pardon me, Lady Towers," said Mr. B., "but I think a lady should never make a motion to wave such subjects as those of virtue and honour; and less still, in company, where there is so much occasion, as she seems to think, for enforcing them." "I desire not to wave the subject, I'll assure you," replied she. "And if, Sir, you think it may do good, we will continue it for the sakes of all you gentlemen" (looking round her archly), "who are of opinion you may be benefited by it." A health to the king and royal family, brought on public affairs and politics; and the ladies withdrawing to coffee and tea, I have no more to say as to this conversation, having repeated all that I remember was said to any purpose. SATURDAY MORNING The countess being a little indisposed. Lady Davers and I took an airing this morning in the chariot, and had a long discourse together. Her ladyship was pleased to express great favour and tenderness towards me; gave me much good advice, as to the care she would have me take of myself; and told me, that her hopes, as well as her brother's, all centred in my welfare; and that the way I was in made her love me better and better. She was pleased to tell me, how much she approved of the domestic management; and to say, that she never saw such regularity and method in any family in her life, where was the like number of servants: every one, she said, knew their duty, and did it without speaking to, in such silence, and with so much apparent cheerfulness and delight, without the least hurry or confusion, that it was her surprise and admiration: but kindly would have it that I took too much care upon me. "Yet," said she, "I don't see but you are always fresh and lively, and never seem tired or fatigued; and are always dressed and easy, so that no company find you unprepared, or unfit to receive them, come when they will, whether it be to breakfast or dinner." I told her ladyship, I owed all this and most of the conduct for which she was pleased to praise me, to her dear brother, who, at the beginning of my happiness, gave me several cautions and instructions for my behaviour; which had been the rule of my conduct ever since, and I hoped ever would be:--"To say nothing," added I, "which yet would be very unjust, of the assistance I received from worthy Mrs. Jervis, who is an excellent manager." _Good Creature_, _Sweet Pamela_, and _Charming Girl_, were her common words; and she was pleased to attribute to me a graceful and unaffected ease, and that I have a natural dignity in my person and behaviour, which at once command love and reverence; so that, my dear Miss Darnford, I am in danger of being proud. For you must believe, that her ladyship's approbation gives me great pleasure; and the more, as I was afraid, before she came, I should not have come on near so well in her opinion. As the chariot passed along, she took great notice of the respects paid me by people of different ranks, and of the blessings bestowed upon me, by several, as we proceeded; and said, she should fare well, and be rich in good wishes, for being in my company. "The good people who know us, _will_ do so, Madam," said I; "but I had rather have their silent prayers than their audible ones; and I have caused some of them to be told so. What I apprehend is, that you will be more uneasy to-morrow, when at church you'll see a good many people in the same way. Indeed my story, and your dear brother's tenderness to me, are so much talked of, that many strangers are brought hither to see us: 'tis the only thing," continued I (and so it is, Miss), "that makes me desirous to go to London; for by the time we return, the novelty, I hope, will cease." Then I mentioned some verses of Mr. Cowley, which were laid under my cushion in our seat at church, two Sundays ago, by some unknown hand; and how uneasy they have made me. I will transcribe them, my dear, and give you the particulars of our conversation on that occasion. The verses are these: "Thou robb'st my days of bus'ness and delights, Of sleep thou robb'st my nights. Ah! lovely thief! what wilt thou do? What! rob me of heaven too? Thou ev'n my prayers dost steal from me, And I, with wild idolatry, Begin to GOD, and end them all to thee. No, to what purpose should I speak? No, wretched heart, swell till you break. She cannot love me, if she would, And, to say truth, 'twere pity that she should. No, to the grave thy sorrow bear, As silent as they will be there; Since that lov'd hand this mortal wound does give, So handsomely the thing contrive That she may guiltless of it live; So perish, that her killing thee May a chance-medley, and no murder, be." I had them in my pocket, and read them to my lady; who asked me, if her brother had seen them? I told her, it was he that found them under the cushion I used to sit upon; but did not shew them to me till I came home; and that I was so vexed at them, that I could not go to church in the afternoon. "What should you be vexed at, my dear?" said she: "how could you help it? My brother was not disturbed at them, was he?"--"No, indeed," replied I: "he chid _me_ for being so; and was pleased to make me a fine compliment upon it; that he did not wonder that every body who saw me loved me. But I said, this was all that wicked wit is good for, to inspire such boldness in bad hearts, which might otherwise not dare to set pen to paper to affront any one. But pray, Madam," added I, "don't own I have told you of them, lest the least shadow of a thought should arise, that I was prompted by some vile secret vanity, to tell your ladyship of them, when I am sure, they have vexed me more than enough. For is it not a sad thing, that the church should be profaned by such actions, and such thoughts, as ought not to be brought into it? Then, Madam, to have any wicked man _dare_ to think of one with impure notions! It gives me the less opinion of myself, that I should be so much as _thought of_ as the object of any wicked body's wishes. I have called myself to account upon it, whether any levity in my looks, my dress, my appearance, could embolden such an offensive insolence. And I have thought upon this occasion better of Julius Caesar's delicacy than I did, when I read of it; who, upon an attempt made on his wife, to which, however, it does not appear she gave the least encouragement, said to those who pleaded for her against the divorce he was resolved upon, _that the wife of Caesar ought not to be suspected_.--Indeed, Madam," continued I, "it would extremely shock me, but to know that any wicked heart had conceived a design upon me; upon _me_, give me leave to repeat, whose only glory and merit is, that I have had the grace to withstand the greatest of trials and temptations, from a gentleman more worthy to be beloved, both for person and mind, than any man in England." "Your observation, my dear, is truly delicate, and such as becomes your mind and character. And I really think, if any lady in the world is secure from vile attempts, it must be you; not only from your story, so well known, and the love you bear to your man, and his merit to you, but from the prudence, and natural _dignity_, I will say, of your behaviour, which, though easy and cheerful, is what would strike dead the hope of any presumptuous libertine the moment he sees you." "How can I enough," returned I, and kissed her hand, "acknowledge your ladyship's polite goodness in this compliment? But, my lady, you see by the very instance I have mentioned, that a liberty is taken, which I cannot think of without pain." "I am pleased with your delicacy, my dear, as I said before. You can never err, whilst thus watchful over your conduct: and I own you have the more reason for it, as you have married a mere Julius Caesar, an open-eyed rake" (that was her word), "who would, on the least surmise, though ever so causeless on your part, have all his passions up in arms, in fear of liberties being offered like those he has not scrupled to take."--"O but, Madam," said I, "he has given me great satisfaction in one point; for you must think I should not love him as I ought, if I had not a concern for his future happiness, as well as for his present; and that is, he has assured me, that in all the liberties he has taken, he never attempted a married lady, but always abhorred the thought of so great an evil."--"'Tis pity," said her ladyship, "that a man who could conquer his passions _so far_, could not subdue them entirely. This shews it was in his own power to do so; and increases his crime: and what a wretch is he, who scrupling, under pretence of conscience or honour, to attempt ladies _within_ the pale, boggles not to ruin a poor creature _without_; although he knows, he thereby, most probably, for ever deprived her of that protection, by preventing her marriage, which even among such rakes as himself, is deemed, he owns, inviolable; and so casts the poor creature headlong into the jaws of perdition." "Ah! Madam," replied I, "this was the very inference I made upon the occasion."--"And what could he say?"--"He said, my inference was just; but called me _pretty preacher_;--and once having cautioned me not to be over-serious to him, so as to cast a gloom, as he said, over our innocent enjoyments, I never dare to urge matters farther, when he calls me by that name." "Well," said my lady, "thou'rt an admirable girl! God's goodness was great to our family, when it gave thee to it. No wonder," continued she, "as my brother says, every body that sees you, and has heard your character, loves you. And this is some excuse for the inconsiderate folly even of this unknown transcriber."--"Ah! Madam," replied I, "but is it not a sad thing, that people, if they must take upon them to like one's behaviour in general, should have the _worst_, instead of the _best_ thoughts upon it? If I were as good as I _ought_ to be, and as some _think_ me, must they wish to make me bad for that reason?" Her ladyship was pleased to kiss me as we sat. "My charming Pamela, my _more than sister,_."--(Did she say?)--Yes, she did say so! and made my eyes overflow with joy to hear the sweet epithet. "How your conversation charms me!--I charge you, when you get to town, let me have your remarks on the diversions you will be carried to by my brother. Now I know what to expect from _you_, and you know how acceptable every thing from you will be _to me_, I promise great pleasure, as well to myself as to my worthy friends, particularly to Lady Betty, in your unrestrained free correspondence.--Indeed, Pamela, I must bring you acquainted with Lady Betty: she is one of the worthies of our sex, and has a fine understanding.--I'm sure you'll like her.--But (for the world say it not to my brother, nor let Lady Betty know I tell you so, if ever you should be acquainted) I had carried the matter so far by my officious zeal to have my brother married to so fine a lady, not doubting his joyful approbation, that it was no small disappointment to _her_, when he married you: and this is the best excuse I can make for my furious behaviour to you at the Hall. For though I am naturally very hasty and passionate, yet then I was almost mad.--Indeed my disappointment had given me so much indignation both against you and him, that it is well I did not do some violent thing by you. I believe you did feel the weight of my hand: but what was that? 'Twas well I did not _kill you dead_."--These were her ladyship's words--"For how could I think the wild libertine capable of being engaged by such noble motives, or thee what thou art!--So this will account to thee a little for my violence then." "Your ladyship," said I, "all these things considered, had but too much reason to be angry at your dear brother's proceedings, so well as you always loved him, so high a concern as you always had to promote his honour and interest, and so far as you had gone with Lady Betty." "I tell thee, Pamela, that the old story of Eleanor and Rosamond run in my head all the way of my journey, and I almost wished for a potion to force down thy throat: when I found thy lewd paramour absent, (for little did I think thou wast married to him, though I expected thou wouldst try to persuade me to believe it) fearing that his intrigue with thee would effectually frustrate my hopes as to Lady Betty and him: 'Now,' thought I, 'all happens as I wish!--Now will I confront this brazen girl!--Now will I try her innocence, as I please, by offering to take her away with me; if she refuses, take that refusal for a demonstration of her guilt; and then,' thought I, 'I will make the creature provoke me, in the presence of my nephew and my woman,' (and I hoped to have got that woman Jewkes to testify for me too), and I cannot tell what I might have done, if thou hadst not escaped out of the window, especially after telling me thou wast as much married as I was, and hadst shewn me his tender letter to thee, which had a quite different effect upon me than you expected. But if I had committed any act of violence, what remorse should I have had on reflection, and knowing what an excellence I had injured! Thank God thou didst escape me!" And then her ladyship folded her arms about me, and kissed me. This was a sad story, you'll say, my dear: and I wonder what her ladyship's passion would have made her do! Surely she would not have _killed me dead_! Surely she would not!--Let it not, however, Miss Darnford--nor you, my dear parents--when you see it--go out of your own hands, nor be read, for my Lady Davers's sake, to any body else--No, not to your own mamma. It made me tremble a little, even at this distance, to think what a sad thing passion is, when way is given to its ungovernable tumults, and how it deforms and debases the noblest minds. We returned from this agreeable airing just in time to dress before dinner, and then my lady and I went together into the countess's apartment, where I received abundance of compliments from both. As this brief conversation will give you some notion of that management and economy for which they heaped upon me their kind praises, I will recite to you what passed in it, and hope you will not think me too vain; and the less, because what I underwent formerly from my lady's indignation, half entitles me to be proud of her present kindness and favour. Lady Davers said, "Your ladyship must excuse us, that we have lost so much of your company; but here, this sweet girl has so entertained me, that I could have staid out with her all day; and several times did I bid the coachman prolong his circuit."--"My good Lady Davers, Madam," said I, "has given me inexpressible pleasure, and has been all condescension and favour, and made me as proud as proud can be."--"You, my dear Mrs. B.," said she, "may have given great pleasure to Lady Davers, for it cannot be otherwise--But I have no great notion of her ladyship's condescension, as you call it--(pardon me, Madam," said she to her, smiling) "when she cannot raise her style above the word _girl_, coming off from a tour you have made so delightful to her."--"I protest to you, my Lady C.," replied her ladyship, with great goodness, "that word, which once I used through pride, as you'll call it, I now use for a very different reason. I begin to doubt, whether to call her _sister_, is not more honour to myself than to her; and to this hour am not quite convinc'd. When I am, I will call her so with pleasure." I was quite overcome with this fine compliment, but could not answer a word: and the countess said, "I could have spared you longer, had not the time of day compelled your return; for I have been very agreeably entertained, as well as you, although but with the talk of your woman and mine. For here they have been giving me such an account of Mrs. B.'s economy, and family management, as has highly delighted me. I never knew the like; and in so young a lady too.--We shall have strange reformations to make in our families, Lady Davers, when we go home, were we to follow so good an example.--Why, my dear Mrs. B.," continued her ladyship, "you out-do all your neighbours. And indeed I am glad I live so far from you:--for were I to try to imitate you, it would still be _but_ imitation, and you'd have the honour of it."--"Yet you hear, and you see by yesterday's conversation," said Lady Davers, "how much her best neighbours, of both sexes, admire her: they all yield to her the palm, unenvying."--"Then, my good ladies," said I, "it is a sign I have most excellent neighbours, full of generosity, and willing to encourage a young person in doing right things: so it makes, considering what I was, more for their honour than my own. For what censures should not such a one as I deserve, who have not been educated to fill up my time like ladies of condition, were I not to employ myself as I do? I, who have so little other merit, and who brought no fortune at all."--"Come, come, Pamela, none of your self-denying ordinances," that was Lady Davers's word; "you must know something of your own excellence: if you do not, I'll tell it you, because there is no fear you will be proud or vain upon it. I don't see, then, that there is the lady in yours, or any neighbourhood, that behaves with more decorum, or better keeps up the part of a lady, than you do. How you manage it, I can't tell; but you do as much by a look, and a pleasant one too, that's the rarity! as I do by high words, and passionate exclamations: I have often nothing but blunder upon blunder, as if the wretches were in a confederacy to try my patience."--"Perhaps," said I, "the awe they have of your ladyship, because of your high qualities, makes them commit blunders; for I myself was always more afraid of appearing before your ladyship, when you have visited your honoured mother, than of any body else, and have been the more sensibly awkward through that very awful respect."--"Psha, psha, Pamela, that is not it: 'tis all in yourself. I used to think my mamma, and my brother too, had as awkward servants as ever I saw any where--except Mrs. Jervis--Well enough for a bachelor, indeed!--But, here!--thou hast not parted with one servant--Hast thou?"--"No, Madam."--"How!" said the countess; "what excellence is here!--All of them, pardon me, Mrs. B., your fellow-servants, as one may say, and all of them so respectful, so watchful of your eye; and you, at the same time, so gentle to them, so easy, so cheerful." Don't you think me, my dear, insufferably vain? But 'tis what they were pleased to say. 'Twas their goodness to me, and shewed how much they can excel in generous politeness. So I will proceed. "Why this," continued the countess, "must be _born_ dignity--_born_ discretion--Education cannot give it:--if it could, why should not _we_ have it?" The ladies said many more kind things of me then; and after dinner they mentioned all over again, with additions, before my best friend, who was kindly delighted with the encomiums given me by two ladies of such distinguishing judgment in all other cases. They told him, how much they admired my family management: then they would have it that my genius was universal, for the employments and accomplishments of my sex, whether they considered it as employed in penmanship, in needlework, in paying or receiving visits, in music, and I can't tell how many other qualifications, which they were pleased to attribute to me, over and above the family management: saying, that I had an understanding which comprehended every thing, and an eye that penetrated into the very bottom of matters in a moment, and never was at a loss for the _should be_, the _why_ or _wherefore_, and the _how_--these were their comprehensive words; that I did every thing with celerity, clearing all as I went, and left nothing, they observed, to come over again, that could be dispatched at once: by which means, they said, every hand was clear to undertake a new work, as well as my own head to direct it; and there was no hurry nor confusion: but every coming hour was fresh and ready, and unincumbered (so they said), for its new employment; and to this they attributed that ease and pleasure with which every thing was performed, and that I could _do_ and _cause_ to be done, so much business without hurry either to myself or servants. Judge how pleasing this was to my best beloved, who found, in their kind approbation, such a justification of his own conduct as could not fail of being pleasing to him, especially as Lady Davers was one of the kind praisers. Lord Davers was so highly delighted, that he rose once, begging his brother's excuse, to salute me, and stood over my chair, with a pleasure in his looks that cannot be expressed, now-and-then lifting up his hands, and his good-natured eye glistening with joy, which a pier-glass gave me the opportunity of seeing, as sometimes I stole a bashful glance towards it, not knowing how or which way to look. Even Mr. H. seemed to be touched very sensibly; and recollecting his behaviour to me at the Hall, he once cried out, "What a sad whelp was _I_, to behave as I formerly did, to so much excellence!--Not, Mr. B., that I was any thing uncivil neither;--but in unworthy sneers, and nonsense.--You know me well enough.--You called me, _tinsell'd boy_, though, Madam, don't you remember that? and said, _twenty or thirty years hence, when I was at age, you'd give me an answer._ Egad! I shall never forget your looks, nor your words neither!--they were severe speeches, were they not, Sir?"--"O you see, Mr. H.," replied my dear Mr. B., "Pamela is not quite perfect. We must not provoke her; for she'll call us both so, perhaps; for I wear a laced coat, sometimes, as well as you." "Nay, I can't be angry," said he. "I deserved it richly, that I did, had it been worse."--"Thy silly tongue," said my lady, "runs on without fear or wit. What's past is past."--"Why, Madam, I was plaguily wrong; and I said nothing of any body but _myself_:--and have been ready to hang myself since, as often as I have thought of my nonsense."--"My nephew," said my lord, "must bring in hanging, or the gallows in every speech he makes, or it will not be he." Mr. B., smiling, said, with severity enough in his meaning, as I saw by the turn of his countenance, "Mr. H. knows that his birth and family entitle him more to the _block_, than the rope, or he would not make so free with the latter."--"Good! very good, by Jupiter!" said Mr. H. laughing. The countess smiled. Lady Davers shook her head at her brother, and said to her nephew, "Thou'rt a good-natured foolish fellow, that thou art."--"For what, Madam? Why the word _foolish_, aunt? What have I said now?" "Nothing to any purpose, indeed," said she; "when thou dost, I'll write it down."--"Then, Madam," said he, "have your pen and ink always about you, when I am present; and put that down to begin with!" This made every one laugh. "What a happy thing is it," thought I, "that good nature generally accompanies this character; else, how would some people be supportable?" But here I'll break off. 'Tis time, you'll say. But you know to whom I write, as well as to yourself, and they'll be pleased with all my silly scribble. So excuse one part for that, and another for friendship's sake, and then I shall be wholly excusable to you. Now the trifler again resumes her pen. I am in some pain, Miss, for to-morrow, because of the rules we observe of late in our family on Sundays, and of going through a crowd to church; which will afford new scenes to our noble visitors, either for censure or otherwise: but I will sooner be censured for doing what I think my duty, than for the want of it; and so will omit nothing that we have been accustomed to do. I hope I shall not be thought ridiculous, or as one who aims at works of supererogation, for what I think is very short of my duty. Some order, surely, becomes the heads of families; and besides, it would be discrediting one's own practice, if one did not appear at one time what one does at another. For that which is a reason for discontinuing a practice for some company, would seem to be a reason for laying it aside for ever, especially in a family visiting and visited as ours. And I remember well a hint given me by my dearest friend once on another subject, that it is in every one's power to prescribe rules to himself, after a while, and persons to see what is one's way, and that one is not to be put out of it. But my only doubt is, that to ladies, who have not been accustomed perhaps to the _necessary_ strictness, I should make myself censurable, as if I aimed at too much perfection: for, however one's duty is one's duty, and ought not to be dispensed with; yet, when a person, who uses to be remiss, sees so hard a task before them, and so many great points to get over, all to be no more than tolerably regular, it is rather apt to frighten and discourage, than to allure; and one must proceed, as I have read soldiers do, in a difficult siege, inch by inch, and be more studious to entrench and fortify themselves, as they go on gaining upon the enemy, than by rushing all at once upon an attack of the place, be repulsed, and perhaps obliged with great loss to abandon a hopeful enterprise. And permit me to add, that young as I am, I have often observed, that over-great strictnesses all at once enjoined and insisted upon, are not fit for a beginning reformation, but for stronger Christians only; and therefore generally do more harm than good. But shall I not be too grave, my dear friend?--Excuse me; for this is Saturday night: and as it was a very good method which the ingenious authors of the Spectator took, generally to treat their more serious subjects on this day; so I think one should, when one can, consider it as the preparative eve to a still better. SUNDAY. Now, my dear, by what I have already written, it is become in a manner necessary to acquaint you briefly with the method my dear Mr. B. not only permits, but encourages me to take, in the family he leaves to my care, as to the Sunday _duty_. The worthy dean, at my request, and my beloved's permission, recommended to me, as a sort of family chaplain, for Sundays, a young gentleman of great sobriety and piety, and sound principles, who having but lately taken orders, has at present no other provision. And this gentleman comes, and reads prayers to us about seven in the morning, in the lesser hall, as we call it, a retired apartment, next the little garden; for we have no chapel with us here, as in your neighbourhood; and this generally, with some suitable exhortation, or meditation out of some good book, which he is so kind as to let me choose now-and-then, when I please, takes up little more than half an hour. We have a great number of servants of both sexes: and myself, Mrs. Jervis, and Polly Barlow, are generally in a little closet, which, when we open the door, is but just a separation from the hall.--Mr. Adams (for that is our young clergyman's name) has a desk at which sometimes Mr. Jonathan makes up his running accounts to Mr. Longman, who is very scrupulous of admitting any body to the use of his office, because of the writing in his custody, and the order he values himself upon having every thing in. About seven in the evening he comes again, and I generally, let me have what company I will, find time to retire for about another half hour; and my dear Mr. B. connives at, and excuses my absence, if enquired after; though for so short a time, I am seldom missed. To the young gentleman I shall present, every quarter, five guineas, and Mr. B. presses him to accept of a place at his table at his pleasure: but, as we have generally much company, his modesty makes him decline it, especially at those times.--Mr. Longman joins with us very often in our Sunday office, and Mr. Colbrand seldom misses: and they tell Mrs. Jervis that they cannot express the pleasure they have to meet me there; and the edification they receive. My best beloved dispenses as much as he can with the servants, for the evening part, if he has company; or will be attended only by John or Abraham, perhaps by turns; and sometimes looks upon his watch, and says, "'Tis near seven;" and if he says so, they take it for a hint that they may be dispensed with for half an hour; and this countenance which he gives me, has contributed not a little to make the matter easy and delightful to me, and to every one.--When I part from them, on the breaking up of our assembly, they generally make a little row on each side of the hall-door; and when I have made my compliments, and paid my thanks to Mr. Adams, they whisper, as I go out, "God bless you, Madam!" and bow and curtsey with such pleasure in their honest countenances as greatly delights me: and I say, "So my good friends--I am glad to see you--Not one absent!" or but one--(as it falls out)--"This is very obliging," I cry: and thus I shew them, that I take notice, if any body be not there. And back again I go to pay my duty to my earthly benefactor: and he is pleased to say sometimes, that I come to him with such a radiance in my countenance, as gives him double pleasure to behold me; and often tells me, that but for appearing too fond before company, he could meet me as I enter, with embraces as pure as my own heart. I hope in time, I shall prevail upon the dear man to give me his company.--But, thank God, I am enabled to go thus far already!--I will leave the rest to his providence. For I have a point very delicate to touch upon in this particular; and I must take care not to lose the ground I have gained, by too precipitately pushing at too much at once. This is my comfort, that next to being uniform _himself_, is that permission and encouragement he gives _me_ to be so, and his pleasure in seeing me so delighted--and besides, he always gives me his company to church. O how happy should I think myself, if he would be pleased to accompany me to the divine office, which yet he has not done, though I have urged him as much as I durst.--Mrs. Jervis asked me on Saturday evening, if I would be concerned to see a larger congregation in the lesser hall next morning than usual? I answered, "No, by no means." She said, Mrs. Worden, and Mrs. Lesley (the two ladies' women), and Mr. Sidney, my Lord Davers's gentleman, and Mr. H.'s servant, and the coachmen and footmen belonging to our noble visitors, who are, she says, all great admirers of our family management and good order, having been told our method, begged to join in it. I knew I should be a little dashed at so large a company; but the men being orderly for lords' servants, and Mrs. Jervis assuring me that they were very earnest in their request, I consented to it. When, at the usual time, (with my Polly) I went down, I found Mr. Adams here (to whom I made my first compliments), and every one of our own people waiting for me, Mr. Colbrand excepted (whom Mr. H. had kept up late the night before), together with Mrs. Worden and Mrs. Lesley, and Mr. Sidney, with the servants of our guests, who, as also worthy Mr. Longman, and Mrs. Jervis, and Mr. Jonathan, paid me their respects: and I said, "This is early rising, Mrs. Lesley and Mrs. Worden; you are very kind to countenance us with your companies in this our family order. Mr. Sidney, I am glad to see you.--How do you do, Mr. Longman?" and looked round with complacency on the servants of our noble visitors. And then I led Mrs. Worden and Mrs. Lesley to my little retiring place, and Mrs. Jervis and my Polly followed; and throwing the door open, Mr. Adams began some select prayers; and as he reads with great emphasis and propriety, as if his heart was in what he read, all the good folks were exceedingly attentive.--After prayers, Mr. Adams reads a meditation, from a collection made for private use, which I shall more particularly mention by-and-by; and ending with the usual benediction, I thanked the worthy gentleman, and gently chid him in Mr. B.'s name, for his modesty in declining our table; and thanking Mr. Longman, Mrs. Worden, and Mrs. Lesley, received their kind wishes, and hastened, blushing through their praises, to my chamber, where, being alone, I pursued the subject for an hour, till breakfast was ready, when I attended the ladies, and my best beloved, who had told them of the verses placed under my cushion at church.--We set out, my Lord and Lady Davers, and myself, and Mr. H. in our coach, and Mr. B. and the countess in the chariot; both ladies and the gentlemen splendidly dressed; but I avoided a glitter as much as I could, that I might not seem to vie with the two peeresses.--Mr. B. said, "Why are you not full-dressed, my dear?" I said, I hoped he would not be displeased; if he was, I would do as he commanded. He kindly answered, "As you like best, my love. You are charming in every dress." The chariot first drawing up to the church door, Mr. B. led the countess into church. My Lord Davers did me that honour; and Mr. H. handed his aunt through a crowd of gazers, many of whom, as usual, were strangers. The neighbouring gentlemen and their ladies paid us their silent respects; but the thoughts of the wicked verses, or rather, as Lady Davers will have me say, wicked action of the transcriber of them, made me keep behind the pew; but my lady sat down by me, and whisperingly talked between whiles, to me, with great tenderness and freedom in her aspect; which I could not but take kindly, because I knew she intended by it, to shew every one she was pleased with me. Afterwards she was pleased to add, taking my hand, and Mr. B. and the countess heard her (for she raised her voice to a more audible whisper), "I'm proud to be in thy company, and in this solemn place, I take thy hand, and acknowledge with pride, my _sister_." I looked down; and indeed, at church, I can hardly at any time look up; for who can bear to be gazed at so?--and softly said, "Oh! my good lady! how much you honour me; the place, and these surrounding eyes, can only hinder me from acknowledging as I ought." My best friend, with pleasure in his eyes, said, pressing his hand upon both ours, as my lady had mine in hers--"You are two beloved creatures: both excellent in your way. God bless you both."--"And you too, my dear brother," said my lady. The countess whispered, "You should spare a body a little! You give one, ladies, and Mr. B., too much pleasure all at once. Such company, and such behaviour adds still more charms to devotion; and were I to be here a twelvemonth, I would never miss once accompanying you to this good place." Mr. H. thought he must say something, and addressing himself to his noble uncle, who could not keep his good-natured eye off me--"I'll be _hang'd_, my lord, if I know how to behave myself! Why this outdoes the chapel!--I'm glad I put on my new suit!" And then he looked upon himself, as if he would support, as well as he could, his part of the general admiration. But think you not, my dear Miss Darnford, and my dearest father and mother, that I am now in the height of my happiness in this life, thus favoured by Lady Davers? The dean preached an excellent sermon; but I need not have said that; only to have mentioned, that _he_ preached, was saying enough. My lord led me out when divine service was over; and being a little tender in his feet, from a gouty notice, walked very slowly. Lady Towers and Mrs. Brooks joined us in the porch, and made us their compliments, as did Mr. Martin. "Will you favour us with your company home, my old acquaintance?" said Mr. B. to him.--"I can't, having a gentleman, my relation, to dine with me; but if it will be agreeable in the evening, I will bring him with me to taste of your Burgundy: for we have not any such in the county."--"I shall be glad to see you, or any friend of yours," replied Mr. B. Mr. Martin whispered--"It is more, however, to admire your lady, I can tell you that, than your wine.-Get into your coaches, ladies," said he, with his usual freedom; "our maiden and widow ladies have a fine time of it, wherever you come: by my faith they must every one of them quit this neighbourhood, if you were to stay in it: but all their hopes are, that while you are in London, they'll have the game in their own hands."--"_Sister_," said Lady Davers, most kindly to me, in presence of many, who (in a respectful manner) gathered near us, "Mr. Martin is the same gentleman he used to be, I see." "Mr. Martin, Madam," said I, smiling, "has but one fault: he is too apt to praise whom he favours, at the expense of his absent friends." "I am always proud of your reproofs, Mrs. B.," replied he.-"Ay," said Lady Towers, "that I believe.--And, therefore, I wish, for all our sakes, you'd take him oftener to task, Mrs. B." Lady Towers, Lady Arthur, Mrs. Brooks, and Mr. Martin, all claimed visits from us; and Mr. B. making excuses, that he must husband his time, being obliged to go to town soon, proposed to breakfast with Lady Towers the next morning, dine with Mrs. Arthur, and sup with Mrs. Brooks; and as there cannot be a more social and agreeable neighbourhood any where, his proposal, after some difficulty, was accepted; and our usual visiting neighbours were all to have notice accordingly, at each of the places. I saw Sir Thomas Atkyns coming towards us, and fearing to be stifled with compliments, I said--"Your servant, ladies and gentlemen;" and giving my hand to Lord Davers, stept into the chariot, instead of the coach; for people that would avoid bustle, sometimes make it. Finding my mistake, I would have come out, but my lord said, "Indeed you shan't: for I'll step in, and have you all to myself." Lady Davers smiled--"Now," said she (while the coach drew up), "is my Lord Davers pleased;--but I see, sister, you were tired with part of your company in the coach."--"'Tis well contrived, my dear," said Mr. B., "as long as you have not deprived me of this honour;" taking the countess's hand, and leading her into the coach. Will you excuse all this impertinence, my dear?--I know my father and mother will be pleased with it; and you will therefore bear with me; for their kind hearts will be delighted to hear every minute thing in relation to Lady Davers and myself.--When Mr. Martin came in the evening, with his friend (who is Sir William G., a polite young gentleman of Lincolnshire), he told us of the praises lavished away upon me by several genteel strangers; one saying to his friend, he had travelled twenty miles to see me.--My Lady Davers was praised too for her goodness to me, and the gracefulness of her person; the countess for the noble serenity of her aspect, and that charming ease and freedom, which distinguished her birth and quality. My dear Mr. B., he said, was greatly admired too: but he would not make _him_ proud; for he had superiorities enough already, that was his word, over his neighbours: "But I can tell you," said he, "that for most of your praises you are obliged to your lady, and for having rewarded her excellence as you have done: for one gentleman," added he, "said, he knew no one but _you_ could deserve her; and he believed _you_ did, from that tenderness in your behaviour to her, and from that grandeur of air, and majesty of person, that seemed to shew you formed for her protector, as well as rewarder.--Get you gone to London, both of you," said he. "I did not intend to tell you, Mr. B., what was said of you." The women of the two ladies had acquainted their ladyships with the order I observed for the day, and the devout behaviour of the servants. And about seven, I withdrawing as silently and as unobserved as I could, was surprised, as I was going through the great hall, to be joined by both. "I shall come at all your secrets, Pamela," said my lady, "and be able, in time, to cut you out in your own way. I know whither you are going." "My good ladies," said I, "pardon me for leaving you. I will attend you in half an hour." "No, my dear," said Lady Davers, "the countess and I have resolved to attend you for that half hour, and we will return to company together." "Is it not descending too much, my ladies, as to the company?"--"If it is for us, it is for you," said the countess; "so we will either act up to you, or make you come down to us; and we will judge of all your proceedings." Every one, but Abraham (who attended the gentlemen), and all their ladyships' servants, and their two women, were there; which pleased me, however, because it shewed, that even the strangers, by this their second voluntary attendance, had no ill opinion of the service. But they were all startled, ours and theirs, to see the ladies accompanying me. I stept up to Mr. Adams.--"I was in hopes. Sir," said I, "we should have been favoured with your company at our table." He bowed.--"Well, Sir," said I, "these ladies come to be obliged to you for your good offices; and you'll have no better way of letting them return their obligations, than to sup, though you would not dine with them."--"Mr. Longman," said my lady, "how do you do?--We are come to be witnesses of the family decorum."--"We have a blessed lady, Madam," said he: "and your ladyship's presence augments our joys." I should have said, we were not at church in the afternoon; and when I do not go, we have the evening service read to us, as it is at church; which Mr. Adams performed now, with his usual distinctness and fervour. When all was concluded, I said, "Now, my dearest ladies, excuse me for the sake of the delight I take in seeing all my good folks about me in this decent and obliging manner.--Indeed, I have no ostentation in it, if I know my own heart." The countess and Lady Davers, delighted to see such good behaviour in every one, sat a moment or two looking upon one another in silence; and then my Lady Davers took my hand: "Beloved, deservedly beloved of the kindest of husbands, what a blessing art thou to this family!"--"And to every family," said the countess, "who have the happiness to know, and the grace to follow, her example!"--"But where," said Lady Davers, "collectedst thou all this good sense, and fine spirit in thy devotion?"--"The Bible," said I, "is the foundation of all."--Lady Davers then turning herself to Mrs. Jervis--"How do you, good woman?" said she. "Why you are now made ample amends for the love you bore to this dear creature formerly." "You have an angel, and not a woman, for your lady, my good Mrs. Jervis," said the countess. Mrs. Jervis, folding her uplifted hands together--"O my good lady, you know not our happiness; no, not one half of it. We were before blessed with plenty, and a bountiful indulgence, by our good master; but our plenty brought on wantonness and wranglings: but now we have peace as well as plenty; and peace of mind, my dear lady, in doing all in our respective powers, to shew ourselves thankful creatures to God, and to the best of masters and mistresses." "Good soul!" said I, and was forced to put my handkerchief to my eyes: "your heart is always overflowing thus with gratitude and praises, for what you so well merit from us." "Mr. Longman," said my lady, assuming a sprightly air, although her eye twinkled, to keep within its lids the precious water, that sprang from a noble and well-affected heart, "I am glad to see you here, attending your pious young lady.--Well might you love her, honest man!--I did not know there was so excellent a creature in any rank." "Madam," said the other worthy heart, unable to speak but in broken sentences, "you don't know--indeed you don't, what a--what a--hap--happy--family we are!--Truly, we are like unto Alexander's soldiers, every one fit to be a general; so well do we all know our duties, and _practise_ them too, let me say.--Nay, and please your ladyship, we all of us long till morning comes, thus to attend my lady; and after that is past, we long for evening, for the same purpose: for she is so good to us--You cannot think how good she is! But permit your honoured father's old servant to say one word more, that though we are always pleased and joyful on these occasions; yet we are in transports to see our master's noble sister thus favouring us--with your ladyship too," (to the countess)--"and approving our young lady's conduct and piety." "Blessing on you all!" said my lady. "Let us go, my lady;--let us go, sister, for I cannot stop any longer!" As I slid by, following their ladyships--"How do you, Mr. Colbrand?" said I softly: "I feared you were not well in the morning." He bowed--"Pardon me, Madam--I was leetel indispose, dat ish true!" Now, my dear friend, will you forgive me all this self-praise, as it may seem?--Yet when you know I give it you, and my dear parents, as so many instances of my Lady Davers's reconciliation and goodness to me, and as it will shew what a noble heart she has at bottom, when her pride of quality and her passion have subsided, and her native good sense and excellence taken place, I flatter myself, I may be the rather excused; and especially, as I hope to have your company and countenance one day, in this my delightful Sunday employment. I should have added, for I think a good clergyman cannot be too much respected, that I repeated my request to Mr. Adams, to oblige us with his company at supper; but he so very earnestly begged to be excused, and with so much concern of countenance, that I thought it would be wrong to insist upon it; though I was sorry for it, sure as I am that modesty is always a sign of merit. We returned to the gentlemen when supper was ready, as cheerful and easy, Lady Davers observed, as if we had not been present at so solemn a service. "And this," said she, after they were gone, "makes religion so pleasant and delightful a thing, that I profess I shall have a much higher opinion of those who make it a regular and constant part of their employment, than ever I had." "Then," said she, "I was once, I remember, when a girl, at the house of a very devout man, for a week, with his granddaughter, my school-fellow; and there were such preachments _against_ vanities, and _for_ self-denials, that were we to have followed the good man's precepts, (though indeed not his practice, for well did he love his belly), half God Almighty's creatures and works would have been useless, and industry would have been banished the earth. "Then," added her ladyship, "have I heard the good man confess himself guilty of such sins, as, if true (and by his hiding his face with his broad-brimmed hat, it looked a little bad against him), he ought to have been hanged on a gallows fifty feet high." These reflections, as I said, fell from my lady, after the gentlemen were gone, when she recounted to her brother, the entertainment, as she was pleased to call it, I had given her. On which she made high encomiums, as did the countess; and they praised also the natural dignity which they imputed to me, saying, I had taught them a way they never could have found out, to descend to the company of servants, and yet to secure, and even augment, the respect and veneration of inferiors at the same time. "And, Pamela," said my lady, "you are certainly very right to pay so much regard to the young clergyman; for that makes all he reads, and all he says, of greater efficacy with the auditors, facilitates the work you have in view to bring about, and in your own absence (for your monarch may not always dispense with you, perhaps) strengthens his influence, and encourages him, beside." MONDAY. I am to thank you, my dear Miss Damford, for your kind letter, approving of my scribble. When you come to my Saturday's and Sunday's accounts, I shall try your patience. But no more of that; for as you can read them, or let them alone, I am the less concerned, especially as they will be more indulgently received somewhere else, than they may merit; so that my labour will not be wholly lost. I congratulate you with all my heart on your dismissing Mr. Murray; I could not help shewing your letter to Mr. B. And what do you think the free gentleman said upon it? I am half afraid to tell you: but do, now you are so happily disengaged, get leave to come, and let us two contrive to be even with him for it. You are the only lady in the world that I would join with against him. He said, that your characters of Mr. Murray and Miss Nancy, which he called severe (but I won't call them so, without your leave), looked a little like petty spite, and as if you were sorry the gentleman took you at your word. That was what he said--Pray let us punish him for it. Yet, he called you charming lady, and said much in your praise, and joined with me, that Mr. Murray, who was so easy to part with you, could not possibly deserve you. "But, Pamela," said he, "I know the sex well enough. Miss Polly may not love Mr. Murray; yet, to see her sister addressed and complimented, and preferred to herself, by one whom she so lately thought she could choose or refuse, is a mortifying thing.--And young ladies cannot bear to sit by neglected, while two lovers are playing pug's tricks with each other. "Then," said he, "all the preparations to matrimony, the clothes to be bought, the visits to be paid and received, the compliments of friends, the busy novelty of the thing, the day to be fixed, and all the little foolish humours and nonsense attending a concluded courtship, when _one sister_ is to engross all the attention and regard, the new equipages, and so forth; these are all subjects of mortification to the _other_, though she has no great value for the man perhaps." "Well, but, Sir," said I, "a lady of Miss Darnford's good sense, and good taste, is not to be affected by these parades, and has well considered the matter, no doubt; and I dare say, rejoices, rather than repines, at missing the gentleman." I hope you will leave the happy pair (for they are so, if they think themselves so) together, and Sir Simon to rejoice in his accomplished son-in-law elect, and give us your company to London. For who would stay to be vexed by that ill-natured Miss Nancy, as you own you were, at your last writing?--But I will proceed, and the rather, as I have something to tell you of a conversation, the result of which has done me great honour, and given inexpressible delight; of which in its place. We pursued Mr. B.'s proposal, returning several visits in one day; for we have so polite and agreeable a neighbourhood, that all seem desirous to accommodate each other. We came not home till ten in the evening, and then found a letter from Sir Jacob Swynford, uncle by the half blood to Mr. B., acquainting him, that hearing his niece, Lady Davers, was with him, he would be here in a day or two (being then upon his journey) to pay a visit to both at the same time. This gentleman is very particularly odd and humoursome: and his eldest son being next heir to the maternal estate, if Mr. B. should have no children, was exceedingly dissatisfied with his debasing himself in marrying me; and would have been better pleased had he not married at all, perhaps. There never was any cordial love between Mr. B.'s father and him, nor between the uncle, and nephew and niece: for his positiveness, roughness, and self-interestedness too, has made him, though very rich, but little agreeable to the generous tempers of his nephew and niece; yet when they meet, which is not above once in four or five years, they are very civil and obliging to him. Lady Davers wondered what could bring him hither now: for he lives in Herefordshire, and seldom stirs ten miles from home. Mr. B. said, he was sure it was not to compliment him and me on our nuptials. "No, rather," said my lady, "to satisfy himself if you are in a way to cut out his own cubs."--"Thank God, we are," said he. "Whenever I was strongest set against matrimony, the only reason I had to weigh against my dislike to it was, that I was unwilling to leave so large a part of my estate to that family. My dear," said he to me, "don't be uneasy; but you'll see a relation of mine much more disagreeable than you can imagine; but no doubt you have heard his character." "Ah, Pamela," said Lady Davers, "we are a family that value ourselves upon our ancestry; but, upon my word, Sir Jacob, and all his line, have nothing else to boast of. And I have been often ashamed of my relation to them."--"No family, I believe, my lady, has every body excellent in it," replied I: "but I doubt I shall stand but poorly with Sir Jacob." "He won't dare to affront you, my dear," said Mr. B., "although he'll say to you, and to me, and to my sister too, blunt and rough things. But he'll not stay above a day or two, and we shall not see him again for some years to come; so we'll bear with him." I am now, Miss, coming to the conversation I hinted at. TUESDAY. On Tuesday, Mr. Williams came to pay his respects to his kind patron. I had been to visit a widow gentlewoman, and, on my return, went directly to my closet, so knew not of his being here till I came to dinner; for Mr. B. and he were near two hours in discourse in the library. When I came down, Mr. B. presented him to me. "My friend Mr. Williams, my dear," said he. "Mr. Williams, how do you do?" said I; "I am glad to see you." He rejoiced, he said, to see me look so well; and had longed for an opportunity to pay his respects to his worthy patron and me before: but had been prevented twice when upon the point of setting out. Mr. B. said, "I have prevailed upon my old acquaintance to reside with us, while he stays in these parts. Do you, my dear, see that every thing is made agreeable to him."--"To be sure, Sir, I will." Mr. Adams being in the house, Mr. B. sent to desire he would dine with us: if it were but in respect to a gentleman of the same cloth, who gave us his company. Mr. B., when dinner was over, and the servants were withdrawn, said, "My dear, Mr. Williams's business, in part, was to ask my advice as to a living that is offered him by the Earl of ----, who is greatly taken with his preaching and conversation." "And to quit yours, I presume, Sir," said Lord Davers. "No, the earl's is not quite so good as mine, and his lordship would procure him a dispensation to hold both. What would _you_ advise, my dear?" "It becomes not me, Sir, to meddle with such matters as these."--"Yes, my dear, it does, when I ask your opinion."--"I beg pardon, Sir.--My opinion then is, that Mr. Williams will not care to do any thing that _requires_ a dispensation, and which would be unlawful without it."--"Madam," said Mr. Williams, "you speak exceedingly well." "I am glad, Mr. Williams, that you approve of my sentiments, required of me by one who has a right to command me in every thing: otherwise this matter is above my sphere; and I have so much good will to Mr. Williams, that I wish him every thing that will contribute to make him happy." "Well, my dear," said Mr. B., "but what would you advise in this case? The earl proposes, that Mr. Williams's present living be supplied by a curate; to whom, no doubt, Mr. Williams will be very genteel; and, as we are seldom or never there, his lordship thinks we shall not be displeased with it, and insists upon proposing it to me; as he has done." Lord Davers said, "I think this may do very well, brother. But what, pray, Mr. Williams, do you propose to allow to your curate? Excuse me, Sir, but I think the clergy do so hardly by one another generally, that they are not to be surprised that some of the laity treat them as they do." Said Mr. B., "Tell us freely, Pamela, what you would advise your friend Mr. Williams to do." "And must I, Sir, speak my mind on such a point, before so many better judges?" "Yes, _sister_," said her ladyship (a name she is now pleased to give me freely before strangers, after her dear brother's example, who is kindest, though always kind, at such times) "you _must_; if I may be allowed to say _must_."--"Why then," proceeded I, "I beg leave to ask Mr. Williams one question; that is, whether his present parishioners do not respect and esteem him in that particular manner, which I think every body must, who knows his worth?" "I am very happy. Madam, in the good-will of all my parishioners, and have great acknowledgments to make for their civilities to me."--"I don't doubt," said I, "but it will be the same wherever you go; for bad as the world is, a prudent and good clergyman will never fail of respect. But, Sir, if you think your ministry among them is attended with good effects; if they esteem your person with a preference, and listen to your doctrines with attention; methinks, for _their_ sakes, 'tis pity to leave them, were the living of less value, as it is of _more_, than the other. For, how many people are there who can benefit by one gentleman's preaching, rather than by another's; although, possibly, the one's abilities may be no way inferior to the other's? There is much in a _delivery_, as it is called, in a manner, a deportment, to engage people's attention and liking; and as you are already in possession of their esteem, you are sure to do much of the good you aim and wish to do. For where the flock loves the shepherd, all the work is easy, and more than half done; and without that, let him have the tongue of an angel, and let him live the life of a saint, he will be heard with indifference, and, oftentimes, as his subject may be, with disgust." I paused here; but every one being silent--"As to the earl's friendship, Sir," continued I, "you can best judge what force that ought to have upon you; and what I have mentioned would be the only difficulty with me, were I in Mr. Williams's case. To be sure, it will be a high compliment to his lordship, and so he ought to think it, that you quit a better living to oblige him. And he will be bound in honour to make it up to you. For I am far from thinking that a prudent regard to worldly interest misbecomes the character of a good clergyman; and I wish all such were set above the world, for their own sakes, as well as for the sakes of their hearers; since independency gives a man respect, besides the power of doing good, which will enhance that respect, and of consequence, give greater efficacy to his doctrines. "As to strengthening of a good man's influence, a point always to be wished, I would not say so much as I have done, if I had not heard Mr. Longman say, and I heard it with great pleasure, that the benefice Mr. Williams so worthily enjoys is a clear two hundred pounds a year. "But, after all, does happiness to a gentleman, a scholar, a philosopher, rest in a greater or lesser income? On the contrary, is it not oftener to be found in a happy competency or mediocrity? Suppose my dear Mr. B. had five thousand pounds a year added to his present large income, would that increase his happiness? That it would add to his cares, is no question; but could it give him one single comfort which he has not already? And if the dear gentleman had two or three thousand less, might he be less happy on that account? No, surely; for it would render a greater prudence on my humble part necessary, and a nearer inspection, and greater frugality, on his own; and he must be contented (if he did not, as now, perhaps, lay up every year) so long as he lived within his income.--And who will say, that the obligation to greater prudence and economy is a misfortune? "The competency, therefore, the golden mean, is the thing; and I have often considered the matter, and endeavoured to square my actions by the result of that consideration. For a person who, being not born to an estate, is not satisfied with a competency, will probably know no limits to his desires. One whom an acquisition of one or two hundred pounds a year will not satisfy, will hardly sit down contented with any sum. For although he may propose to himself at a distance, that such and such an acquisition will be the height of his ambition; yet he will, as he approaches to that, advance upon himself farther and farther, and know no bound, till the natural one is forced upon him, and his life and his views end together. "Now let me humbly beg pardon of you all, ladies and gentlemen," turning my eyes to each; "but most of you, my good lady." "Indeed, Madam," said Mr. Williams, "after what I have heard from you, I would not, for the world, have been of another mind." "You are a good man," said I; "and I have such an opinion of your worthiness, and the credit you do your function, that I can never suspect either your judgment or your conduct. But pray, Sir, may I ask, what have you determined to do?"--"Why, Madam," replied he, "I am staggered in that too, by the observation you just now made, that where a man has the love of his parishioners, he ought not to think of leaving them."--"Else, Sir, I find you was rather inclined to oblige the earl, though the living be of _less_ value! This is very noble, Sir; it is more than generous." "My dear," said Mr. B., "I'll tell you (for Mr. Williams's modesty will not let him speak it before all the company) what _is_ his motive; and a worthy one you'll say it is. Excuse me, Mr. Williams;"--for the reverend gentleman blushed. "The earl has of late years--we all know his character--given himself up to carousing, and he will suffer no man to go from his table sober. Mr. Williams has taken the liberty to expostulate, as became his function, with his lordship on this subject, and upon some other irregularities, so agreeably, that the earl has taken a great liking to him, and promises, that he will suffer his reasonings to have an effect upon him, and that he shall reform his whole household, if he will come and live near him, and regulate his table by his own example. The countess is a very good lady, and privately presses Mr. Williams to oblige the earl: and this is our worthy friend's main inducement; with the hope, which I should mention, that he has, of preserving untainted the morals of the two young gentlemen, the earl's son, who, he fears, will be carried away by the force of such an example: and he thinks, as the earl's living has fallen, mine may be better supplied than the earl's, if he, as he kindly offers, gives it me back again; otherwise the earl, as he apprehends, will find out for his, some gentleman, if such an one can be found, as will rather further, than obstruct his own irregularities, as was the unhappy case of the last incumbent." "Well," said Lady Davers, "I shall always have the highest respect for Mr. Williams, for a conduct so genteel and so prudent. But, brother, will you--and will you, Mr. Williams--put this whole affair into Mrs. B.'s hands, since you have such testimonies, _both_ of you, of the rectitude of her thinking and acting?"--"With all my heart, Madam," replied Mr. Williams; "and I shall be proud of such a direction,"--"What say _you_, brother? You are to suppose the living in your own hands again; will you leave the whole matter to my _sister_ here?"--"Come, my dear," said Mr. B., "let us hear how you'd wish it to be ordered. I know you have not need of one moment's consideration, when once you are mistress of a point." "Nay," said Lady Davers, "that is not the thing. I repeat my demand: shall it be as Mrs. B. lays it out, or not?"--"Conditionally," said Mr. B., "provided I cannot give satisfactory reasons, why I _ought_ not to conform to her opinion; for this, as I said, is a point of conscience with me; and I made it so, when I presented Mr. Williams to the living: and have not been deceived in that presentation."--"To be sure," said I, "that is very reasonable, Sir; and on that condition, I shall the less hesitate to speak my mind, because I shall be in no danger to commit an irreparable error." "I know well, Lady Davers," added Mr. B., "the power your sex have over ours, and their subtle tricks: and so will never, in my weakest moments, be drawn in to make a blindfold promise. There have been several instances, both in sacred and profane story, of mischiefs done by such surprises: so you must allow me to suspect myself, when I know the dear slut's power over me, and have been taught, by the inviolable regard she pays to her own word, to value mine--And now, Pamela, speak all that is in your heart to say." "With your _requisite_ condition in my eye, I will, Sir. But let me see that I state the matter right. And, preparative to it, pray, Mr. Williams, though you have not been long in possession of this living, yet, may-be, you can compute what it is likely, by what you know of it, to bring in clear?" "Madam," said he, "by the best calculation I can make--I thank _you_ for it, good Sir--it may, one year with another, be reckoned at three hundred pounds per annum; and is the best within twenty miles of it, having been improved within these two last years." "If it was five hundred pounds, and would make you happier--(for _that_, Sir, is the thing) I should wish it you," said I, "and think it short of your merits. But pray, Sir, what is the earl's living valued at?" "At about two hundred and twenty pounds, Madam."--"Well, then," replied I, very pertly, "I believe now I have it. "Mr. Williams, for motives most excellently worthy of his function, inclines to surrender up to Mr. B. his living of three hundred pounds per annum, and to accept of the earl's living of two hundred and twenty. Dear Sir, I am going to be very bold; but under _your_ condition nevertheless:--let the gentleman, to whom you shall present the living of E. allow eighty pounds per annum out of it to Mr. Williams, till the earl's favour shall make up the difference to him, and no longer. And--but I dare not name the gentleman:--for how, dear Sir, were I to be so bold, shall I part with my chaplain?"--"Admirable! most admirable!" said Lord and Lady Davers, in the same words. The countess praised the decision too; and Mr. H. with his "Let me be hang'd," and his "Fore Gad's," and such exclamations natural to him, made his plaudits. Mr. Williams said, he could wish with all his heart it might be so; and Mr. Adams was so abashed and surprised, that he could not hold up his head;--but joy danced in his silent countenance, for all that. Mr. B. having hesitated a few minutes. Lady Davers called out for his objection, or consent, according to condition, and he said, "I cannot so soon determine as that prompt slut did. I'll withdraw one minute." He did so, as I found afterwards to advise, like the considerate and genteel spirit he possesses, with Mr. Williams, whom he beckoned out, and to examine whether he was in _earnest_ willing to give it up, or very desirous for any one to succeed him; saying, that if he had, he thought himself obliged, in return for his worthy behaviour to him, to pay a particular regard to his recommendation. And so being answered as he desired, in they came together again. But I should say, that his withdrawing with a very serious aspect, made me afraid I had gone too far: and I said, "What shall I do, if I have incurred Mr. B.'s anger by my over-forwardness! Did he not look displeased? Dear ladies, if he be so, plead for me, and I'll withdraw when he comes in; for I cannot stand his anger: I have not been used to it." "Never fear, Pamela," said my lady; "he can't be angry at any thing you say or do. But I wish, for the sake of what I have witnessed of Mr. Adams's behaviour and modesty, that such a thing could be done for him." Mr. Adams bowed, and said, "O my good ladies! 'tis too considerable a thing: I cannot expect it--I do not--it would be presumption if I did." Just then re-entered Mr. B. and Mr. Williams: the first with a stately air, the other with a more peace-portending smile on his countenance. But Mr. B. sitting down, "Well, Pamela," said he, very gravely, "I see that power is a dangerous thing in any hand."--"Sir, Sir!" said I--"My dear lady," whispering to Lady Davers, "I will withdraw, as I said I would." And I was getting away as fast as I could: but he arose and took my hand, "Why is my charmer so soon frightened?" said he, most kindly; and still more kindly, with a noble air, pressed it to his lips. "I must not carry my jest too far upon a mind so apprehensive, as I otherwise might be inclined to do." And leading me to Mr. Adams and Mr. Williams, he said, taking Mr. Williams's hand with his left, as he held mine in his right, "Your worthy brother clergyman, Mr. Adams, gives me leave to confirm the decision of my dear wife, whom you are to thank for the living of E. upon the condition she proposed; and may you give but as much satisfaction _there_, as you have done in _this_ family, and as Mr. Williams has given to his flock; and they will then be pleased as much with your ministry as they have hitherto been with his." Mr. Adams trembled with joy, and said, he could not tell how to bear this excess of goodness in us both: and his countenance and eyes gave testimony of a gratitude too high for further expression. As for myself, you, my honoured and dear friends, who know how much I am always raised, when I am made the dispenser of acts of bounty and generosity to the deserving; and who now instead of incurring blame, as I had apprehended, found myself applauded by every one, and most by the gentleman whose approbation I chiefly coveted to have: you, I say, will judge how greatly I must be delighted. But I was still more affected, when Mr. B. directing himself to me, and to Mr. Williams at the same time, was pleased to say, "Here, my dear, you must thank this good gentleman for enabling you to give such a shining proof of your excellence: and whenever I put power into your hands for the future, act but as you have now done, and it will be impossible that I should have any choice or will but yours." "O Sir," said I, pressing his hand with my lips, forgetting how many witnesses I had of my grateful fondness, "how shall I, oppressed with your goodness, in such a signal instance as this, find words equal to the gratitude of my heart!--But here," patting my bosom, "just here, they stick;--and I cannot--" And, indeed, I could say no more; and Mr. B. in the delicacy of his apprehensiveness for me, led me into the next parlour; and placing himself by me on the settee, said, "Take care, my best beloved, that the joy, which overflows your dear heart, for having done a beneficent action to a deserving gentleman, does not affect you too much." My Lady Davers followed us: "Where is my angelic sister?" said she. "I have a share in her next to yourself, my noble brother." And clasping me to her generous bosom, she ran over with expressions of favour to me, in a style and words, which would suffer, were I to endeavour to repeat them. Coffee being ready, we returned to the company. My Lord Davers was pleased to make me a great many compliments, and so did Mr. H. after his manner. But the countess exceeded _herself_ in goodness. Mr. B. was pleased to say, "It is a rule with me, not to leave till to-morrow what can be done to-day:--and _when_, my dear, do you propose to dispense with Mr. Adams's good offices in your family? Or did you intend to induce him to go to town with us?" "I had not proposed anything, Sir, as to that, for I had not asked your kind direction: but the good dean will supply us, I doubt not, and when we set out for London, Mr. Adams will be at full liberty, with his worthy friend, Mr. Williams, to pursue the happy scheme your goodness has permitted to take effect." "Mr. Adams, my dear, who came so lately from the university, can, perhaps, recommend such another young gentleman as himself, to perform the functions he used to perform in your family." I looked, it seems, a little grave; and Mr. B. said, "What have you to offer, Pamela?--What have I said amiss?" "Amiss! dear Sir!--" "Ay, and dear Madam too! I see by your bashful seriousness, in place of that smiling approbation which you always shew when I utter any thing you _entirely_ approve, that I have said something which would rather meet with your acquiescence, than choice. So, as I have often told you, none of your reserves; and never _hesitate_ to me your consent in any thing, while you are sure I will conform to your wishes, or pursue my own liking, as _either_ shall appear reasonable to me, when I have heard _your_ reasons." "Why, then, dear Sir, what I had presumed to think, but I submit it to your better judgment, was, whether, since the gentleman who is so kind as to assist us in our family devotions, in some measure acts in the province of the worthy dean, it were not right, that our own parish-minister, whether here or in London, should name, or at least approve _our_ naming, the gentleman?" "Why could not I have thought of that, as well as you, sauce-box?--Lady Davers, I am entirely on your side: I think she deserves a slap now from us both." "I'll forgive her," said my lady, "since I find her sentiments and actions as much a reproof to others as to me." "Mr. Williams, did you ever think," said Mr. B., "it would have come to this?--Did you ever know such a saucy girl in your life?--Already to give herself these reproaching airs?"--"No, never, if your honour is pleased to call the most excellent lady in the world by such a name, nor any body else." "Pamela, I charge you," said the dear gentleman, "if you _study_ for it, be sometimes in the wrong, that one may not always be taking lessons from such an assurance; but in our turns, have something to teach _you_." "Then, dear Sir," said I, "must I not be a strange creature? For how, when you, and my good ladies, are continually giving me such charming examples, can I do a wrong thing?" I hope you will forgive me, my dear, for being so tedious on the foregoing subject, and its most agreeable conclusion. It is an important one, because several persons, as conferers or receivers, have found their pleasure and account in it; and it would be well, if conversation were often attended with like happy consequences. I have one merit to plead in behalf even of my prolixity; that in reciting the delightful conferences I have the pleasure of holding with our noble guests and Mr. B., I am careful not to write twice upon one topic, although several which I omit, may be more worthy of your notice than those I give; so that you have as much variety from me, as the nature of the facts and cases will admit of. But here I will conclude, having a very different subject, as a proof of what I have advanced, to touch in my next. Till when, I am _your most affectionate and faithful_, P.B. LETTER XXXIII My dear Miss Darnford, I now proceed with my journal, which I brought down to Tuesday evening; and of course I begin with WEDNESDAY. Towards evening came Sir Jacob Swynford, on horseback, attended by two servants in liveries. I was abroad; for I had got leave for a whole afternoon, attended by my Polly; which time I passed in visiting no less than four poor sick families, whose hearts I made glad. But I should be too tedious, were I to give you the particulars; besides, I have a brief list of cases, which, when you'll favour me with your company, I may shew you: for I oblige myself, though not desired, to keep an account of what I do with no less than two hundred pounds a year, that Mr. B. allows me to expend in acts of charity and benevolence. Lady Davers told me afterwards, that Sir Jacob carried it mighty stiff and formal when he alighted. He strutted about the court-yard in his boots, with his whip in his hand; and though her ladyship went to the great door, in order to welcome him, he turned short, and, whistling, followed the groom into the stable, as if he had been at an inn, only, instead of taking off his hat, pulling its broad brim over his eyes, for a compliment. In she went in a pet, as she says, saying to the countess, "A surly brute he always was! _My_ uncle! He's more of an ostler than a gentleman; I'm resolved I'll not stir to meet him again. And yet the wretch loves respect from others, though he never practises common civility himself." The countess said, she was glad he was come, for she loved to divert herself with such odd characters now-and-then. And now let me give you a short description of him as I found him, when I came in, that you may the better conceive what sort of a gentleman he is. He is about sixty-five years of age, a coarse, strong, big-boned man, with large irregular features; he has a haughty supercilious look, a swaggering gait, and a person not at all bespeaking one's favour in behalf of his mind; and his mind, as you shall hear by and bye, not clearing up those prepossessions in his disfavour, with which his person and features at first strike one. His voice is big and surly; his eyes little and fiery; his mouth large, with yellow and blackish teeth, what are left of them being broken off to a tolerable regular height, looked as if they were ground down to his gums, by constant use. But with all these imperfections, he has an air that sets him somewhat above the mere vulgar, and makes one think half his disadvantages rather owing to his own haughty humour, than to nature; for he seems to be a perfect tyrant at first sight, a man used to prescribe, and not to be prescribed to; and has the advantage of a shrewd penetrating look, but which seems rather acquired than natural. After he had seen his horses well served, and put on an old-fashioned gold-buttoned coat, which by its freshness shewed he had been very chary of it, a better wig, but in stiff buckle, and a long sword, stuck stiffly, as if through his coat lappets, in he came, and with an imperious air entering the parlour, "What, nobody come to meet me!" said he; and saluting her ladyship. "How do you do, niece?" and looked about haughtily, she says, as if he expected to see me. My lady presenting the countess, said, "The Countess of C., Sir Jacob!"--"Your most obedient humble servant, Madam. I hope his lordship is well."--"At your service, Sir Jacob." "I wish he was," said he, bluntly; "he should not have voted as he did last sessions, I can tell you that." "Why, Sir Jacob," said she, "_servants_, in this free kingdom, don't always do as their _masters_ would have 'em."--"_Mine_ do, I can tell you that. Madam." "Right or wrong, Sir Jacob?"--"It can't be wrong if I command them."--"Why, truly, Sir Jacob, there's many a private gentleman carries it higher to a servant, than he cares his _prince_ should to him; but I thought, till now, it was the king only that could do no wrong." "But I always take care to be right."--"A good reason--because, I dare say, you never think you can be in the wrong."--"Your ladyship should spare me: I'm but just come off a journey. Let me turn myself about, and I'll be up with you, never fear. Madam.--But where's my nephew, Lady Davers? And where's your lord? I was told you were all here, and young H. too upon a very extraordinary occasion; so I was willing to see how causes went among you. It will be long enough before you come to see me."--"My brother, and Lord Davers, and Mr. H. have all rode out."--"Well, niece," strutting with his hands behind him, and his head held up--"Ha!--He has made a fine kettle on't--han't he?--that ever such a rake should be so caught! They tell me, she's plaguy cunning, and quite smart and handsome. But I wish his father were living. Yet what could he have done? Your brother was always unmanageable. I wish he'd been my son; by my faith, I do! What! I hope, niece, he locks up his baby, while you're here? You don't keep her company, do you?" "Yes, Sir Jacob, I do: and you'll do so too, when you see her."--"Why, thou countenancest him in his folly, child: I'd a better opinion of thy spirit! Thou married to a lord, and thy brother to a--Can'st tell me what, Barbara? If thou can'st, pr'ythee do."--"To an angel; and so you'll say presently." "What, dost think I shall look through _his_ foolish eyes? What a disgrace to a family ancienter than the Conquest! _O Tempora! O Mores!_ What will this world come to?" The countess was diverted with this odd gentleman, but ran on in my praise, for fear he should say some rude things to me when I came in; and Lady Davers seconded her. But all signified nothing. He would tell us both his mind, let the young whelp (that was his word) take it as he would--"And pray," said he, "can't I see this fine body before he comes in? Let me but turn her round two or three times, and ask her a question or two; and by her answer I shall know what to think of her in a twinkling."--"She is gone to take a little airing, Sir Jacob, and won't be back till supper-time." "Supper-time! Why, she is not to sit at table, is she? If she does, I won't; that's positive. But now you talk of a supper, what have you?--I must have a boiled chicken, and shall eat it all myself. Who's housekeeper now? I suppose all's turned upside down." "No, there is not one new servant, except a girl that waits upon her own person: all the old ones remain."--"That's much! These creatures generally take as great state upon them as a born lady; and they're in the right. If they can make the man stoop to the great point, they'll hold his nose to the grind-stone: and all the little ones come about in course."--"Well, Sir Jacob, when you see her, you'll alter your mind."--"Never, never; that's positive." "Ay, Sir Jacob, I was as positive as you once; but I love her now as well as if she were my own sister." "O hideous, hideous! All the fools he has made wherever he has travelled, will clap their hands at him, and at you too, if you talk at this rate. But let me speak to Mrs. Jervis, if she be here: I'll order my own supper." So he went out, saying, he knew the house, though in a better mistress's days. The countess said, if Mr. B. as she hoped, kept his temper, there would be good diversion with the old gentleman. "O yes," said my lady, "my brother will, I dare say. He despises the surly brute too much to be angry with him, say what he will." He talked a great deal against me to Mrs. Jervis. You may guess, my dear, that she launched out in my praises; and he was offended at her, and said, "Woman! woman! forbear these ill-timed praises; her birth's a disgrace to our family. What! my sister's waiting-maid, taken upon charity! I cannot bear it." I mention all these things, as I afterwards heard them, because it shall prepare you to judge what a fine time I was likely to have of it. When Mr. B. and my Lord Davers, and Mr. H. came home, which they did about half an hour after six, they were told who was there, just as they entered the parlour; and Mr. B. smiled at Lord Davers, and entering, "Sir Jacob," said he, "welcome to Bedfordshire; and thrice welcome to this house; I rejoice to see you." My lady says, never was so odd a figure as the old baronet made, when thus accosted. He stood up indeed; but as Mr. B. offered to take his hand, he put 'em both behind him. "Not that you know of. Sir!" And then looking up at his face, and down at his feet, three or four times successively, "Are you my brother's son? That very individual son, that your good father used to boast of, and say, that for handsome person, true courage, noble mind, was not to be matched in any three counties in England?" "The very same, dear Sir, that my honoured father's partiality used to think he never praised enough." "And what is all of it come to at last?--He paid well, did he not, to teach you to know the world, nephew! hadst thou been born a fool, or a raw greenhead, or a doating greyhead--"--"What then, Sir Jacob?"--"Why then thou wouldst have done just as thou hast done!"--"Come, come, Sir Jacob, you know not my inducement. You know not what an angel I have in person and mind. Your eyes shall by and bye be blest with the sight of her: your ears with hearing her speak: and then you'll call all you have said, profanation."--"What is it I hear? You talk in the language of romance; and from the housekeeper to the head of the house, you're all stark staring mad. Nephew, I wish, for thy own credit, thou wert--But what signifies wishing?--I hope you'll not bring your syren into my company." "Yes, I will, Sir, because I love to give you pleasure. And say not a word more, for your own sake, till you see her. You'll have the less to unsay, Sir Jacob, and the less to repent of." "I'm in an enchanted castle, that's certain. What a plague has this little witch done to you all? And how did she bring it about?" The ladies and Lord Davers laughed, it seems; and Mr. B. begging him to sit down, and answer him some family questions, he said, (for it seems he is very captious at times), "What, am I to be laughed at!--Lord Davers, I hope _you're_ not bewitched, too, are you?"--"Indeed, Sir Jacob, I am. My sister B. is my doating-piece." "Whew!" whistled he, with a wild stare: "and how is it with you, youngster?"--"With me, Sir Jacob?" said Mr. H., "I'd give all I'm worth in the world, and ever shall be worth, for such another wife." He ran to the window, and throwing up the sash looking into the court-yard, said, "Hollo--So-ho! Groom--Jack--Jonas--Get me my horse!--I'll keep no such company!--I'll be gone! Why, Jonas!" calling again. "You're not in earnest, Sir Jacob," said Mr. B. "I am!--I'll away to the village this night! Why you're all upon the high game! I'll--But who comes here?"--For just then, the chariot brought me into the court-yard--"Who's this? who is she?"--"One of _my_ daughters," started up the countess; "my youngest daughter Jenny!--She's the pride of my family, Sir Jacob!"--"I was running; for I thought it was the grand enchantress." Out steps Lady Davers to me; "Dear Pamela," said she, "humour all that's said to you. Here's Sir Jacob come. You're the Countess of C.'s youngest daughter Jenny--That's your cue."--"Ah? but, Madam," said I, "Lady Jenny is not married," looking (before I thought) on a circumstance that I think too much of sometimes, though I carry it off as well as I can. She laughed at my exception: "Come, Lady Jenny," said she, (for I just entered the great door), "I hope you've had a fine airing."--"A very pretty one, Madam," said I, as I entered the parlour. "This is a pleasant country, Lady Davers." ("_Wink when I'm wrong," whispered I_), "Where's Mrs. B.?" Then, as seeing a strange gentleman, I started half back, into a more reserved air; and made him a low curt'sy. Sir Jacob looked as if he did not know what to think of it, now at me, now at Mr. B. who put him quite out of doubt, by taking my hand: "Well, Lady Jenny, did you meet my fugitive in your tour?" "No, Mr. B. Did she go my way? I told you I would keep the great road."--"Lady Jenny C.," said Mr. B., presenting me to his uncle. "A charming creature!" added he: "Have you not a son worthy of such an alliance?"--"Ay, nephew, this is a lady indeed! Why the plague," whispered he, "could you not have pitched your tent here? Miss, by your leave," and saluting me, turned to the countess. "Madam, you've a charming daughter! Had my rash nephew seen this lovely creature, and you condescended, he'd never have stooped to the cottage as he has done."--"You're right, Sir Jacob," said Mr. B.; "but I always ran too fast for my fortune: yet these ladies of family never bring out their jewels into bachelors' company; and when, too late, we see what we've missed, we are vexed at our precipitation." "Well said, however, boy. I wish thee repentance, though 'tis out of thy power to mend. Be that one of thy curses, when thou seest this lady; as no doubt it is." Again surveying me from head to foot, and turning me round, which, it seems, is a mighty practice with him to a stranger lady, (and a modest one too, you'll say, Miss)--"Why, truly, you're a charming creature, Miss--Lady Jenny I would say--By your leave, once more!--My Lady Countess, she is a charmer! But--but--" staring at me, "Are you married, Madam?" I looked a little silly; and my new mamma came up to me, and took my hand: "Why, Jenny, you are dressed oddly to-day!--What a hoop you wear; it makes you look I can't tell how!" "Madam, I thought so; what signifies lying?--But 'tis only the hoop, I see--Really, Lady Jenny, your hoop is enough to make half a hundred of our sex despair, lest you should be married. I thought it was something! Few ladies escape my notice. I always kept a good look-out; for I have two daughters of my own. But 'tis the hoop, I see plainly enough. You are so slender every where but _here_," putting his hand upon my hip which quite dashed me; and I retired behind my Lady Countess's chair. "Fie, Sir Jacob!" said Mr. B.; "before us young gentlemen, to take such liberties with a maiden lady! You give a bad example."--"Hang him that sets you a bad example, nephew. But I see you're right; I see Lady Jenny's a maiden lady, or she would not have been so shamefaced. I'll swear for her on occasion. Ha, ha, ha!--I'm sure," repeated he, "she's a maiden--For our sex give the married ladies a freer air in a trice."--"How, Sir Jacob!" said Lady Davers. "O fie!" said the countess. "Can't you praise the maiden ladies, but at the expense of the married ones! What do you see of freedom in me?"--"Or in me?" said Lady Davers. "Nay, for that matter you are very well, I must needs say. But will you pretend to blush with that virgin rose?--Od's my life, Miss--Lady Jenny I would say, come from behind your mamma's chair, and you two ladies stand up now together. There, so you do--Why now, blush for blush, and Lady Jenny shall be three to one, and a deeper crimson by half. Look you there else! An hundred guineas to one against the field." Then stamping with one foot, and lifting up his hands and eyes "Lady Jenny has it all to nothing--Ha, ha, ha! You may well sit down both of you; but you're a blush too late, I can tell you that. Well hast thou done. Lady Jenny," tapping my shoulder with his rough paw. I was hastening away, and he said, "But let's see you again, Miss; for now will I stay, if they bring nobody else." And away I went; for I was quite out of countenance, "What a strange creature," thought I, "is this!" Supper being near ready, he called out for Lady Jenny, for the sight of her, he said, did him good; but he was resolved not to sit down to table with _somebody else_. The countess said, she would fetch her daughter; and stepping out, returned saying, "Mrs. B. understands that Sir Jacob is here, and does not choose to see her; so she begs to be excused; and my Jenny and she desire to sup together." "The very worst tidings I have heard this twelvemonth. Why, nephew, let your girl sup with any body, so we may have Lady Jenny back with us."--"I know," said the countess, (who was desirous to see how far he could carry it), "Jenny won't leave Mrs. B.; so if you see _one_, you must see _t'other_."--"Nay, then I must sit down contented. Yet I should be glad to see Lady Jenny. But I will not sit at table with Mr. B.'s girl--that's positive." "Well, well, let 'em sup together, and there's an end of it," said Mr. B. "I see my uncle has as good a judgment as any body of fine ladies."--("_That I have, nephew._")--"But he can't forgo his humour, in compliment to the finest lady in England." "Consider, nephew, 'tis not thy doing a foolish thing, and calling a girl wife, shall cram a niece down my throat, that's positive. The moment she comes down to take place of these ladies, I am gone, that's most certain."--"Well then, shall I go up, and oblige Pamela to sup by herself, and persuade Lady Jenny to come down to us?"--"With all my soul, nephew,--a good notion.--But, Pamela--did you say?--A _queer_ sort of name! I have heard of it somewhere!--Is it a Christian or a Pagan name?--Linsey-woolsey--half one, half t'other--like thy girl--Ha, ha, ha."--"Let me be _hang'd_," whispered Mr. H. to his aunt, "if Sir Jacob has not a power of wit; though he is so whimsical with it. I like him much."--"But hark ye, nephew," said Sir Jacob, "one word with you. Don't fob upon us your girl with the Pagan name for Lady Jenny. I have set a mark upon her, and should know her from a thousand, although she had changed her hoop." Then he laughed again, and said, he hoped Lady Jenny would come--and without any body with her--"But I smell a plot," said he--"By my soul I won't stay, if they both come together. I won't be put upon--But here is one or both--Where's my whip?--I'll go."--"Indeed, Mr. B., I had rather have staid with Mrs. B.," said I, as I entered, as he had bid me. "'Tis she! 'tis she! You've nobody behind you!--No, she han't--Why now, nephew, you are right; I was afraid you'd have put a trick upon me.--You'd _rather_," repeated he to me, "have staid with Mrs. B.!--Yes, I warrant--But you shall be placed in better company, my dear child."--"Sister," said Mr. B., "will you take that chair; for Pamela does not choose to give my uncle disgust, who so seldom comes to see us." My lady took the upper end of the table, and I sat next below my new mamma. "So, Jenny," said she, "how have you left Mrs. B.?"--"A little concerned; but she was the easier, as Mr. B. himself desired I'd come down." My Lord Davers sat next me, and Sir Jacob said, "Shall I beg a favour of you, my lord, to let me sit next to Lady Jenny?" Mr. B. said, "Won't it be better to sit over-against her, uncle?"--"Ay, that's right. I' faith, nephew, thou know'st what's right. Well, so I will." He accordingly removed his seat, and I was very glad of it; for though I was sure to be stared at by him, yet I feared if he sat next me, he would not keep his hands off my hoop. He ran on a deal in my praises, after his manner, but so rough at times, that he gave me pain; and I was afraid too, lest he should observe my ring; but he stared so much in my face, that it escaped his notice. After supper, the gentlemen sat down to their bottle, and the ladies and I withdrew, and about twelve they broke up; Sir Jacob talking of nothing but Lady Jenny, and wished Mr. B. had happily married such a charming creature, who carried tokens of her high birth in her face, and whose every feature and look shewed her to be nobly descended. They let him go to bed with his mistake: but the countess said next morning, she thought she never saw a greater instance of stupid pride and churlishness; and should be sick of the advantage of birth or ancestry, if this was the natural fruit of it. "For a man," said her ladyship, "to come to his nephew's house, and to suffer the mistress of it to be closetted up (as he thinks), in order to humour his absurd and brutal insolence, and to behave as he has done, is such a ridicule upon the pride of descent, that I shall ever think of it.--O Mrs. B.," said she, "what advantages have you over every one that sees you; but most over those who pretend to treat you unworthily!" I expect to be called to breakfast every minute, and shall then, perhaps, see how this matter will end. I wish, when it is revealed, he may not be in a fury, and think himself imposed on. I fear it won't go off so well as I wish; for every body seems to be grave, and angry at Sir Jacob. THURSDAY. I now proceed with my tale. At breakfast-time, when every one was sat, Sir Jacob began to call out for Lady Jenny. "But," said he, "I'll have none of your girl, nephew: although the chair at the tea-table is left for somebody."--"No," said Mr. B., "we'll get Lady Jenny to supply Mrs. B.'s place, since you don't care to see her."--"With all my heart," replied he.--"But, uncle," said Mr. B., "have you really no desire, no curiosity to see the girl I have married?"--"No, none at all, by my soul." Just then I came in, and paying my compliments to the company, and to Sir Jacob--"Shall I," said I, "supply Mrs. B.'s place in her absence?" And down I sat. After breakfast, and the servants were withdrawn--"Lady Jenny," said Lady Davers, "you are a young lady, with all the advantages of birth and descent, and some of the best blood in the kingdom runs in your veins; and here Sir Jacob Swynford is your great admirer; cannot _you_, from whom it will come with a double grace, convince him that he acts unkindly at my brother's house, to keep the person he has thought worthy of making the mistress of it, out of company? And let us know your opinion, whether my brother himself does right, to comply with such an unreasonable distaste?"--"Why, how now, Lady Davers! This from you! I did not expect it!" "My uncle," said Mr. B., "is the only person in the kingdom that I would have humoured thus: and I made no doubt, when he saw how willing I was to oblige him in such a point, he would have acted a more generous part than he has yet done.--But, Lady Jenny, what say you to my sister's questions?" "If I must speak my mind," replied I, "I should take the liberty to be very serious with Sir Jacob, and to say, that when a thing is done, and cannot be helped, he should take care how he sows the seeds of indifference and animosity between man and wife, and makes a gentleman dissatisfied with his choice, and perhaps unhappy as long as he lives."--"Nay, Miss," said he, "if all are against me, and you, whose good opinion I value most, you may e'en let the girl come, and sit down.--If she is but half as pretty, and half as wise, and modest, as you, I shall, as it cannot be helped, as you say, be ready to think better of the matter. For 'tis a little hard, I must needs say, if she has hitherto appeared before all the good company, to keep her out of the way on my account."--"Really, Sir Jacob," said the countess, "I have blushed for you more than once on this occasion. But the mistress of this house is more than half as wise, and modest, and lovely: and in hopes you will return me back some of the blushes I have lent you, see _there_, in my daughter Jenny, whom you have been so justly admiring, the mistress of the house, and the lady with the Pagan name." Sir Jacob sat aghast, looking at us all in turn, and then cast his eyes on the floor. At last, up he got, and swore a sad oath: "And am I thus tricked and bamboozled," that was his word; "am I? There's no bearing this house, nor her presence, now, that's certain; and I'll begone." Mr. B. looking at me, and nodding his head towards Sir Jacob, as he was in a flutter to begone, I rose from my chair, and went to him, and took his hand. "I hope, Sir Jacob, you will be able to bear _both_, when you shall see no other difference but that of descent, between the supposed Lady Jenny you so kindly praised, and the girl your dear nephew has so much exalted."--"Let me go," said he; "I am most confoundedly bit. I cannot look you in the face! By my soul, I cannot! For 'tis impossible you should forgive me."--"Indeed it is not, Sir; you have done nothing but what I can forgive you for, if your dear nephew can; for to him was the wrong, if any, and I am sure he can overlook it. And for his sake, to the uncle of so honoured a gentleman, to the brother of my late good lady, I can, with a bent knee, _thus_, ask your blessing, and your excuse for joining to keep you in this suspense."--"Bless you!" said he, and stamped--"Who can choose but bless you?"-and he kneeled down, and wrapped his arms about me.--"But, curse me," that was his strange word, "if ever I was so touched before!" My dear Mr. B., for fear my spirits should be too much affected (for the rough baronet, in his transport, had bent me down lower than I kneeled), came and held my arm; but permitted Sir Jacob to raise me; only saying, "How does my angel? Now she has made this conquest, she has completed all her triumphs."--"Angel, did you call her?--I'm confounded with her goodness, and her sweet carriage!--Rise, and let me see if I can stand myself! And, believe me, I am sorry I have acted thus so much like a bear; and the more I think of it, the more I shall be ashamed of myself." And the tears, as he spoke, ran down his rough cheeks; which moved me much; for to see a man with so hard a countenance weep, was a touching sight. Mr. H. putting his handkerchief to his eyes, his aunt said, "What's the matter, Jackey?"--"I don't know how 'tis," answered he; "but here's strange doings, as ever I knew--For, day after day, one's ready to cry, without knowing whether it be for joy or sorrow!--What a plague's the matter with me, I wonder!" And out he went, the two ladies, whose charming eyes, too, glistened with pleasure, smiling at the effect the scene had upon Mr. H. and at what he said.--"Well, Madam," said Sir Jacob, approaching me; for I had sat down, but then stood up--"You will forgive me; and from my heart I wish you joy. By my soul I do,"--and saluted me.--"I could not have believed there had been such a person breathing. I don't wonder at my nephew's loving you!--And you call her sister, Lady Davers, don't you?--If you do, I'll own her for my niece." "Don't I!--Yes, I do," said she, coming to me, "and am proud so to call her. And this I tell you, for _your_ comfort, though to _my own shame_, that I used her worse than you have done, before I knew her excellence; and have repented of it ever since." I bowed to her ladyship, and kissed her hand--"My dearest lady," said I, "you have made me such rich amends since, that I am sure I may say, '_It was good for me that I was afflicted!_'"--"Why, nephew, she has the fear of God, I perceive, before her eyes too! I'm sure I've heard those words. They are somewhere in the Scripture, I believe!--Why, who knows but she may be a means to save your soul!--Hey, you know!"--"Ay, Sir Jacob, she'll be a means to save a hundred souls, and might go a great way to save yours if you were to live with her but one month." "Well, but, nephew, I hope you forgive me too; for now I think of it, I never knew you take any matter so patiently in my life."--"I knew," said Mr. B., "that every extravagance you insisted upon, was heightening my charmer's triumph, and increasing your own contrition; and, as I was not _indeed_ deprived of her company, I could bear with every thing you said or did--Yet, don't you remember my caution, that the less you said against her, the less you'd have to unsay, and the less to repent of!" "I do; and let me ride out, and call myself to account for all I have said against her, in her own hearing; and when I can think of but one half, and how she has taken it, by my soul, I believe 'twill make me _more_ than half mad." At dinner (when we had Mr. Williams's company), the baronet told me, he admired me now, as much as when he thought me Lady Jenny; but complained of the trick put upon him by us all, and seemed now and then a little serious upon it. He took great notice of the dexterity which he imputed to me, in performing the honours of the table. And every now and then, he lifted up his eyes--"Very clever.--Why, Madam, you seem to me to be born to these things!--I will be helped by nobody but you--And you'll have a task of it, I can tell you; for I have a whipping stomach, and were there fifty dishes, I always taste of every one." And, indeed, John was in a manner wholly employed in going to and fro between the baronet and me, for half an hour together.--He went from us afterwards to Mrs. Jervis, and made her answer many questions about me, and how all these matters had _come about_, as he phrased it; and returning, when we drank coffee, said, "I have been _confabbing_ with Mrs. Jervis, about you, niece. I never heard the like! She says you can play on the harpsichord, and sing too; will you let a body have a tune or so? My Mab can play pretty well, and so can Dolly; I'm a judge of music, and would fain hear you." I said, if he was a judge, I should be afraid to play before him; but I would not be asked twice, after our coffee. Accordingly he repeated his request. I gave him a tune, and, at his desire, sung to it: "Od's my life," said he, "you do it purely!--But I see where it is. My girls have got _my_ fingers!" Then he held both hands out, and a fine pair of paws shewed he. "Plague on't, they touch two keys at once; but those slender and nimble fingers, how they sweep along! My eye can't follow 'em--Whew," whistled he, "they are here and there, and every where at once!--Why, nephew, I believe you have put another trick upon me. My niece is certainly of quality! And report has not done her justice.--One more tune, one more song--By my faith, your voice goes sweetly to your fingers. 'Slife--I'll thrash my jades," that was his polite phrase, "when I get home.--Lady Davers, you know not the money they have cost me to qualify them; and here's a mere baby to them outdoes 'em by a bar's length, without any expense at all bestowed upon her. Go over that again--Confound me for a puppy! I lost it by my prating.--Ay, there you have it! Oh! that I could but dance as well as thou sing'st! I'd give you a saraband, old as I am." After supper, we fell into a conversation, of which I must give you some account, being on a topic that Mr. B. has been blamed for in his marrying me, and which has stuck by some of his friends, even after they have, in kindness to me, acquitted him in every other respect; and that is, _the example he has set to young gentlemen of family and fortune to marry beneath them_.--It was begun by Sir Jacob, who said, "I am in love with my new niece, that I am: but still one thing sticks with me in this affair, which is, what will become of degree or distinction, if this practice of gentlemen marrying their mothers' waiting-maids--excuse me, Madam--should come into vogue? Already, young ladies and young gentlemen are too apt to be drawn away thus, and disgrace their families. We have too many instances of this. You'll forgive me, both of you." "That," said Lady Davers, "is the _only_ thing!--Sir Jacob has hit upon the point that would make one wish this example had not been set by a gentleman of such an ancient family, till one becomes acquainted with this dear creature; and then every body thinks it should not be otherwise than it is." "Ay, Pamela," said Mr. B., "what can you say to this? Cannot you defend me from this charge? This is a point that has been often objected to me; try for one of your pretty arguments in my behalf." "Indeed, Sir," replied I, looking down, "it becomes not me to say any thing to this."--"But indeed it does, if you can: and I beg you'll help me to some excuse, if you have any at hand."--"Won't you. Sir, dispense with me on this occasion? I know, not what to say. Indeed I should not, if I may judge for myself, speak one _word_ to this subject.--For it is my absolute opinion, that degrees in general should be kept up; although I must always deem the present case an happy exception to the rule." Mr. B. looked as if he still expected I should say something.--"Won't you, Sir, dispense with me?" repeated I. "Indeed I should not speak to this point, if I may be my own judge." "I always intend, my dear, you shall judge for yourself; and, you know, I seldom urge you farther, when you use those words. But if you have any thing upon your mind to say, let's have it; for your arguments are always new and unborrowed." "I would then, if I _must_, Sir, ask, if there be not a nation, or if there has not been a law in some nation, which, whenever a young gentleman, be _his_ degree what it would, has seduced a poor creature, be _her_ degree what it would, obliges him to marry that unhappy person?"--"I think there is such a law in some country, I can't tell where," said Sir Jacob. "And do you think, Sir, whether it be so or not, that it is equitable it should be so?" "Yes, by my troth. Though I must needs own, if it were so in England, many men, that I know, would not have the wives they now have."--"You speak to your knowledge, I doubt not, Sir Jacob?" said Mr. B. "Why, truly--I don't know but I do." "All then," said I, "that I would infer, is, whether another law would not be a still more just and equitable one, that the gentleman who is repulsed, from a principle of virtue and honour, should not be censured for marrying a person he could _not_ seduce? And whether it is not more for both their honours, if he does: since it is nobler to reward a virtue, than to repair a shame, were that shame to be repaired by matrimony, which I take the liberty to doubt. But I beg pardon: you commanded me, Sir, else this subject should not have found a speaker to it, in me." "This is admirably said," cried Sir Jacob.--"But yet this comes not up to the objection," said Mr. B. "The setting an example to waiting-maids to aspire, and to young gentlemen to descend. And I will enter into the subject myself; and the rather, because as I go along, I will give Sir Jacob a faint sketch of the merit and character of my Pamela, of which he cannot be so well informed as he has been of the disgrace which he imagined I had brought upon myself by marrying her.--I think it necessary, that as well those persons who are afraid the example should be taken, as those who are inclined to follow it, should consider _all_ the material parts of it; otherwise, I think the precedent may be justly cleared; and the fears of the one be judged groundless, and the plea of the other but a pretence, in order to cover a folly into which they would have fallen, whether they had this example or not. For instance, in order to lay claim to the excuses, which my conduct, if I may suppose it of force enough to do either good or hurt, will furnish, it is necessary, that the object of their wish should be a girl of exquisite beauty (and that not only in their own blinded and partial judgments, but in the opinion of _every one_ who sees her, friend or foe), in order to justify the force which the _first_ attractions have upon him: that she be descended of honest and conscientious, though poor and obscure parents; who having preserved their integrity, through great trials and afflictions, have, by their examples, as well as precepts, laid deep in the girl's mind the foundations of piety and virtue. "It is necessary that, to the charms of person, this waiting-maid, should have an humble, teachable mind, fine natural parts, a sprightly, yet inoffensive wit, a temper so excellent, and a judgment so solid, as should promise (by the love and esteem these qualities should attract to herself from her fellow-servants, superior and inferior) that she would become a higher station, and be respected in it.--And that, after so good a foundation laid by her parents, she should have all the advantages of female education conferred upon her; the example of an excellent lady, improving and building upon so worthy a foundation: a capacity surprisingly ready to take in all that is taught her: an attention, assiduity, and diligence almost peculiar to herself, at her time of life; so as, at fifteen or sixteen years of age, to be able to vie with any young ladies of rank, as well in the natural genteelness of her person, as in her acquirements: and that in nothing but her humility she should manifest any difference between herself and the high-born. "It will be necessary, moreover, that she should have a mind above temptation; that she should resist the _offers_ and _menaces_ of one upon whom all her worldly happiness seemed to depend; the son of a lady to whom she owed the greatest obligations; a person whom she did not _hate_, but greatly _feared_, and whom her grateful heart would have been _glad_ to oblige; and who sought to prevail over her virtue, by all the inducements that could be thought of, to _attract_ a young unexperienced virgin at one time, or to _frighten_ her at another, into his purposes; who offered her very high terms, her circumstances considered, as well for herself, as for parents she loved better than herself, whose circumstances were low and distressful; yet, to all these _offers_ and _menaces_, that she should be able to answer in such words as these, which will always dwell upon my memory--'I reject your proposals with all my soul. May God desert me, whenever I make worldly grandeur my chiefest good! I know I am in your power; I dread your will to ruin me is as great as your power. Yet, will I dare to tell you, I will make no free-will offering of my virtue. All that I _can_ do, poor as it is, I _will_ do, to shew you, that my will bore no part in the violation of me.' And when future marriage was intimated to her, to induce her to yield, to be able to answer, 'The moment I yield to your proposals, there is an end of all merit, if now I have any. And I should be so far from _expecting_ such an honour that I will pronounce I should be most _unworthy_ of it.' "If, I say, such a girl can be found, thus beautifully attractive in _every one's_ eye, and not partially so only in a young gentle man's _own_; and after that (what good persons would infinitely prefer to beauty), thus piously principled; thus genteely educated and accomplished; thus brilliantly witty; thus prudent, modest, generous, undesigning; and having been thus tempted, thus tried, by the man she hated not, pursued (not intriguingly pursuing), be thus inflexibly virtuous, and proof against temptation: let her reform her libertine, and let him marry her; and were he of princely extraction, I dare answer for it, that no _two_ princes in _one age_, take the world through, would be in danger. For, although I am sensible it is not to my credit, I will say, that I never met with a repulse, nor a conduct like this; and yet I never sunk very low for the subjects of my attempts, either at home or abroad. These are obvious inferences," added he, "not refinements upon my Pamela's story; and if the gentlemen were capable of thought and comparison, would rather make such an example, as is apprehended, _more_ than _less_ difficult than _before_. "But if, indeed, the young fellow be such a booby, that he cannot _reflect_ and _compare_, and take the case _with all its circumstances_ together, I think his good papa or mamma should get him a wife to their own liking, as soon as possible; and the poorest girl in England, who is honest, should rather bless herself for escaping such a husband, than glory in the catch she would have of him. For he would hardly do honour to his family in any one instance."--"Indeed," said the countess, "it would be pity, after all, that such an one should marry any lady of prudence and birth; for 'tis enough in conscience, that he is a disgrace to _one_ worthy family; it would be pity he should make _two_ unhappy." "Why, really, nephew," said Sir Jacob, "I think you have said much to the purpose. There is not so much danger, from the example, as I apprehended, from _sensible_ and _reflecting_ minds. I did not consider this matter thoroughly, I must needs say." "And the business is," said Lady Davers--"You'll excuse me, sister--There will be more people hear that Mr. B. has married his mother's waiting-maid, than will know his inducements."--"Not many, I believe, sister. For when 'tis known, I have some character in the world, and am not quite an idiot (and my faults, in having not been one of the most virtuous of men, will stand me in some stead in _this_ case, though hardly in _any other_) they will naturally enquire into my inducements.--But see you not, when we go abroad, what numbers of people her character draws to admire the dear creature? Does not this shew, that her virtue has made her more conspicuous than my fortune has made me? For I passed up and down quietly enough before (handsome as my equipage always was) and attracted not any body's notice: and indeed I had as lieve these honours were not so publicly paid _her_; for even, were I fond to shew and parade, what are they, but a reproach to me? And can I have any excellence, but a secondary one, in having, after all my persecutions of her, done but common justice to her merit?--This answers your objection, Lady Davers, and shews that _my_ inducements and _her_ story must be equally known. And I really think (every thing I have said considered, and that might still farther be urged, and the conduct of the dear creature in the station she adorns, so much exceeding all I hoped or could expect from the most promising appearances), that she does _me_ more honour than I have done _her_; and if I could put myself in a third person's place, I think I should be of the same opinion, were I to determine upon such another pair, exactly circumstanced as we are." You may believe, my friend, how much this generous defence of the step he had taken, attributing every thing to me, and deprecating his worthy self, affected me. I played with a cork one while, with my rings another; looking down, and every way but on the company; for they gazed too much upon me all the time; so that I could only glance a tearful eye now and then upon the dear man; and when it would overflow, catch in my handkerchief the escaped fugitives that would start unbidden beyond their proper limits, though I often tried, by a twinkling motion, to disperse the gathering water, before it had formed itself into drops too big to be restrained. All the company praised the dear generous speaker; and he was pleased to say farther, "Although, my good friends, I can truly say, that with all the pride of family, and the insolence of fortune, which once made me doubt whether I should not sink too low, if I made my Pamela my mistress (for I should then have treated her not ungenerously, and should have suffered her, perhaps, to call herself by my name), I have never once repented of what I have done; on the contrary, always rejoiced in it, and it has been, from the first day of our marriage, my pride and my boast (and shall be, let others say what they will), that I can call such an excellence, and such a purity, which I so little deserve, mine; and I look down with contempt upon the rashness of all who reflect upon me; for they can have no notion of my happiness or her merit." "O dear Sir, how do you overrate my poor merit!--Some persons are happy in a life of _comforts_, but mine's a life of _joy!_--One rapturous instance follows another so fast, that I know not how to bear them." "Whew!" whistled Sir Jacob. "Whereabouts am I?--I hope by-and-by you'll come down to our pitch, that one may put in a word or two with you." "May you be long thus blest and happy together!" said Lady Davers. "I know not which to admire most, the dear girl that never was bad, or the dear man, who, having been bad, is now so good!" Said Lord Davers, "There is hardly any bearing these moving scenes, following one another so quick, as my sister says." The countess was pleased to say, that till now she had been at a loss to form any notion of the happiness of the first pair before the Fall; but now, by so fine an instance as this, she comprehended it in all its force. "God continue you to one another," added she, "for a credit to the state, and to human nature." Mr. H., having his elbows on the table, folded his hands, shaking them, and looking down--"Egad, this is uncommon life, that it is! Your two souls, I can see that, are like well-tuned instruments; but they are too high set for me, a vast deal." "The best thing," said Lady Davers (always severe upon her poor nephew), "thou ever saidst. The music must be equal to that of Orpheus, which can make such a savage as thee dance to it. I charge thee, say not another word tonight."--"Why, indeed, aunt," returned he, laughing, "I believe it _was_ pretty well said for your foolish fellow: though it was by chance, I must confess; I did not think of it."--"That I believe," replied my lady; "if thou hadst, thou'dst not have spoken so well." Sir Jacob and Mr. B. afterwards fell into a family discourse; and Sir Jacob told us of two or three courtships by his three sons, and to his two daughters, and his reasons for disallowing them: and I could observe, he is an absolute tyrant in his family, though they are all men and women grown, and he seemed to please himself how much they stood in awe of him. I would not have been so tediously trifling, but for the sake of my dear parents; and there is so much self-praise, as it may seem, from a person on repeating the fine things said of herself, that I am half of opinion I should send them to Kent only, and to think you should be obliged to me for saving you so much trouble and impertinence. Do, dear Miss, be so free as to forbid me to send you any more long journals, but common letters only, of how you do? and who and who's together, and of respects to one another, and so forth--letters that one might dispatch, as Sir Jacob says, in a _twinkling_, and perhaps be more to the purpose than the tedious scrawl which kisses your hands, from _yours most sincerely_, P.B. Do, dear good Sir Simon, let Miss Polly add to our delights, by her charming company. Mr. Murray, and the new affair will divert _you_, in her absence.--So pray, since my good Lady Darnford has consented, and she is willing, and her sister can spare her; don't be so cross as to deny me. * * * * * LETTER XXXIV _From Miss Damford to Mrs. B._ MY DEAR MRS. B., You have given us great pleasure in your accounts of your conversations, and of the verses put so wickedly under your seat; and in your just observations on the lines, and occasions. I am quite shocked, when I think of Lady Davers's passionate intentions at the hall, but have let nobody into the worst of the matter, in compliance with your desire. We are delighted with the account of your family management, and your Sunday's service. What an excellent lady you are! And how happy and good you make all who know you, is seen by the ladies joining in your evening service, as well as their domestics. We go on here swimmingly with our courtship. Never was there a fonder couple than Mr. Murray and Miss Nancy. The modest girl is quite alive, easy, and pleased, except now-and-then with me. We had a sad falling out t'other day. Thus it was:--She had the assurance, on my saying, they were so fond and free before-hand, that they would leave nothing for improvement afterwards, to tell me, she had long perceived, that my envy was very disquieting to me. This she said before Mr. Murray, who had the good manners to retire, seeing a storm rising between us. "Poor foolish girl!" cried I, when he was gone, provoked to great contempt by her expression before him, "thou wilt make me despise thee in spite of my heart. But, pr'ythee, manage thy matters with common decency, at least."--"Good lack! _Common decency_, did you say? When my sister Polly is able to shew me what it is, I shall hope to be better for her example."--"No, thou'lt never be better for any body's example! Thy ill-nature and perverseness will continue to keep thee from that."--"My ill-temper, you have often told me, is _natural_ to me; so it must become _me:_ but upon such a sweet-tempered young lady as Miss Polly, her late assumed petulance sits but ill!" "I must have had no bad temper, and that every one says, to bear with thy sullen and perverse one, as I have done all my life." "But why can't you bear with it a little longer, sister? Does any thing provoke you _now_" (with a sly leer and affected drawl) "that did not _formerly?_" "Provoke me!--What should provoke me? I gave thee but a hint of thy fond folly, which makes thee behave so before company, that every one smiles at thee; and I'd be glad to save thee from contempt for thy _new_ good humour, as I used to try to do, for thy _old_ bad nature." "Is that it? What a kind sister have I! But I see it vexes you; and _ill-natured_ folks love to teaze, you know. But, dear Polly, don't let the affection Mr. Murray expresses for me, put such a good-tempered body out of humour, pray don't--Who knows" (continued the provoker, who never says a tolerable thing that is not ill-natured) "but the gentleman may be happy that he has found a way, with so much ease, to dispense with the difficulty that eldership laid him under? But, as he did you the favour to let the repulse come from you, don't be angry, sister, that he took you at the first word." "Indeed," said I, with a contemptuous smile, "thou'rt in the right, Nancy, to take the gentleman at _his_ first word. Hold him fast, and play over all thy monkey tricks with him, with all my heart; who knows but it may engage him more? For, should _he_ leave thee, I might be too much provoked at thy ingratitude, _to turn over_ another gentleman to thee. And let me tell thee, without such an introduction, thy temper would keep any body from thee, that knows it!" "Poor Miss Polly--Come, be as easy as you can! Who knows but we may find out some cousin or friend of Mr. Murray's between us, that we may persuade to address you? Don't make us your enemies: we'll try to make you easy, if we can. 'Tis a little hard, that you should be so cruelly taken at your word, that it is."--"Dost think," said I, "poor, stupid, ill-judging Nancy, that I can have the same regret for parting with a man I could not like, that thou hadst, when thy vain hopes met with the repulse they deserved from Mr. B.?"--"Mr. B. come up again? I have not heard of him a great while."--"No, but it was necessary that one nail should drive out another; for thou'dst been repining still, had not Mr. Murray been _turned over_ to thee."--"_Turned over!_ You used that word once before: such great wits as you, methinks, should not use the same word twice." "How dost thou know what wits _should_ or should _not_ do? Thou hast no talent but ill-nature; and 'tis enough for thee, that _one_ view takes up thy whole thought. Pursue that--But I would only caution thee, not to _satiate_ where thou wouldst _oblige_, that's all; or, if thy man can be so gross as to like thy fondness, to leave something for _hereafter_." "I'll call him in again, sister, and you shall acquaint us how you'd have it. Bell" (for the maid came in just then), "tell Mr. Murray I desire him to walk in."--"I'm glad to see thee so teachable all at once!--I find now what was the cause of thy constant perverseness: for had the unavailing lessons my mamma was always inculcating into thee, come from a _man_ thou couldst have had hopes of, they had succeeded better." In came Sir Simon with his crutch-stick--But can you bear this nonsense, Mrs. B.?--"What sparring, jangling again, you sluts!--O what fiery eyes on one side! and contemptuous looks on t'other!" "Why, papa, my sister Polly has _turned over_ Mr. Murray to me, and she wants him back again, and he won't come--That's all the matter!" "You know Nancy, papa, never could _bear_ reproof, and yet would always _deserve_ it!--I was only gently remarking for her instruction, on her fondness before company, and she is as she _used to be!_--Courtship, indeed, is a new thing to the poor girl, and so she knows not how to behave herself in it." "So, Polly, because you have been able to run over a long list of humble servants, you must insult your sister, must you?--But are you really concerned, Polly?--Hey!"--"Sir, this or anything is very well from you. But these imputations of envy, before Mr. Murray, must make the man very considerable with himself. Poor Nancy don't consider that. But, indeed, how should she? How should _she_ be able to reflect, who knows not what reflection is, except of the spiteful sort? But, papa, should the poor thing add to _his_ vanity, which wants no addition, at the expense of that pride, which can only preserve her from contempt?" I saw her affected, and was resolved to pursue my advantage. "Pr'ythee, Nancy," continued I, "canst thou not have a _little_ patience, child--My papa will set the day as soon as he shall think it proper. And don't let thy man toil to keep pace with thy fondness; for I have pitied him many a time, when I have seen him stretched on the tenters to keep thee in countenance." This set the ill-natured girl in tears and fretfulness; all her old temper came upon her, as I designed it should, for she had kept me at bay longer than usual; and I left her under the dominion of it, and because I would not come into fresh dispute, got my mamma's leave, and went in the chariot, to beg a dinner at Lady Jones's; and then came home as cool and as easy as I used to be; and found Nancy as sullen and silent, as was her custom, before Mr. Murray tendered himself to her ready acceptance. But I went to my spinnet, and suffered her to swell on. We have said nothing but No and Yes ever since; and I wish I was with you for a month, and all their nonsense over without me. I am, my dear, obliging, and excellent Mrs. B., _your faithful and affectionate_ Polly Darnford. The two following anticipating the order of time, for the reasons formerly mentioned, we insert here. * * * * * LETTER XXXV _From Miss Darnford to Mrs. B._ MY DEAR MRS. B., Pray give my service to your Mr. B. and tell him he is very impolite in his reflections upon me, as to Mr. Murray, when he supposes I regret the loss of him. You are much more favourable and _just_ too, I will say, to your Polly Damford. These gentlemen, the very best of them, are such indelicates! They think so highly of their saucy selves, and confident sex, as if a lady cannot from _her_ heart despise them; but if she turns them off, as they deserve, and continues her dislike, what should be interpreted in her favour, as a just and _regular_ conduct, is turned against her, and it must proceed from spite. Mr. B. may think he knows much of the sex. But were I as malicious as he is reflecting (and yet, if I have any malice, he has raised it), I could say, that his acquaintance, was not with the most unexceptionable, till he knew you: and he has not long enough been happy in you, I find, to do justice to those who are proud to emulate your virtues. I say, Mrs. B., there can be no living with these men upon such beginnings. They ought to know their distance, or be taught it, and not to think it in their power to confer that as a favour, which they should esteem it an honour to receive. But neither can I bear, it seems, the preparatives to matrimony, the fine clothes, the compliments, the _busy novelty_, as he calls it, the new equipages, and so forth. That's his mistake again, tell him: for one who can look forwarder than the nine days of wonder, can easily despise so flashy and so transient a glare. And were I fond of compliments, it would not, perhaps, be the way to be pleased, in that respect, if I were to marry. Compliments in the single state are a lady's due, whether courted or not; and she receives, or ought always to receive them, as such; but in courtship they are poured out upon one, like a hasty shower, soon to be over. A mighty comfortable consideration this, to a lady who _loves to be complimented_! Instead of the refreshing April-like showers, which beautify the sun-shine, she shall stand a deluge of complaisance, be wet to the skin with it; and what then? Why be in a Lybian desert ever after!--experience a constant parching drought and all her attributed excellencies will be swallowed up in the quicksands of matrimony. It may be otherwise with you; and it _must_ be so; because there is such an infinite variety in your excellence. But does Mr. B. think it must be so in _every_ matrimony? 'Tis true, he improves every hour, as I see in his fine speeches to you. But it could not be Mr. B. if he did not: your merit _extorts_ it from him: and what an ungrateful, as well as absurd churl, would he be, who should seek to obscure a meridian lustre, that dazzles the eyes of every one else? I thank you for your delightful narratives, and beg you to continue them. I told you how your Saturday's conversation with Lady Davers, and your Sunday employments, charm us all: so regular, and so easy to be performed--That's the delightful thing--What every body may do;-and yet so beautiful, so laudable, so uncommon in the practice, especially among people in genteel life!--Your conversation and decision in relation to the two parsons (more than charm) transport us. Mr. B. judges right, and acts a charming part, to throw such a fine game into your hands. And so excellently do you play it, that you do as much credit to your partner's judgment as to your own. Never was so happy a couple. Mr. Williams is more my favourite than ever; and the amply rewarded Mr. Adams, how did that scene affect us! Again and again, I say (for what can I say else or more--since I can't find words to speak all I think?), you're a charming lady! Yet, methinks, poor Mr. H. makes but a sorry figure among you. We are delighted with Lady Davers; but still more, if possible, with the countess: she is a fine lady, as you have drawn her: but your characters, though truth and nature, are the most shocking, or the most amiable, that I ever read. We are full of impatience to hear of the arrival of Sir Jacob Swynford. We know his character pretty well: but when he has sat for it to your pencil, it must be an original indeed. I will have another trial with my papa, to move him to let me attend you. I am rallying my forces, and have got my mamma on my side again; who is concerned to see her girl vexed and insulted by her younger sister; and who yet minds no more what _she_ says to her, than what I say; and Sir Simon loves to make mischief between us, instead of interposing to silence either: and truly, I am afraid his delight of this kind will make him deny his Polly what she so ardently wishes for. I had a good mind to be sick, to be with you. I could fast two or three days, to give it the better appearance; but then my mamma, who loves not deceit, would blame me, if she knew my stratagem; and be grieved, if she thought I was really ill. I know, fasting, when one has a stomach to eat, gives one a very gloomy and mortified air. What would I not do, in short, to procure to myself the inexpressible pleasure that I should have in your company and conversation? But continue to write to me till then, however, and that will be _next best_. I am _your most obliged and obedient_ POLLY DARNFORD. LETTER XXXVI From the same. My Dearest Mrs. B., I am all over joy and rapture. My good papa permits me to say, that he will put his Polly under your protection, when you go to London. If you have but a _tenth part_ of the pleasure I have on this occasion, I am sure, I shall be as welcome as I wish. But he will insist upon it, he says, that Mr. B. signs some acknowledgment, which I am to carry along with _me_, that I am intrusted to his honour and yours, and to be returned to him _heart-whole_ and _dutiful_, and with a reputation as unsullied as he receives me. But do continue your journals till then; for I have promised to take them up where you leave off, to divert our friends here. There will be presumption! But yet I will write nothing but what I will shew you, and have your consent to send! For I was taught early not to tell tales out of school; and a school, the best I ever went to, will be your charming conversation. We were greatly diverted with the trick put upon that _barbarian_ Sir Jacob. His obstinacy, repentance, and amendment, followed so irresistibly in one half hour, from the happy thought of the excellent lady countess, that I think no plot was ever more fortunate. It was like springing a lucky mine in a siege, that blew up twenty times more than was expected from it, and answered all the besiegers' ends at once. Mr. B.'s defence of his own conduct towards you is quite noble; and he judges with his usual generosity and good sense, when, by adding to your honour, he knows he enhances his own. You bid me skim over your writings lightly; but 'tis impossible. I will not flatter you, my dear Mrs. B., nor will I be suspected to do so; and yet I cannot find words to praise, so much as I think you deserve: so I will only say that your good parents, for whose pleasure you write, as well as for mine, cannot receive or read them with more delight than I do. Even my sister Nancy (judge of their effect by this!) will at any time leave Murray, and forget to frown or be ill-natured, while she can hear read what you write. And, angry as she makes me some times, I cannot deny her this pleasure, because possibly, among the innumerable improving reflections they abound with, some one may possibly dart in upon her, and illuminate her, as your conversation and behaviour did Sir Jacob. But your application in P.S. to my papa pleased him; and confirmed his resolution to let me go. He snatched the sheet that contained this, "That's to me," said he: "I must read this myself." He did, and said, "She's a sweet one: '_Do dear good Sir Simon_,'" repeated he aloud, "'_let Miss Polly add to our delights!_' So she shall, then;--if that will do it!--And yet this same Mrs. B. has so many delights already, that I should think she might be contented. But, Dame Darnford, I think I'll let her go. These sisters then, you'll see, how they'll love at a distance, though always quarrelling when together." He read on, "'_The new affair will divert you--Lady Darnford has consented--Miss is willing; and her sister can spare her;'_--Very prettily put, faith--'_And don't you be cross_'--Very sweet '_to deny me_.'--Why, dear Mrs. B., I won't be so cross then; indeed I won't!--And so, Polly, let 'em send word when they set out for London, and you shall join 'em there with all my heart; but I'll have a letter every post, remember that, girl." "Any thing, any thing, dear papa," said I: "so I can but go!" He called for a kiss, for his compliance. I gave it most willingly, you may believe. Nancy looked envious, although Mr. Murray came in just then. She looked almost like a great glutton, whom I remember; one Sir Jonathan Smith, who killed himself with eating: he used, while he was heaping up his plate from one dish, to watch the others, and follow the knife of every body else with such a greedy eye, as if he could swear a robbery against any one who presumed to eat as well as he. Well, let's know when you set out, and you shan't have been a week in London, if I can help it, but you shall be told by my tongue, as now by my pen, how much I am _your obliged admirer and friend_, POLLY DARNFORD. LETTER XXXVII MY DEAR FRIEND, I now proceed with my journal, which I had brought down to Thursday night. FRIDAY. The two ladies resolving, as they said, to inspect all my proceedings, insisted upon it, that I would take them with me in my _benevolent round_ (as they, after we returned, would call it), which I generally take once a week, among my poor and sick neighbours; and finding I could not get off, I set out with them, my lady countess proposing Mrs. Worden to fill up the fourth place in the coach. We talked all the way of charity, and the excellence of that duty; and my Lady Davers took notice of the text, that it would hide a _multitude of faults_. The countess said she had once a much better opinion of herself, than she found she had reason for, within these _few_ days past: "And indeed, Mrs. B.," said she, "when I get home, I shall make a good many people the better for your example." And so said Lady Davers; which gave me no small inward pleasure; and I acknowledged, in suitable terms, the honour they both did me. The coach set us down by the side of a large common, about five miles distant from our house; and we alighted, and walked a little way, choosing not to have the coach come nearer, that we might be taken as little notice of as possible; and they entered with me into two mean cots with great condescension and goodness; one belonging to a poor widow and five children, who had been all down in agues and fevers; the other to a man and his wife bed-rid with age and infirmities, and two honest daughters, one a widow with two children, the other married to an husbandman, who had also been ill, but now, by comfortable cordials, and good physic, were pretty well to what they had been. The two ladies were well pleased with my demeanour to the good folks: to whom I said, that as I should go so soon to London, I was willing to see them before I went, to wish them better and better, and to tell them, that I should leave orders with Mrs. Jervis concerning them, to whom they must make known their wants: and that Mr. Barrow would take care of them, I was sure; and do all that was in the power of physic for the restoration of their healths. Now you must know, Miss, that I am not so good as the old ladies of former days, who used to distil cordial waters, and prepare medicines, and dispense them themselves. I knew, if I were so inclined, my dear Mr. B. would not have been pleased with it, because in the approbation he has kindly given to my present method, he has twice or thrice praised me, that I don't carry my charity to extremes, and make his house a dispensatory. I would not, therefore, by aiming at doing too much, lose the opportunity of doing any good at all in these respects; and besides, as the vulgar saying is, One must creep before one goes. But this is my method: I am upon an agreement with this Mr. Barrow, who is deemed a very skilful and honest apothecary, and one Mr. Simmonds, a surgeon of like character, to attend to all such cases and persons as I shall recommend; Mr. Barrow, to administer physic and cordials, as he shall judge proper, and even, in necessary cases, to call in a physician. And now and then, by looking in upon them one's self, or sending a servant to ask questions, all is kept right. My Lady Davers observed a Bible, a Common Prayer-book, and a Whole Duty of Man, in each cot, in leathern outside cases, to keep them clean, and a Church Catechism or two for the children; and was pleased to say, it was right; and her ladyship asked one of the children, a pretty girl, who learnt her her catechism? And she curtsey'd and looked at me; for I do ask the children questions, when I come, to know how they improve; "'Tis as I thought," said my lady; "my sister provides for both parts. God bless you, my dear!" said she, and tapped my neck. My ladies left tokens of their bounty behind them to both families, and all the good folks blessed and prayed for us at parting: and as we went out, my Lady Davers, with a serious air, was pleased to say to me, "Take care of your health, my dear sister; and God give you, when it comes, a happy hour: for how many real mourners would you have, if you were to be called early to reap the fruits of your piety!" "God's will must be done, my lady," said I. "The same Providence that has so wonderfully put it in my power to do a little good, will raise up new friends to the honest hearts that rely upon him." This I said, because some of the good people heard my lady, and seemed troubled, and began to redouble their prayers, for my safety and preservation. We walked thence to our coach, and stretched a little farther, to visit two farmers' families, about a mile distant from each other. One had the mother of the family, with two sons, just recovering, the former from a fever, the latter from tertian agues; and I asked, when they saw Mr. Barrow? They told me, with great commendations of him, that he had but just left them. So, having congratulated their hopeful way, and wished them to take care of themselves, and not go too early to business, I said I should desire Mr. Barrow to watch over them, for fear of a relapse, and should hardly see 'em again for some time; and so I slid, in a manner not to be observed, a couple of guineas into the good woman's hand; for I had a hint given me by Mrs. Jervis, that their illness had made it low with them. We proceeded then to the other farm, where the case was a married daughter, who had a very dangerous lying-in, and a wicked husband who had abused her, and run away from her; but she was mending apace, by good comfortable things, which from time to time I had caused to be sent her. Her old father had been a little unkind to her, before I took notice of her; for she married against his consent; and indeed the world went hard with the poor man, and he could not do much; and besides, he had a younger daughter, who had lost all her limbs, and was forced to be tied in a wicker chair, to keep her up in it; which (having expended much to relieve her) was a great _pull-back_, as the good old woman called it. And having been a year in arrear to a harsh landlord, who, finding a good stock upon the ground, threatened to distress the poor family, and turn them out of all, I advanced the money upon the stock; and the poor man has already paid me half of it (for, Miss, I must keep within compass too), which was fifty pounds at first, and is in a fair way to pay me the other half, and make as much more for himself. Here I found Mr. Barrow, and he gave me an account of the success of two other cases I had recommended to him; and told me, that John Smith, a poor man, who, in thatching a barn, had tumbled down, and broken his leg, and bruised himself all over, was in a fair way of recovery. This poor creature had like to have perished by the cruelty of the parish officers, who would have passed him away to Essex, where his settlement was, though in a burning fever, occasioned by his misfortune; but hearing of the case, I directed Mr. Simmonds to attend him, and to provide for him at my expense, and gave my word, if he died, to bury him. I was glad to hear he was in so good a way, and told Mr. Barrow, I hoped to see him and Mr. Simmonds together at Mr. B.'s, before I set out for London, that we might advise about the cases under their direction, and that I might acquit myself of some of my obligations to them. "You are a good man, Mr. Barrow," added I: "God will bless you for your care and kindness to these poor destitute creatures. They all praise you, and do nothing but talk of your humanity to them." "O my good lady," said he, "who can forbear following such an example as you set? Mr. Simmonds can testify as well as I (for now and then a case requires us to visit together) that we can hardly hear any complaints from our poor patients, let 'em be ever so ill, for the praises and blessings they bestow upon you." "It is good Mr. B. that enables and encourages me to do what I do. Tell them, they must bless God, and bless him, and pray for me, and thank you and Mr. Simmonds: we all join together, you know, for their good." The countess and Lady Davers asked the poor lying-in woman many questions, and left with her, and for her poor sister, a miserable object indeed!--(God be praised that I am not such an one!) marks of their bounty in gold, and looking upon one another, and then upon me, and lifting up their hands, could not say a word till we were in the coach: and so we were carried home, after we had just looked in upon a country school, where I pay for the learning of eight children. And here (I hope I recite not this with pride, though I do with pleasure) is a cursory account of my _benevolent weekly round_, as my ladies will call it. I know you will not be displeased with it; but it will highly delight my worthy parents, who, in their way, do a great deal of discreet good in their neighbourhood: for indeed, Miss, a little matter, _prudently_ bestowed, and on true objects of compassion (whose cases are soon at a crisis, as are those of most labouring people), will go a great way, and especially if laid out properly for 'em, according to the exigencies of their respective cases.--For such poor people, who live generally low, want very seldom any thing but reviving cordials at first, and good wholesome kitchen physic afterwards: and then the wheels of nature, being unclogged, new oiled, as it were, and set right, they will go round again with pleasantness and ease for a good while together, by virtue of that exercise which their labour gives them; while the rich and voluptuous are forced to undergo great fatigues to keep theirs clean and in order. SATURDAY MORNING. It is hardly right to trouble either of you, my honoured correspondents, with an affair that has vexed me a good deal; and, indeed, _should_ affect me more than any other mistress of a family, for reasons which will be obvious to you, when I tell you the case. And this I cannot forbear doing. A pretty genteel young body, my Polly Barlow, as I call her, having been well recommended, and behaved with great prudence till this time, is the cause. My dear Mr. B. and the two ladies, agreed with me to take a little airing in the coach, and to call in upon Mr. Martin, who had a present made him for his menagerie, in which he takes a great delight, of a rare and uncommon creature, a native of the East Indies. But just as Sir Jacob was on horseback to accompany them, and the ladies were ready to go, I was taken with a sudden disorder and faintishness; so that Lady Davers, who is very tender of me, and watches every change of my countenance, would not let me go with them, though my disorder was going off: and my dear Mr. B. was pleased to excuse me; and just meeting with Mr. Williams, as they went to the coach, they took him with them, to fill up the vacant place. So I retired to my closet, and shut myself in. They had asked Mr. H. to go with them, for company to Sir Jacob; but he (on purpose, as I believe by what followed) could not be found, when they set out: so they supposed he was upon some ramble with Mr. Colbrand, his great favourite. I was writing to you, being pretty well recovered, when I heard Polly, as I supposed, and as it proved, come into my apartment: and down she sat, and sung a little catch, and cried, "Hem!" twice; and presently I heard two voices. But suspecting nothing, I wrote on, till I heard a kind of rustling and struggling, and Polly's voice crying, "Fie--How can you do so!--Pray, Sir." This alarmed me much, because we have such orderly folks about us; and I looked through the key-hole; and, to my surprise and concern, saw Mr. H.--foolish gentleman!--taking liberties with Polly, that neither became him to offer, nor, more foolish girl! her to suffer. And having reason to think, that this was not their first interview, and freedom--and the girl sometimes encouragingly laughing, as at other times, inconsistently, struggling and complaining, in an accent that was too tender for the occasion, I forced a faint cough. This frighted them both: Mr. H. swore, and said, "Who can that be?--Your lady's gone with them, isn't she?" "I believe so!--I hope so!" said the silly girl--"yet that was like her voice!--Me'm, are you in your closet, Me'm?" said she, coming up to the door; Mr. H. standing like a poor thief, half behind the window-curtains, till he knew whether it was I. I opened the door: away sneaked Mr. H., and she leaped with surprise, not hoping to find me there, though she asked the question. "I thought--Indeed--Me'm--I thought you were gone out,"--"It is plain you did, Polly.--Go and shut the chamber door, and come to me again." She did, but trembled, and was so full of confusion, that I pitied the poor creature, and hardly knew how to speak to her. For my compassion got the upper hand of my resentment; and as she stood quaking and trembling, and looking on the ground with a countenance I cannot describe, I now and then cast my eye upon her, and was as often forced to put my handkerchief to it. At last I said, "How long have these freedoms past between you and Mr. H.?--I am loth to be censorious, Polly; but it is too plain, that Mr. H. would not have followed you into my chamber, if he had not met you at other places."--The poor girl said never a word.--"Little did I expect, Polly, that you would have shewn so much imprudence. You have had instances of the vile arts of men against poor maidens: have you any notion that Mr. H. intends to do honourably by you?" --"Me'm--Me'm--I believe--I hope--I dare say, Mr. H. would not do otherwise."--"So much the worse that you believe so, if you have not very good reason for your belief. Does he pretend that he will marry you?"--She was silent.--"Tell me, Polly, if he does?"--"He says he will do honourably by me."--"But you know there is but one word necessary to explain that other precious word _honour_, in this case. It is _matrimony_. That word is as soon spoken as any other, and if he _means_ it, he will not be shy to _speak_ it."--She was silent.-- "Tell me, Polly (for I am really greatly concerned for you), what you think _yourself_; do you _hope_ he will marry you?"--She was silent.--"Do, good Polly (I hope I may call you _good_ yet!), answer me."--"Pray, Madam!" and she wept, and turned from me, to the wainscot--"Pray, excuse me."--"But, indeed, Polly, I cannot _excuse_ you. You are under my protection. I was once in as dangerous a situation as you can be in. And I did not escape it, child, by the language and conduct I heard from you."--"Language and conduct, Me'm!"--"Yes, Polly, language and conduct. Do you think, if I had set me down in my lady's bed-chamber, sung a song, and hemm'd twice, and Mr. B. coming to me, upon that signal (for such I doubt it was), I had kept my place, and suffered myself to be rumpled, and only, in a soft voice, and with an encouraging laugh, cried--'How can you do so?' that I should have been what I am?"--"Me'm, I dare say, my lord" (so all the servants call him, and his aunt often, when she puts Jackey to it), "means no hurt."--"No hurt, Polly! What, and make you cry '_Fie!_'-or do you intend to trust your honour to his mercy, rather than to your own discretion?"--"I hope not, Me'm!"--"I hope not too, Polly!--But you know he was free enough with you, to make you say '_Fie!_' And what might have been the case, who knows? had I not coughed on purpose: unwilling, for your sake, Polly, to find matters so bad as I feared, and that you would have been led beyond what was reputable." "Reputable, Me'm!"--"Yes, Polly: I am sorry you oblige me to speak so plain. But your good requires it. Instead of flying from him, you not only laughed when you cried out, '_Fie!_' and '_How can you do so?_' but had no other care than to see if any body heard you; and you observe how he slid away, like a guilty creature, on my opening the door--Do these things look well, Polly? Do you think they do?--And if you hope to emulate my good fortune, do you think _this_ is the way?" "I wish, Me'm, I had never seen Mr. H. For nobody will look upon me, if I lose your favour!" "It will still, Polly" (and I took her hand, with a kind look), "be in your power to keep it: I will not mention this matter, if you make me your friend, and tell me all that has passed."--Again she wept, and was silent.--This made me more uneasy.--"Don't think, Polly," said I, "that I would envy any other person's preferment, when I have been so much exalted myself. If Mr. H. has talked to you of marriage, tell me."--"No, Me'm, I can't say he has _yet_."--"Yet, Polly! Then he _never_. will. For when men do talk of it, they don't always _mean_ it: but whenever they _mean_ it, how can they confirm a doubting maiden, without _mentioning_ it: but alas for you, poor Polly!--The freedoms you have permitted, no doubt, previous to those I heard, and which might have been greater, had I not surprised you with my cough, shew too well, that he _need_ not make any promises to you."--"Indeed, Me'm," said she, sobbing, "I might be too little upon my guard; but I would not have done any ill for the world." "I hope you would not, Polly; but if you suffer these freedoms, you can't tell what you'd have permitted--Tell me, do you love Mr. H.?" "He is very good-humoured, Madam, and is not proud."--"No, 'tis not his business to be proud, when he hopes to humble you--humble you, indeed!--beneath the lowest person of the sex, that is honest."--"I hope----"--"You _hope!_" interrupted I. "You _hope_ too much; and I _fear a great deal_ for you, because you fear so _little_ for yourself.--But say, how often have you been in private together?" "In private, Me'm! I don't know what your ladyship calls _private!_"--"Why that is _private_, Polly, when, as just now, you neither imagined nor intended any body should see you." She was silent; and I saw by this, poor girl, how true lovers are to their secret, though, perhaps, their ruin depends upon keeping it. But it behoved me, on many accounts, to examine this matter narrowly; because if Mr. H. should marry her, it would have been laid upon Mr. B.'s example.--And if Polly were ruined, it would be a sad thing, and people would have said, "Aye, she could take care enough of herself, but none at all of her servant: _her_ waiting-maid had a much more remiss mistress than Pamela found, or the matter would not have been thus." "Well, Polly, I see," continued I, "that you will not speak out to me. You may have _several_ reasons for it, possibly, though not _one_ good one. But as soon as Lady Davers comes in, who has a great concern in this matter, as well as Lord Davers, and are answerable to Lord H. in a matter of so much importance as this, I will leave it to her ladyship's consideration, and shall no more concern myself to ask you questions about it--For then I must take her ladyship's directions, and part with you, to be sure." The poor girl, frighted at this (for every body fears Lady Davers), wrung her hands, and begged, for God's sake, I would not acquaint Lady Davers with it. "But how can I help it?--Must I not connive at your proceedings, if I do not? You are no fool, Polly, in other cases. Tell me, how it is possible for me, in my situation, to avoid it?" "I will tell your ladyship the whole truth; indeed I will--if you will not tell Lady Davers. I am ready to sink at the thoughts of Lady Davers knowing any thing of this." This looked sadly. I pitied her, but yet was angry in my mind; for I saw, too plainly, that her conduct could not bear a scrutiny, not even in _her own _opinion, poor creature. I said, "Make me acquainted with the whole."--"Will your ladyship promise--"--"I'll promise nothing, Polly. When I have heard all you think proper to say, I will do what befits me to do; but with as much tenderness as I can for you--and that's all you ought to expect me to promise."--"Why then, Madam--But how can I speak it?--I can speak sooner to any body, than to Lady Davers and you, Madam: for her ladyship's passion, and your ladyship's virtue--How shall I?"--And then she threw herself at my feet, and hid her face with her apron. I was in agonies for her, almost; I wept over her, and raised her up, and said, "Tell me all. You cannot tell me worse than I apprehend, nor I hope so bad! O Polly, tell me soon.--For you give me great pain." And my back, with grief and compassion for the poor girl, was ready to open, as it seemed to me.--In my former distresses, I have been overcome by fainting next to death, and was deprived of sense for some moments--But else, I imagine, I must have felt some such affecting sensation, as the unhappy girl's case gave me. "Then, Madam, I own," said she, "I have been too faulty."--"As how?--As what?--In what way?--How faulty?"--asked I, as quick as thought: "you are not ruined, are you?--Tell me, Polly!"--"No, Madam, but--"--"But what?--Say, but what?"--"I had consented--"--"To what?"--"To his proposals, Madam."--"What proposals?"--"Why, Madam, I was to live with Mr. H." "I understand you too well--But is it too late to break so wretched a bargain;--have you already made a sacrifice of your honour?" "No, Madam: but I have given it under my hand." "Under your _hand!_--Ah! Polly, it is well if you have not given it under your _heart_ too. But what foolishness is this!--What consideration has he made you?"--"He has given it under his hand, that he will always love me; and when his lordship's father dies, he will own me." "What foolishness is this on both sides!--But are you willing to be released from this bargain?" "Indeed I am. Madam, and I told him so yesterday. But he says he will sue me, and ruin me, if I don't stand to it." "You are ruined if you do!--And I wish--But tell me, Polly, are you not ruined as it is?" "Indeed I am not, Madam." "I doubt, then, you were upon the brink of it, had not this providential indisposition kept me at home.--You met, I suppose, to conclude your shocking bargain.--O poor unhappy girl!--But let me see what he has given under his hand!" "He has 'em both, Madam, to be drawn up fair, and in a strong hand, that shall be like a record." Could I have thought, Miss, that a girl of nineteen could be so ignorant in a point so important, when in every thing else she has shewn no instances like this stupid folly? "Has he given you money?" "Yes, Madam, he gave me--he gave me--a note. Here it is. He says any body will give me money for it." And this was a bank note of fifty pounds, which she pulled out of her stays. The result was, he was to settle one hundred pounds a year upon her and hers, poor, poor girl--and was to _own_ her, as he calls it (but as wife or mistress, she stipulated not), when his father died, and he came into the title and estate. I told her, it was impossible for me to conceal the matter from Lady Davers, if she would not, by her promises to be governed entirely by me, and to abandon all thoughts of Mr. H., give me room to conclude, that the wicked bargain was at an end. And to keep the poor creature in some spirits, and to enable her to look up, and to be more easy under my direction, I blamed _him_ more than I did _her_: though, considering what virtue requires of a woman, and custom has made shameless in a man, I think the poor girl inexcusable, and shall not be easy while she is about me. For she is more to blame, because, of the two, she has more wit than the man. "But what can I do?" thought I. "If I put her away, 'twill be to throw her directly into his hands. He won't stay here long: and she _may_ see her folly. But yet her eyes were open; she knew what she had to trust to--and by their wicked beginning, and her encouraging repulses, I doubt she would have been utterly ruined that very day." I knew the rage Lady Davers would be in with both. So this was another embarrassment. Yet should my good intentions fail, and they conclude their vile bargain, and it appeared that I knew of it, but would not acquaint her, then should I have been more blamed than any mistress of a family, circumstanced as I am. Upon the whole, I resolved to comfort the girl as well as I could, till I had gained her confidence, that my advice might have the more weight, and, by degrees, be more likely to reclaim her: for, poor soul! there would be an end of her reputation, the most precious of all jewels, the moment the matter was known; and that would be a sad thing. As for the man, I thought it best to take courage (and you, that know me, will say, I must have a good deal more than usual) to talk to Mr. H. on this subject. And she consenting I should, and, with great protestations, declaring her sorrow and repentance, begging to get her note of hand again, and to give him back his note of fifty pounds, I went down to find him. He shunned me, as a thief would a constable at the head of a hue-and-cry. As I entered one room, he went into another, looking with conscious guilt, yet confidently humming a tune. At last I fixed him, bidding Rachel tell Polly be wanted to send a message by her to her lady. By which I doubted not he was desirous to know what she had owned, in order to govern himself accordingly. His back was towards me; and I said-- "Mr. H., here I am myself, to take your commands." He gave a caper half a yard high--"Madam, I wanted--I wanted to speak to--I would have spoken with--" "You wanted to send Polly to me, perhaps, Mr. H., to ask if I would take a little walk with you in the garden." "Very true, Madam!--Very true indeed!--You have guessed the matter. I thought it was pity, this fine day, as every body was taking airing--" "Well then. Sir, please to lead the way, and I'll attend you." "Yet I fancy, Madam, the wind is a little too high for you.--Won't you catch cold?"--"No, never fear, Mr. H., I am not afraid of a little air." "I will attend you presently, Madam: you'll be in the great gravel walk, or on the terrace.--I'll wait upon you in an instant." I had the courage to take hold of his arm, as if I had like to have slipt.--For, thought I, thou shalt not see the girl till I have talked to thee a little, if thou dost then.--"Excuse me, Mr. H.--I hope I have not hurt my foot--I must lean upon you." "Will you be pleased, Madam, to have a chair? I fear you have sprained your foot.--Shall I help you to a chair?" "No, no, Sir, I shall walk it off, if I hold by you." So he had no excuse to leave me, and we proceeded into the garden. But never did any thing look so like a _foolish fellow_, as his aunt calls him. He looked, if possible, half a dozen ways at once, hemm'd, coughed, turned his head behind him every now and then, started half a dozen silly subjects, in hopes to hinder me from speaking. I appeared, I believe, under some concern how to begin with him; for he would have it I was not very well, and begged he might step in one minute to desire Mrs. Jervis to attend me. So I resolved to begin with him; lest I should lose the opportunity, seeing my eel so very slippery. And placing myself on a seat, asked him to sit down. He declined, and would wait upon me presently, he said, and seemed to be going. So I began--"It is easy for me, Mr. H., to penetrate into the reason why you are so willing to leave me: but 'tis for your own sake, that I desire you to hear me, that no mischief may ensue among friends and relations, on an occasion to which you are no stranger." "O, Madam, what can you mean? Surely, Madam, you don't think amiss of a little innocent liberty, or so!" "Mr. H.," replied I, "I want not any evidence of your inhospitable designs upon a poor unwary young creature, whom your birth and quality have found it too easy a task to influence." "_Inhospitable designs_! Madam!--A harsh word! You very nice ladies cannot admit of the least freedom in the world!--Why, Madam, I have kiss'd a lady's woman before now, in a civil way or so, and never was called to an account for it, as a breach of hospitality." "Tis not for me, Mr. H., to proceed to _very nice _particulars with a gentleman who can act as you have done, by a poor girl, that dare not have looked up to a man of your quality, had you not levelled all distinction between you in order to level the weak creature to the common dirt of the highway. I must say, that the poor girl heartily repents of her folly; and, to shew you, that it signifies nothing to deny it, she begs you will return the note of her hand you extorted from her foolishness; and I hope you'll be so much of a gentleman, as not to keep in your power such a testimony of the weakness of any of the sex." "Has she told you that, Madam?--Why, may be--indeed--I can't but say--Truly, it mayn't look so well to you, Madam: but young folks will have frolics. It was nothing but a frolic. Let me _be hanged_, if it was!" "Be pleased then, Sir, to give up her note to me, to return to her. Reputation should not be frolicked with, Sir; especially that of a poor girl, who has nothing else to depend upon." "I'll give it her myself, if you please, Madam, and laugh at her into the bargain. Why, 'tis comical enough, if the little pug thought I was earnest, I must have a laugh or two at her, Madam, when I give it her up." "Since, 'tis but a frolic, Mr. H., you won't take it amiss, that when we are set down to supper, we call Polly in, and demand a sight of her note, and that will make every one merry as well as you." "Not so, Madam, that mayn't be so well neither! For, perhaps, they will be apt to think it is in earnest; when, as I hope to live, 'tis but a jest: nothing in the world else, upon honour!" I put on then a still more serious air--"As you _hope to live_, say you, Mr. H.!--and _upon your honour!_ How! fear you not an instant punishment for this appeal? And what is the _honour_ you swear by? Take that, and answer me, Sir: do gentlemen give away bank-notes for _frolics_, and for _mere jests_, and _nothing in the world_ else!--I am sorry to be obliged to deal thus with you. But I thought I was talking to a gentleman who would not forfeit his veracity; and that in so solemn an instance as this!" He looked like a man thunderstruck. His face was distorted, and his head seemed to turn about upon his neck, like a weather-cock in a hurricane, to all points of the compass; his hands clenched as in a passion, and yet shame and confusion struggling in every limb and feature. At last he said, "I am confoundedly betrayed. But if I am exposed to my uncle and aunt" (for the wretch thought of nobody but himself), "I am undone, and shall never be able to look them in the face. 'Tis true, I had a design upon her; and since she has betrayed me, I think I may say, that she was as willing, almost, as I." "Ungenerous, contemptible wretch!" thought I--"But such of our sex as can thus give up their virtue, ought to expect no better: for he that sticks not at _one_ bad action, will not scruple at _another_ to vindicate himself: and so, devil-like, become the attempter and the accuser too!" "But if you will be so good," said he, with hands uplifted, "as to take no notice of this to my uncle, and especially to my aunt and Mr. B., I swear to you, I never will think of her as long as I live." "And you'll bind this promise, will you, Sir, by _your honour_, and as you _hope to live?_" "Dear, good Madam, forgive me, I beseech you; don't be so severe upon me. By all that's--" "Don't swear, Mr. H. But as an earnest that I may believe you, give me back the girl's foolish note, that, though 'tis of no significance, she may not have _that_ to witness her folly."--He took out his pocket-book: "There it is, Madam! And I beg you'll forgive this attempt: I see I ought not to have made it. I doubt it was a breach of the laws of hospitality, as you say. But to make it known, will only expose me, and it can do no good; and Mr. B. will perhaps resent it; and my aunt will never let me hear the last of it, nor my uncle neither--And I shall be sent to travel again--And" (added the poor creature) "I was once in a storm, and the crossing the sea again would be death to me." "What a wretch art thou!" thought I. "What could such an one as thou find to say, to a poor creature that, if put in the scale against considerations of virtue, should make the latter kick the [Transcriber's note: illegible] "Poor, poor Tony Barrow! thou art sunk indeed! Too low for excuse, and almost beneath pity!" I told him, if I could observe that nothing passed between them, that should lay me under a necessity of revealing the matter, I should not be forward to expose him, nor the maiden either: but that he must, in his own judgment, excuse me, if I made every body acquainted with it, if I were to see the correspondence between them likely to be renewed or carried on: "For," added I, "in that case I should owe it to myself, to Mr. B., to Lord and Lady Davers, and to you, and the unhappy body too, to do so." He would needs drop down on one knee, to promise this; and with a thousand acknowledgments, left me to find Mr. Colbrand, in order to ride to meet the coach on its return. I went in, and gave the foolish note to the silly girl, which she received eagerly, and immediately burnt; and I told her, I would not suffer her to come near me but as little as possible, when I was in company while Mr. H. staid; but consigned her entirely to the care of Mrs. Jervis, to whom only, I said, I would hint the matter as tenderly as I could: and for this, I added, I had more reasons than one; first, to give her the benefit of a good gentlewoman's advice, to which I had myself formerly been beholden, and from whom I concealed nothing; next, to keep out of Mr. H.'s way; and lastly that I might have an opportunity, from Mrs. Jervis's opinion, to judge of the sincerity of her repentance: "For, Polly," said I, "you must imagine, so regular and uniform as all our family is, and so good as I thought all the people about me were, that I could not suspect, that she, the duties of whose place made her nearest to my person, was the farthest from what I wished." I have set this matter so strongly before her, and Mrs. Jervis has so well seconded me, that I hope the best; for the grief the poor creature carries in her looks, and expresses in her words, cannot be described; frequently accusing herself, with tears, saying often to Mrs. Jervis, she is not worthy to stand in the presence of her mistress, whose example she has made so bad an use of, and whose lessons she had so ill followed. I am sadly troubled at this matter, however; but I take great comfort in reflecting that my sudden indisposition looked like a providential thing, which may save one poor soul, and be a seasonable warning to her, as long as she lives. Meantime I must observe, that at supper last night, Mr. H. looked abject and mean, and like a poor thief, as I thought, and conscious of his disappointed folly (though I seldom glanced my eye upon him), had less to say for himself than ever. And once my Lady Davers, laughing, said, "I think in my heart, my nephew looks more foolish every time I see him, than the last." He stole a look at me, and blushed; and my lord said, "Jackey has some grace! He blushes! Hold up thy head, nephew! Hast thou nothing at all to say for thyself?" Sir Jacob said, "A blush becomes a young gentleman! I never saw one before though, in Mr. H.--What's the matter, Sir?"--"Only," said Lady Davers, "his skin or his conscience is mended, that's all." "Thank you, Madam," was all he said, bowing to his aunt, and affecting a careless yet confused air, as if he whispered a whistle. "O, wretch!" thought I, "see what it is to have a condemning conscience; while every _innocent_ person looks round easy, smiling, and erect!"--But yet it was not the shame of a bad action, I doubt, but being discovered and disappointed, that gave him his confusion of face. What a sad thing for a person to be guilty of such actions, as shall put it in the power of another, even by a look, to mortify him! And if poor souls can be thus abjectly struck at such a discovery by a fellow-creature, how must they appear before an unerring and omniscient Judge, with a conscience standing in the place of a thousand witnesses? and calling in vain upon the _mountains to fall upon them_, and the _hills to cover them!_--How serious this subject makes one! SATURDAY EVENING. I am just retired from a fatiguing service; for who should come to dine with Mr. B. but that sad rake Sir Charles Hargrave; and Mr. Walgrave, Mr. Sedley, and Mr. Floyd, three as bad as himself; inseparable companions, whose whole delight is drinking, hunting, and lewdness; but otherwise gentlemen of wit and large estates. Three of them broke in upon us at the Hall, on the happiest day of my life, to our great regret; and they had been long threatening to make this visit, in order to see me, as they told Mr. B. They whipt out two bottles of champagne instantly, for a _whet_, as they called it; and went to view the stud and the kennel, and then walked in the garden till dinner was ready; my Lord Davers, Mr. H. and Sir Jacob, as well as Mr. B. (for they are all acquainted) accompanying them. Sir Charles, it seems, as Lord Davers told me afterwards; said, he longed to see Mrs. B. She was the talk wherever he went, and he had conceived a high opinion of her beforehand. Lord Davers said, "I defy you, gentlemen, to think so highly of her as she deserves, take mind and person together." Mr. Floyd said, he never saw any woman yet, who came up to what he expected, where fame had been lavish in her praise. "But how, brother baronet," said Sir Charles to Sir Jacob, "came _you_ to be reconciled to her? I heard that you would never own her." "Oons man!" said Sir Jacob, "I was taken in.--They contrived to clap her upon me as Lady Jenny C. and pretended they'd keep t'other out of my sight; and I was plaguily bit, and forced to get on as well as I could." "That was a bite indeed," said Mr. Walgrave; "and so you fell a praising Lady Jenny, I warrant, to the skies." "Ye--s" (drawling out the affirmative monosyllable), "I was used most scurvily: faith I was. I bear 'em a grudge for it still, I can tell 'em that; for I have hardly been able to hold up my head like a man since--but am forced to go and come, and to do as they bid me. By my troth, I never was so manageable in my life." "Your Herefordshire neighbours, Sir Jacob," said Mr. Sedley, with an oath, "will rejoice to hear this; for the whole county there cannot manage you." "I am quite cow'd now, as you will see by-and-by; nay, for that matter, if you can set Mrs. B. a talking, not one of you all will care to open your lips, except to say as she says." "Never fear, old boy," said Sir Charles, "we'll bear our parts in conversation. I never saw the woman yet, who could give me either awe or love for six minutes together. What think you, Mr. B.? Have you any notion, that your lady will have so much power over us?" "I think, Sir Charles, I have one of the finest women in England; but I neither expect nor desire you rakes should see her with my eyes." "You know, if I have a mind to love her, and make court to her too, Mr. B., I will: and I am half in love with her already, although I have not seen her." They came in when dinner was near ready, and the four gentlemen took each a large bumper of old hock for another whet. The countess, Lady Davers, and I came down together. The gentlemen knew our two noble ladies, and were known to them in person, as well as by character. Mr. B., in his usual kind and encouraging manner, took my hand, and presented the four gentlemen to me, each by his name. Sir Charles said, pretty bluntly, that he hoped he was more welcome to me now, than the last time he was under the same roof with me; for he had been told since, that _that_ was our happy day. I said, Mr. B.'s friends were always welcome to me. "Tis well, Madam," said Mr. Sedley, "we did not know how it was. We should have quartered ourselves upon Mr. B. for a week together, and kept him up day and night." I thought this speech deserved no answer, especially as they were gentlemen who wanted no countenance, and addressed myself to Lord Davers, who is always kindly making court to me: "I hope, my good lord, you find yourself quite recovered of your head-ache?" (of which he complained at breakfast). "I thank you, my dear sister, pretty well." "I was telling Sir Charles and the other gentlemen, niece," said Sir Jacob, "how I was cheated here, when I came first, with a Lady Jenny." "It was a very lucky cheat for me, Sir Jacob; for it gave you a prepossession in my favour under so advantageous a character, that I could never have expected otherwise." "I wish," said the countess, "my daughter, for whom Sir Jacob took you, had Mrs. B.'s qualities to boast of."--"How am I obliged to your ladyship's goodness," returned I, "when you treat me with even greater indulgence than you use to so beloved a daughter!" "Nay, now you talk of treating," said Sir Charles, "when, ladies, will you treat our sex with the politeness which you shew to one another?" "When your sex deserve it, Sir Charles," answered Lady Davers. "Who is to be judge of that?" said Mr. Walgrave. "Not the gentlemen, I hope," replied my lady. "Well then, Mrs. B.," said Sir Charles, "we bespeak your good opinion of _us_; for you have _ours_." "I am obliged to you, gentlemen; but I must be more cautious in declaring _mine_, lest it should be thought I am influenced by your kind, and perhaps too hasty, opinions of me." Sir Charles swore they had _seen_ enough of me the moment I entered the parlour, and heard enough the moment I opened my lips to answer for _their_ opinions of me. I said, I made no doubt, when _they_ had as good a subject to expatiate upon, as I had, in the pleasure before me, of seeing so many agreeable friends of Mr. B.'s, they would maintain the title they claimed of every one's good opinion. "This," said Sir Jacob, "is binding you over, gentlemen, to your good behaviour. You must know, my niece never shoots flying, as _you_ do." The gentlemen laughed: "Is it shooting flying, Sir Jacob," returned Sir Charles, "to praise that lady?" "Ads-bud, I did not think of that." "Sir Jacob," said the countess, "you need not be at a fault;--for a good sportsman always hits his mark, flying or not; and the gentlemen had so fair an one, that they could not well miss it." "You are fairly helped over the stile, Sir Jacob," said Mr. Floyd. "And, indeed, I wanted it; though I limped like a puppy before I was lame. One can't think of every thing as one used to do at your time of life, gentlemen." This flippant stuff was all that passed, which I _can_ recite; for the rest, at table, and after dinner, was too polite by half for me; such as, the quantity of wine each man could _carry off_ (that was the phrase), dogs, horses, hunting, racing, cock-fighting, and all accompanied with swearing and cursing, and that in good humour, and out of wantonness (the least excusable and more profligate sort of swearing and cursing of all). The gentlemen liked the wine so well, that we had the felicity to drink tea and coffee by ourselves; only Mr. B. (upon our inviting the gentlemen to partake with us) sliding in for a few minutes to tell us, they would stick by what they had, and taking a dish of coffee with us. I should not omit one observation; that Sir Jacob, when they were gone, said they were _pure company_; and Mr. H. that he never was so delighted in his _born days_.--While the two ladies put up their prayers, that they might never have such another entertainment. And being encouraged by their declaration, I presumed to join in the same petition. Yet it seems, these are men of wit! I believe they must be so--for I could neither like nor understand them. Yet, if their conversation had much wit, I should think my ladies would have found it out. The gentlemen, permit me to add, went away very merry, to ride ten miles by owl-light; for they would not accept of beds here. They had two French horns with them, and gave us a flourish or two at going off. Each had a servant besides: but the way they were in would have given me more concern than it did, had they been related to Mr. B. and less used to it. And, indeed, it is a happiness, that such gentlemen take no more care than they generally do, to interest any body intimately in their healths and preservation; for these are all single men. Nor need the public, any more than the private, be much concerned about them; for let such persons go when they will, if they continue single, their next heir cannot well be a worse commonwealth's man; and there is a great chance he may be better. You know I end my Saturdays seriously. And this, to what I have already said, makes me add, that I cannot express how much I am, my dear Miss Darnford, _your faithful and affectionate_ PB LETTER XXXVIII _From Mrs. B. to Miss Darnford. In Answer to Letters XXXV and XXXVI._ MY DEAR MISS DARNFORD, I skip over the little transactions of several days, to let you know how much you rejoice me, in telling me Sir Simon has been so kind as to comply with my wishes. Both your most agreeable letters came to my hand together, and I thank you a hundred times for them; and I thank your dear mamma, and Sir Simon too, for the pleasure they have given me in this obliging permission. How happy shall we be!--But how long will you be permitted to stay, though? All the winter, I hope:--and then, when that is over, let us set out together, if God shall spare us, directly for Lincolnshire; and to pass most of the summer likewise in each other's company. What a sweet thought is this!--Let me indulge it a little while. Mr. B. read your letters, and says, you are a charming young lady, and surpass yourself in every letter. I told him, that he was more interested in the pleasure I took in this favour of Sir Simon's than he imagined. "As how, my dear?" said he. "A plain case, Sir," replied I: "for endeavouring to improve myself by Miss Darnford's conversation and behaviour, I shall every day be more worthy of your favour." He kindly would have it, that nobody, no, not Miss Darnford herself, excelled me. 'Tis right, you know, Miss, that Mr. B. should think so, though I must know nothing at all, if I was not sensible how inferior I am to my dear Miss Darnford: and yet, when I look abroad now-and-then, I could be a proud slut, if I would, and not yield the palm to many others. Well, my dear Miss, SUNDAY Is past and gone, as happy as the last; the two ladies, and, at _their_ earnest request, Sir Jacob bearing us company, in the evening part. My Polly was there morning and evening, with her heart broken almost, poor girl!--I put her in a corner of my closet, that her concern should not be minded. Mrs. Jervis gives me great hopes of her. Sir Jacob was much pleased with our family order, and said, 'twas no wonder I _kept_ so good myself, and made others so: and he thought the four rakes (for he run on how much they admired me) would be converted, if they saw how well I passed my time, and how cheerful and easy every one, as well as myself was under it! He said, when he came home, he must take such a method himself in _his_ family; for, he believed, it would make not only better masters and mistresses, but better children, and better servants too. But, poor gentleman! he has, I doubt, a great deal to mend in _himself_, before he can begin such a practice with efficacy in his _family_. MONDAY. In the afternoon. Sir Jacob took his leave of us, highly satisfied with us both, and _particularly_ (so he said) with me; and promised that my two cousins, as he called his daughters, and his sister, an old maiden lady, if they went to town this winter, should visit me, and be improved by me; that was his word. Mr. B. accompanied him some miles on his journey, and the two ladies, and Lord Davers, and I, took an airing in the coach. Mr. B. was so kind as to tell me, when he came home, with a whisper, that Miss Goodwin presented her duty to me. I have got a multitude of fine things for the dear little creature, and Mr. B. promises to give me a dairy-house breakfast, when our guests are gone. I enclose the history of this little charmer, by Mr. B.'s consent, since you are to do us the honour, as he (as well as I) pleases himself, to be one of our family--but keep it to yourself, whatever you do. I am guarantee that you will; and have put it in a separate paper, that you may burn it when read. For I may want your advice on this subject, having a great desire to get this child in my possession; and yet Lady Davers has given a hint, that dwells a little with me. When I have the pleasure I hope for, I will lay all before you, and be determined, and proceed, as far as I have power, by you. You, my good father and mother, have seen the story in my former papers. TUESDAY. You must know, I pass over the days thus swiftly, not that I could not fill them up with writing, as amply as I have done the former; but intending only to give you a general idea of our way of life and conversation; and having gone through a whole week and more, you will be able, from what I have recited, to form a judgment how it is with us, one day with another. As for example, now and then neighbourly visits received and paid--Needlework between whiles--Music--Cards sometimes, though I don't love them--One more benevolent round--Improving conversations with my dear Mr. B. and my two good ladies--A lesson from him, when alone, either in French or Latin--A new pauper case or two--A visit from the good dean--Mr. Williams's departure, in order to put the new projected alteration in force, which is to deprive me of my chaplain--(By the way, the dean is highly pleased with this affair, and the motives to it, Mr. Adams being a favourite of his, and a distant relation of his lady)--Mr. H.'s and Polly's mutual endeavour to avoid one another--My lessons to the poor girl, and cautions, as if she were my sister-- These, my dear Miss Darnford, and my honoured parents, are the pleasant employments of our time; so far as we females are concerned: for the gentlemen hunt, ride out, and divert themselves in their way, and bring us home the news and occurrences they meet with abroad, and now-and-then a straggling gentleman they pick up in their diversions. And so I shall not enlarge upon these articles, after the tedious specimens I have already given. WEDNESDAY, THURSDAY. Could you ever have thought, my dear, that husbands have a dispensing power over their wives, which kings are not allowed over the laws? I have had a smart debate with Mr. B., and I fear it will not be the only one upon this subject. Can you believe, that if a wife thinks a thing her duty to do, which her husband does not approve, he can dispense with her performing it, and no sin shall lie at her door? Mr. B. maintains this point. I have great doubts about it; particularly one; that if a matter be my duty, and he dispenses with my performance of it, whether, even although that were to clear _me_ of the sin, it will not fall upon _himself_? And a good wife would be as much concerned at this, as if it was to remain upon _her_. Yet he seems set upon it. What can one do?--Did you ever hear of such a notion, before? Of such a prerogative in a husband? Would you care to subscribe to it? He says, the ladies are of his opinion. I'm afraid they are, and so will not ask them. But, perhaps, I mayn't live, and other things may happen; and so I'll say no more of it at present. FRIDAY. Mr. H. and my Lord and Lady Davers and the excellent Countess of C. having left us this day, to our mutual regret, the former put the following letter into my hands, with an air of respect and even reverence. He says, he spells most lamentably; and this obliges me to give it you _literally_: "DEARE GOOD MADAM, "I cannott contente myself with common thankes, on leaving youres, and Mr. B.'s hospitabel house, because of _thatt there_ affaire, which I neede not mention! and truly am _ashamed_ to mention, as I _have been_ to looke you in the face ever since it happen'd. I don't knowe _how itt came aboute_, butt I thought butt att first of _joking_ a littel, _or soe_; and seeing Polley heard me with more attentiveness than I expected, I was encouraged to proceede; and _soe_, now I recollecte, itt _camn aboute_. "But she is innosente for me: and I don't knowe how _thatt_ came about neither; for wee were oute one moonelighte nighte in the garden, walking aboute, and afterwards tooke a _napp_ of two houres, as I beliefe, in the summer-house in the littel gardin, being over-powered with sleepe; for I woulde make her lay her head uppon my breste, till before we were awar, wee felle asleepe. Butt before thatt, wee had agreed on whatt you discovered. "This is the whole truthe, and all the intimasies we ever hadde, to _speake off_. But I beleefe we should have been better acquainted, hadd you nott, luckily _for mee_! prevented itt, by being at home, when we thought you abroad. For I was to come to her when shee hemm'd _two or three times_; for having made a contract, you knowe. Madam, it was naturall enough to take the first occasion to putt itt in force. "Poor Polley! I pity her too. Don't thinke the worse of her, deare Madam, so as to turn her away, because it may bee her ruin. I don't desire too see her. I might have been _drawne_ _in_ to do strange foolish things, and been ruin'd at the long run; for who knows where this thing mought have ended? My _unkell_ woulde have never seene me. My _father_ too (his lordshipp, you have hearde, Madam, is a very _crosse man_, and never loved _me much_) mought have cutt off the intaile. My _aunte_ would have dispis'd mee and scorn'd mee. I should have been her foolishe fellowe in _earneste_, nott in _jeste_, as now. You woulde have resented itt, and Mr. B. (who knows?) mought have called me to account. "Butt cann you forgive me? You see how happy I am in my disappointment. I did nott think too write so much;--for I don't love it: but on this occasion, know not how too leave off. I hope you can read my letter. I know I write a _clumsy_ hand, and _spelle most lamentabelly_; for I never had a tallent for these things. I was readier by half to admire the _orcherd robbing picture _in Lillie's grammar, then any other part of the book. "But, hey, whether am I running! I never writt to you before, and never may again, unless you, or Mr. B. command it, for your service. So pray excuse me, Madam. "I knowe I neede give no advice to Polley, to take care of _first_ encouragements. Poor girl! she mought have suffer'd sadly, as welle as I. For iff my father, and my unkell and aunte, had requir'd mee to turne her off, you know itt woulde have been undutifull to have refused them, notwithstanding our bargaine. And want of duty to them woulde have been to have added faulte too faulte: as you once observed, I remember, that one faulte never comes alone, but drawes after itt generally five or six, to hide or vindicate itt, and _they_ every one perhapps as many more _eache_. "I shall never forgett severall of youre wise sayinges. I have been vex'd, may I be _hang'd_ if I have not, many a time, thatt I coulde not make such observations as you make; who am so much _older_ too, and a _man_ besides, and a _peere's son_, and a _peere's nephew!_ but my tallents lie _another way_; and by that time my father dies, I hope to improve myselfe, in order to _cutt_ such a figure, as may make me be no disgrase to my _name_ or _countrey_. "Well, but whatt is all this to the purpose?--I will keep close to my text; and that is, to thank you, good Madam, for all the favours I have received in your house; to thank you for disappointing mee, and for convincing mee, in so _kinde_, yet so _shameing_ a manner, how wrong I was in the matter of _that there_ Polley; and for not exposing my folly to any boddy but _myselfe_ (for I should have been ready to _hang_ myselfe, if you hadd); and to beg youre pardon for itt, assuring you, that I will never offerr the like as long as I breathe. I am, Madam, with the greatest respecte, _youre most obliged, moste faithful, and most obedient humbell servante_, J.H. "Pray excuse blotts and blurs." Well, Miss Darnford, what shall we say to this fine letter?--You'll allow it to be an original, I hope. Yet, may-be not. For it may be as well written, and as sensible a letter as this class of people generally write! Mr. H. dresses well, is not a contemptible figure of a man, laughs, talks, where he can be heard, and his aunt is not present; and _cuts_, to use his own word, a considerable figure in a country town.--But see--Yet I will not say what I might--He is Lord Davers's nephew; and if he makes his _observations_, and _forbears_ his _speeches_ (I mean, can be silent, and only laugh when he sees somebody of more sense laugh, and never _approve_ or _condemn_ but in _leading-strings_), he may possibly pass in a crowd of gentlemen. But poor, poor Polly Barlow! What _can_ I say for Polly Barlow? I have a time in view, when my papers may fall under the inspection of a dear gentleman, to whom, next to God, I am accountable for all my actions and correspondences; so I will either write an account of the matter, and seal it up separately, for Mr. B., or, at a fit opportunity, break it to him, and let him know (under secrecy, if he will promise it) the steps I took in it; lest something arise hereafter, when I cannot answer for myself, to render any thing dark or questionable in it. A method, I believe, very proper to be taken by every married lady; and I presume the rather to say so, having had a good example for it: for I have often thought of a little sealed up parcel of papers, my lady made me burn in her presence, about a month before she died. "They are, Pamela," said she, "such as would not concern me, let who will see them, could they know the springs and causes of them; but, for want of a clue, my son might be at a loss what to think of several of those letters were he to find them, in looking over my other papers, when I am no more." Let me add, that nothing could be more endearing than our parting with our noble guests. My lady repeated her commands for what she often engaged me to promise, that is to say, to renew the correspondence begun between us, so much (as she was pleased to say) to her satisfaction. I could not help shewing her ladyship, who was always enquiring after my writing employment, most of what passed between you and me: she admires you much, and wished Mr. H. had more wit, that was her word: she should in that case, she said, be very glad to set on foot a treaty between you and him. But that, I fancy, can never be tolerable to you; and I only mention it _en passant_.--There's a French woman for you! The countess was full of her kind wishes for my happiness; and my Lady Davers told me, that if I could give her timely notice, she would be present on a _certain_ occasion. But, my dear Miss, what could I say?--I know nothing of the matter!--Only, I am a sad coward, and have a thousand anxieties which I cannot mention to any body. But, if I have such in the honourable estate of matrimony, what must those poor souls have, who are seduced, and have all manner of reason to apprehend, that the crime shall be followed by a punishment so _natural_ to it? A punishment _in kind_, as I may say; which if it only ends in forfeiture of life, following the forfeiture of fame, must be thought merciful and happy beyond expectation: for how shall they lay claim to the hope given to persons in their circumstances that _they shall be saved in child-bearing_, since the condition is, _if they _CONTINUE _in faith and charity, and _HOLINESS _with_ SOBRIETY. Now, my honoured mother, and my dear Miss Darnford since I am upon this affecting subject, does not this text seem to give a comfortable hope to a good woman, who shall thus die, of being happy in the Divine mercies? For the Apostle, in the context, says, that _he suffers not a woman to teach, nor usurp authority over the man, but to be in silence_.--And what is the reason he gives? Why, a reason that is a natural consequence of the curse on the first disobedience, that she shall be in subjection to her husband. "For," says he, "_Adam was_ NOT _deceived; but the woman, being deceived, was in the transgression._" As much as to say--Had it not been for the woman, Adam had kept his integrity, and therefore her punishment shall be, as it is said, "_I will greatly multiply thy sorrow in thy conception: in sorrow shall thou bring forth children--and thy husband shall rule over thee_." But nevertheless, if thou shalt not survive the sharpness of thy sorrow, thy death shall be deemed to be such an alleviation of thy part of the entailed transgression, that thou shalt _be saved_, if thou hast CONTINUED in faith and charity, and HOLINESS with SOBRIETY. This, my honoured parents, and my dear friend, is _my_ paraphrase; and I reap no small comfort from it, when I meditate upon it. But I shall make you as serious as myself; and, my dear friend, perhaps, frighten you from entering into a state, in which our poor sex suffer so much, from the bridal morning, let it rise as gaily as it will upon a thoughtful mind, to that affecting circumstance, (throughout its whole progression), for which nothing but a tender, a generous, and a worthy husband can make them any part of amends. But a word or two more, as to the parting with our honoured company. I was a little indisposed, and they all would excuse me, against my will, from attending them in the coach some miles, which their dear brother did. Both ladies most tenderly saluted me, twice or thrice a-piece, folding their kind arms about me, and wishing my safety and health, and charging me to _think_ little, and _hope_ much; for they saw me thoughtful at times, though I endeavoured to hide it from them. My Lord Davers said, with a goodness of temper that is peculiar to him, "My dearest sister,--May God preserve you, and multiply your comforts! I shall pray for you more than ever I did for myself, though I have so much more need of it:--I _must_ leave you--But I leave one whom I love and honour next to Lady Davers, and ever shall." Mr. H. looked consciously silly. "I can say nothing, Madam, but" (saluting me) "that I shall never forget your goodness to me." I had before, in Mrs. Jervis's parlour, taken leave of Mrs. Worden and Mrs. Lesley, my ladies' women: they each stole a hand of mine, and kissed it, begging pardon for the freedom. But I answered, taking each by her hand, and kissing her, "I shall always think of you with pleasure, my good friends; for you have encouraged me constantly by your presence in my private duties; and may God bless you, and the worthy families you so laudably serve, as well for your sakes, as their own!" They turned away with tears; and Mrs. Worden would have said something to me, but could not.--Only both taking Mrs. Jervis by the hand, "Happy Mrs. Jervis!" said they, almost in a breath. "And happy I too," repeated I, "in my Mrs. Jervis, and in such kind well-wishers as Mrs. Worden and Mrs. Lesley. Wear this, Mrs. Worden;--wear this, Mrs. Lesley, for my sake:" and to each I gave a ring, with a crystal and brilliants set about it, which Mr. B. had bought a week before for this purpose: he has a great opinion of both the good folks, and often praised their prudence, and quiet and respectful behaviour to every body, so different from the impertinence (that was his word) of most ladies' women who are favourites. Mrs. Jervis said, "I have enjoyed many happy hours in your conversation, Mrs. Worden and Mrs. Lesley: I shall miss you very much." "I must endeavour," said I, taking her hand, "to make it up to you, my good friend, as well as I can. And of late we have not had so many opportunities together as I should have wished, had I not been so agreeably engaged as you know. So we must each try to comfort the other, when we have lost, I such noble, and you such worthy companions." Mrs. Jervis's honest heart, before touched by the parting, shewed itself at her eyes. "Wonder not," said I, to the two gentlewomen, wiping with my handkerchief her venerable cheeks, "that I always thus endeavour to dry up all my good Mrs. Jervis's tears;" and then I kissed her, thinking of you, my dear mother; and I was forced to withdraw a little abruptly, lest I should be too much moved myself; for had our departing company enquired into the occasion, they would perhaps have thought it derogatory (though I should not) to my present station, and too much retrospecting to my former. I could not, in conversation between Mr. B. and myself, when I was gratefully expatiating upon the amiable characters of our noble guests, and of their behaviour and kindness to me, help observing, that I had little expected, from some hints which formerly dropt from Mr. B., to find my good Lord Davers so polite and so sensible a man. "He is a very good-natured man," replied Mr. B. "I believe I might once or twice drop some disrespectful words of him. But it was the effect of passion at the time, and with a view to two or three points of his conduct in public life; for which I took the liberty to find fault with him, and received very unsatisfactory excuses. One of these, I remember, was in a conference between a committee of each house of parliament, in which he behaved in a way I could not wish from a man so nearly allied to me by marriage; for all he could talk of, was the dignity of their house, when the reason of the thing was strong with the other; and it fell to my lot to answer what he said; which I did with some asperity; and this occasioned a coolness between us for some time. "But no man makes a better figure in private life than Lord Davers; especially now that my sister's good sense has got the better of her passions, and she can behave with tolerable decency towards him. For once, Pamela, it was not so: the violence of her spirit making him appear in a light too little advantageous either to his quality or merit. But now he improves upon me every time I see him. "You know not, my dear, what a disgrace a haughty and passionate woman brings upon her husband, and upon herself too, in the eyes of her own sex, as well as ours. Nay, even those ladies, who would be as glad of dominion as she, if they might be permitted to exercise it, despise others who do, and the man _most_ who suffers it. "And let me tell you," said the dear man, with an air that shewed he was satisfied with his own conduct in this particular, "that you cannot imagine how much a woman owes to her husband, as well with regard to _her own _peace of mind, as to _both_ their reputations (however it may go against the grain with her sometimes), if he be a man who has discretion to keep her encroaching passions under a genteel and reasonable control!" How do you like this doctrine, Miss?--I'll warrant, you believe, that I could do no less than drop Mr. B. one of my best curt'sies, in acknowledgment of my obligation to him, for so considerately preserving to me _my_ peace of mind, and _my_ reputation, as well as _his own_, in this case. But after all, when one duly weighs the matter, what he says may be right in the main; for I have not been able to contradict him, partial as I am to my sex, when he has pointed out to me instances in the behaviour of certain ladies, who, like children, the more they have been humoured, the more humoursome they have grown; which must have occasioned as great uneasiness to themselves, as to their husbands. Will you excuse me, my dear? This is between ourselves; for I did not own so much to Mr. B. For one should not give up one's sex, you know, if one can help it: for the men will be as apt to impose, as the women to encroach, I doubt. Well, but here, my honest parents, and my dear Miss Darnford, at last, I end my journal-wise letters, as I may call them; our noble guests being gone, and our time and employments rolling on in much the same manner, as in past days, of which I have given an account. I am, _my dearest father and mother, and best beloved Miss Darnford, your dutiful and affectionate_ P.B. LETTER XXXIX MY DEAR MISS DARNFORD, I hear that Mrs. Jewkes is in no good state of health. I am very sorry for it. I pray for her life, that she may be a credit (if it please God) to the penitence she has so lately assumed. Do, my dear _good_ Miss, vouchsafe to the poor soul the honour of a visit: she may be low-spirited.--She may be too much sunk with the recollection of past things. Comfort, with that sweetness which is so natural to Miss Darnford, her drooping heart; and let her know, that I have a true concern for her, and give it her in charge to take care of herself, and spare nothing that will administer either to her health or peace of mind. You'll pardon me that I put you upon an office so unsuitable from a lady in your station, to a person in hers; but not to your piety and charity, where a duty so eminent as that of visiting the sick, and cheering the doubting mind, is in the question. I know your condescension will give her great comfort; and if she should be hastening to her account, what a pleasure will it give such a lady as you, to have illuminated a benighted mind, when it was tottering on the verge of death! I know she will want no spiritual help from good Mr. Peters; but then the kind notice of so generally esteemed a young lady, will raise her more than can be imagined: for there is a tenderness, a sympathy, in the good persons of our sex to one another, that (while the best of the other seem but to act as in office, saying those things, which, though edifying and convincing, one is not certain proceeds not rather from the fortitude of their minds, than the tenderness of their natures) mingles with one's very spirits, thins the animal mass, and runs through one's heart in the same lify current (I can't clothe my thought suitably to express what I would), giving assurance, as well as pleasure, in the most arduous cases, and brightening our misty prospects, till we see the Sun of Righteousness rising on the hills of comfort, and dispelling the heavy fogs of doubt and diffidence. This it is makes me wish and long as I do, for the company of my dear Miss Darnford. O when shall I see you? When shall I?--To speak to my present case, it is _all I long for_; and, pardon my freedom of expression, as well as thought, when I let you know in this instance, how _early_ I experience the _ardent longings_ of one in the way I am in. But I ought not to set my heart upon any thing not in my own power, and which may be subject to accidents, and the control of others. But let whatever interventions happen, so I have your _will_ to come, I must be rejoiced in your kind intention, although your _power_ should not prove answerable. But I will say no more, than that I am, my honoured father and mother, your ever dutiful daughter; and, my dear Miss Darnford, _your affectionate and obliged_ P.B. LETTER XL From Miss Darnford to Mrs. B. MY DEAR MRS. B., We are greatly obliged to you for every particular article in your entertaining journal, which you have brought, sooner than we wished, to a conclusion. We cannot express how much we admire you for your judicious charities, so easy to be practised, yet so uncommon in the manner, and for your inimitable conduct in the affair of your frail Polly and the silly Mr. H. Your account of the visit of the four rakes; of your parting with your noble guests; Mr. H.'s letter (an original indeed!) have all greatly entertained us, as your prerogative hints have amused us: but we defer our opinion of those hints, till we have the case more fully explained. But, my dear friend, are you not in danger of falling into a too thoughtful and gloomy way? By the latter part of your last letter, we are afraid you are; and my mamma, and Mrs. Jones, and Mrs. Peters, enjoin me to write, to caution you on that head. But there is the less need of it, because your prudence will always suggest to you reasons, as it does in that very letter, that must out-balance your fears. _Think_ little, and _hope_ much, is a good lesson in your case, and to a lady of your temper; and I hope Lady Davers will not in vain have given you that caution. After all, I dare say your thoughtfulness is but symptomatical, and will go off in proper time. But to wave this: let me ask you, is Mr. B.'s conduct to you as _respectful_, I don't mean fond, when you are alone together, as in company?--Forgive me--But you have hinted two or three times, in your letters, that he always is most complaisant to you in company; and you observe, that _wisely_ does he act in this, as he thereby does credit with every body to his own choice. I make no doubt, that the many charming scenes which your genius and fine behaviour furnish out to him, must, as often as they happen, inspire him with joy, and even rapture: and must make him love you more for your mind than for your person:--but these rapturous scenes last very little longer than the present moment. What I want to know is, whether in the _steadier_ parts of life, when you are both nearer the level of us common folks, he give up any thing of his own will in compliment to yours? Whether he acts the part of a respectful, polite gentleman, in his behaviour to you; and breaks not into your retirements, in the dress, and with the brutal roughness of a fox-hunter?--Making no difference, perhaps, between the field or his stud (I will not say kennel) and your chamber or closet?--Policy, for his own credit-sake, as I mentioned, accounts to me well, for his complaisance to you in public. But his regular and uniform behaviour to you, in your retirement, when the conversation between you turns upon usual and common subjects, and you have not obliged him to rise to admiration of you, by such scenes as those of your two parsons, Sir Jacob Swynford, and the like: is what would satisfy my curiosity, if you please to give me an instance or two of it. Now, my dearest Mrs. B., if you can give me a case, partly or nearly thus circumstanced, you will highly oblige me: First, where he has borne with any infirmity of your own; and I know of none where you can give him such an opportunity, except you get into a vapourish habit, by giving way to a temper too thoughtful and apprehensive: Next, that, in complaisance to _your_ will, he recedes from his _own_ in any one instance: Next, whether he breaks not into your retirements unceremoniously, and without apology or concern, as I hinted above. You know, my dear Mrs. B., all I mean, by what I have said.; and if you have any pretty conversation in memory, by the recital of which, this my bold curiosity may be answered, pray oblige me with it; and we shall be able to judge by it, not only of the in-born generosity which all that know Mr. B. have been willing to attribute to him, but of the likelihood of the continuance of both your felicities, upon terms suitable to the characters of a fine lady and fine gentleman: and, of consequence, worthy of the imitation of the most delicate of our own sex. Your obliging _longings_, my beloved dear lady, for my company, I hope, will very soon be answered. My papa was so pleased with your sweet earnestness on this occasion, that he joined with my mamma; and both, with equal cheerfulness, said, you should not be many days in London before me. Murray and his mistress go on swimmingly, and have not yet had one quarrel. The only person, he, of either sex, that ever knew Nancy so intimately, and so long, without one! This is all I have to say, at present, when I have assured you, my dear Mrs. B., how much I am _your obliged, and affectionate_ POLLY DARNFORD. LETTER XLI My dearest Miss Darnford, I was afraid I ended my last letter in a gloomy way; and I am obliged to you for the kind and friendly notice you take of it. It was owing to a train of thinking which sometimes I get into, of late; I hope only symptomatically, as you say, and that the cause and effect will soon vanish together. But what a task, my dear friend, I'll warrant, you think you have set me! I thought, in the progress of my journal, and in my letters, I had given so many instances of Mr. B.'s polite tenderness to me, that no new ones would be required at my hands; and when I said he was always _most_ complaisant before company, I little expected, that such an inference would be drawn from my words, as would tend to question the uniformity of his behaviour to me, when there were no witnesses to it. But I am glad of an opportunity to clear up all your doubts on this subject. To begin then: You first desire an instance, where Mr. B. has borne with some infirmity of mine: Next, that in complaisance to my will, he has receded from his own: And lastly, whether he breaks not into my retirements unceremoniously; and without apology or concern, making no difference between the field or the stud, and my chamber or closet? As to the first, his bearing with my infirmities; he is daily giving instances of his goodness to me on this head; and I am ashamed to say, that of late I give him so much occasion for them as I do; but he sees my apprehensiveness, at times, though I endeavour to conceal it; and no husband was ever so soothing and so indulgent as Mr. B. He gives me the best advice, as to my malady, if I may call it one: treats me with redoubled tenderness: talks to me upon the subjects I most delight to dwell upon: as of my worthy parents; what they are doing at this time, and at that; of our intended journey to London; of the diversions of the town; of Miss Darnford's company; and when he goes abroad, sends up my good Mrs. Jervis to me, because I should not be alone: at other times, takes me abroad with him, brings this neighbour and that neighbour to visit; and carries me to visit them; talks of our journey to Kent, and into Lincolnshire, and to my Lady Davers's, to Bath, to Tunbridge, and I can't tell whither, when the apprehended time shall be over.--In fine, my dear Miss Darnford, you cannot imagine one half of his tender goodness and politeness to me!--Then he hardly ever goes to any distance, but brings some pretty present he thinks will be grateful to me. When at home, he is seldom out of my company; delights to teach me French and Italian, and reads me pieces of manuscript poetry, in several of the modern tongues (for he speaks them all); explains to me every thing I understand not; delights to answer all my questions, and to encourage my inquisitiveness and curiosity, tries to give me a notion of pictures and medals, and reads me lectures upon them, for he has a fine collection of both; and every now and then will have it, that he has been improved by my questions and observations. What say you to these things, my dear? Do they come up to your first question? or do they not? Or is not what I have said, a full answer, were I to say no more, to _all_ your enquiries? O my dear, I am thoroughly convinced, that half the misunderstandings, among married people, are owing to trifles, to petty distinctions, to mere words, and little captious follies, to over-weenings, or unguarded petulances: and who would forego the solid satisfaction of life, for the sake of triumphing in such poor contentions, if one could triumph? But you next require of me an instance, where, in complaisance to _my_ will, he has receded from _his own?_ I don't know what to say to this. When Mr. B. is all tenderness and indulgence, and requires of me nothing, that I can have a material objection to, ought I _not_ to oblige him? Can I have a will that is not his? Or would it be excusable if I _had?_ All little matters I cheerfully give up: great ones have not yet occurred between us, and I hope never will. One point, indeed, I have some apprehension _may_ happen; and that, to be plain with you, is, we have had a debate or two on the subject (which I maintain) of a mother's duty to nurse her own child; and I am sorry to say it, he seems more determined than I wish he were, against it. I hope it will not proceed so far as to awaken the sleeping dragon I mentioned. _Prerogative_ by name; but I doubt I cannot give up this point very contentedly. But as to lesser points, had I been a duchess born, I think I would not have contested them with my husband. I could give you many respectful instances too, of his receding, when he has desired to see what I have been writing, and I have told him to whom, and begged to be excused. One such instance I can give since I began this letter. This is it: I put it in my bosom, when he came up: he saw me do so: "Are you writing, my dear, what I must not see?" "I am writing to Miss Darnford, Sir: and she begged you might not at present." "This augments my curiosity, Pamela. What can two such ladies write, that I may not see?" "If you won't be displeased, Sir, I had rather you would not, because she desires you may not see her letter, nor this my answer, till the letter is in her hands." "Then I will not," returned Mr. B. Will this instance, my dear, come up to your demand for one, where he recedes from his own will, in complaisance to mine? But now, as to what both our notions and our practice are on the article of my retirements, and whether he breaks in upon them unceremoniously, and without apology, let the conversation I promised inform you, which began on the following occasion. Mr. B. rode out early one morning, within a few days past, and did not return till the afternoon; an absence I had not been used to of late; and breakfasting and dining without him being also a new thing with me, I had such an impatience to see him, having expected him at dinner, that I was forced to retire to my closet, to try to divert it, by writing; and the gloomy conclusion of my last was then the subject. He returned about four o'clock, and indeed did _not_ tarry to change his riding-dress, as your politeness, my dear friend, would perhaps have expected; but came directly up to me, with an impatience to see me, equal to my own, when he was told, upon enquiry, that I was in my closet. I heard his welcome step, as he came up stairs; which generally, after a longer absence than I expect, has such an effect upon my fond heart, that it gives a responsive throb for every step he takes towards me, and beats quicker and faster, as he comes nearer. I met him at my closet door. "So, my dear love," says he, "how do you?" folding his kind arms about me, and saluting me with ardour. "Whenever I have been but a few hours from you, my impatience to see my beloved, will not permit me to stand upon the formality of a message to know how you are engaged; but I break in upon you, even in my riding-dress, as you see." "Dear Sir, you are very obliging. But I have no notion of _mere_ formalities of this kind"--(How unpolite this, my dear, in your friend?)--"in a married state, since 'tis impossible a virtuous wife can be employed about any thing that her husband may not know, and so need not fear surprises." "I am glad to hear you say this, my Pamela; for I have always thought the extraordinary civilities and distances of this kind which I have observed among several persons of rank, altogether unaccountable. For if they are exacted by the lady, I should suspect she had reserves, which she herself believed I could not approve. If not exacted, but practised of choice by the gentleman, it carries with it, in my opinion, a false air of politeness, little less than affrontive to the lady, and dishonourable to himself; for does it not look as if he supposed, and allowed, that she might be so employed that it was necessary to apprise her of his visit, lest he should make discoveries not to her credit or his own?" "One would not, Sir" (for I thought his conclusion too severe), "make such a harsh supposition as this neither: for there are little delicacies and moments of retirement, no doubt, in which a modest lady would wish to be indulged by the tenderest husband." "It may be so in an _early_ matrimony, before the lady's confidence in the honour and discretion of the man she has chosen has disengaged her from her bridal reserves." "Bridal reserves, dear Sir! permit me to give it as my humble opinion, that a wife's behaviour ought to be as pure and circumspect, in degree, as that of a bride, or even of a maiden lady, be her confidence in her husband's honour and discretion ever so great. For, indeed, I think a gross or a careless demeanour little becomes that modesty which is the peculiar excellency and distinction of our sex." "You account very well, my dear, by what you now say for your own over-nice behaviour, as I have sometimes thought it. But are we not all apt to argue for a practice we make our own, because we _do_ make it our own, rather than from the reason of the thing?" "I hope, Sir, that is not the present case with me; for, permit me to say, that an over-free or negligent behaviour of a lady in the married state, must be a mark of disrespect to her consort, and would shew as if she was very little solicitous about what appearance she made in his eye. And must not this beget in him a slight opinion of her sex too, as if, supposing the gentleman had been a free liver, she would convince him there was no other difference in the sex, but as they were within or without the pale, licensed by the law, or acting in defiance of it?" "I understand the force of your argument, Pamela. But you were going to say something more." "Only, Sir, permit me to add, that when, in my particular case, you enjoin me to appear before you always dressed, even in the early part of the day, it would be wrong, if I was less regardful of my behaviour and actions, than of my appearance." "I believe you are right, my dear, if a precise or unnecessary scrupulousness be avoided, and where all is unaffected, easy, and natural, as in my Pamela. For I have seen married ladies, both in England and France, who have kept a husband at a greater distance than they have exacted from some of his sex, who have been more entitled to his resentment, than to his wife's intimacies. "But to wave a subject, in which, as I can with pleasure say, neither of us have much concern, tell me, my dearest, how you were employed before I came up? Here are pen and ink: here, too, is paper, but it is as spotless as your mind. To whom were you directing your favours now? May I not know your subject?" Mr. H.'s letter was a part of it; and so I had put it by, at his approach, and not choosing he should see that--"I am writing," replied I, "to Miss Darnford: but I think you must not ask me to see what I have written _this_ time. I put it aside that you should not, when I heard your welcome step. The subject is our parting with our noble guests; and a little of my apprehensiveness, on an occasion upon which our sex may write to one another; but, for some of the reasons we have been mentioning, gentlemen should not desire to see." "Then I will not, my dearest love." (So here, my dear, is another instance--I could give you an hundred such--of his receding from his own will, in complaisance to mine.) "Only," continued he, "let me warn you against too much apprehensiveness, for your own sake, as well as mine; for such a mind as my Pamela's I cannot permit to be habitually over-clouded. And yet there now hangs upon your brow an over-thoughtfulness, which you must not indulge." "Indeed, Sir, I was a little too thoughtful, from my subject, before you came; but your presence, like the sun, has dissipated the mists that hung upon my mind. See you not," and I pressed his hand with my lips, "they are all gone already?" smiling upon him with a delight unfeigned. "Not quite, my dearest Pamela; and therefore, if you have no objection, I will change my dress, and attend you in the chariot for an hour or two, whither you please, that not one shadow may remain visible in this dear face;" tenderly saluting me. "Whithersoever you please, Sir. A little airing with you will be highly agreeable to me." The dear obliger went and changed his dress in an instant; and he led me to the chariot, with his usual tender politeness, and we had a charming airing of several miles; returning quite happy, cheerful, and delighted with each other's conversation, without calling in upon any of our good neighbours: for what need of that, my dear, when we could be the best company in the world to each other? Do these instances come up to your questions, my dear? or, do they not?--If you think not, I could give you our conversation in the chariot: for I wrote it down at my first leisure, so highly was I delighted with it; for the subject was my dearest parents; a subject started by himself, because he knew it would oblige me. But being tired with writing, I may reserve it, till I have the pleasure of seeing you, if you think it worth asking for. And so I will hasten to a conclusion of this long letter. I have only farther to add, for my comfort, that next Thursday se'n-night, if nothing hinders, we are to set out for London. And why do you think I say _for my comfort?_ Only that I shall then soon have the opportunity, to assure you personally, as you give me hope, how much I am, my dear Miss Darnford, _your truly affectionate_. P.B. LETTER XLII My dear Miss Darnford, One more letter, and I have done for a great while, because I hope your presence will put an end to the occasion. I shall now tell you of my second visit to the dairy-house, where we went to breakfast, in the chariot and four, because of the distance, which is ten pretty long miles. I transcribed for you, from letters written formerly to my dear parents, an account of my former dairy-house visit, and what the people were, and whom I saw there; and although I besought you to keep that affair to yourself, as too much affecting the reputation of my Mr. B. to be known any farther, and even to destroy that account, when you had perused it; yet, I make no doubt, you remember the story, and so I need not repeat any part of it. When we arrived there, we found at the door, expecting us (for they heard the chariot-wheels at a distance), my pretty Miss Goodwin, and two other Misses, who had earned their ride, attended by the governess's daughter, a discreet young gentlewoman. As soon as I stepped out, the child ran into my arms with great eagerness, and I as tenderly embraced her, and leading her into the parlour, asked her abundance of questions about her work, and her lessons; and among the rest if she had merited this distinction of the chaise and dairy-house breakfast, or if it was owing to her uncle's favour, and to that of her governess? The young gentlewoman assured me it was to both, and shewed me her needleworks, and penmanship; and the child was highly pleased with my commendations. I took a good deal of notice of the other two Misses, for their school-fellow's sake, and made each of them a present of some little toys; and my Miss, of a number of pretty trinkets, with which she was highly delighted; and I told her, that I would wait upon her governess, when I came from London into the country again, and see in what order she kept her little matters; for, above all things, I love pretty house-wifely Misses; and then, I would bring her more. Mr. B. observed, with no small satisfaction, the child's behaviour, which is very pretty; and appeared as fond of her, as if he had been _more_ than her _uncle_, and yet seemed under some restraint, lest it should be taken, that he _was_ more. Such power has secret guilt, poor gentleman! to lessen and restrain a pleasure, that would, in a happier light, have been so laudable to have manifested! I am going to let you into a charming scene, resulting from this perplexity of the dear gentleman. A scene that has afforded me high delight ever since; and always will, when I think of it. The child was very fond of her uncle, and told him she loved him dearly, and always would love and honour him, for giving her such a good aunt. "You talked, Madam," said she, "when I saw you before, that I should come and live with you--Will you let me, Madam? Indeed I will be very good, and do every thing you bid me, and mind my book, and my needle; indeed I will." "Ask your uncle, my dear," said I; "I should like your pretty company of all things." She went to Mr. B. and said, "Shall I, Sir, go and live with my aunt?--Pray let me, when you come from London again." "You have a very good governess, child," said he; "and she can't part with you." "Yes, but she can. Sir; she has a great many Misses, and can spare me well enough; and if you please to let me ride in your coach sometimes, I can go and visit my governess, and beg a holiday for the Misses, now-and-then, when I am almost a woman, and then all the Misses will love me." "Don't the Misses love you now, Miss Goodwin?" said he. "Yes, they love me well enough, for matter of that; but they'll love me better, when I can beg them a holiday. Do, dear Sir, let me go home to my new aunt, next time you come into the country." I was much pleased with the dear child's earnestness; and permitted her to have her full argument with her beloved uncle; but was much moved, and he himself was under some concern, when she said, "But you should, in pity, let me live with you, Sir, for I have no papa, nor mamma neither: they are so far off!--But I will love you both as if you were my own papa and mamma; so, dear now, my good uncle, promise the poor girl that has never a papa nor mamma!" I withdrew to the door: "It will rain, I believe," said I, and looked up. And, indeed, I had almost a shower in my eye: and had I kept my place, could not have refrained shewing how much I was affected. Mr. B., as I said, was a little moved; but for fear the young gentlewoman should take notice of it--"How! my dear," said he, "no papa and mamma!--Did they not send you a pretty black boy to wait upon you, a while ago? Have you forgot that?"--"That's true," replied she: "but what's a black boy to living with my new aunt?--That's better a great deal than a black boy!" "Well, your aunt and I will consider of it, when we come from London. Be a good girl, meantime, and do as your governess would have you, and then you don't know what we may do for you." "Well then, Miss," said she to her young governess, "let me be set two tasks instead of one, and I will learn all I can to deserve to go to my aunt." In this manner the little prattler diverted herself. And as we returned from them, the scene I hinted at, opened as follows: Mr. B. was pleased to say, "What a poor figure does the proudest man make, my dear Pamela, under the sense of a concealed guilt, in company of the innocent who know it, and even of those who do not!--Since the casual expression of a baby shall overwhelm him with shame, and make him unable to look up without confusion. I blushed for myself," continued he, "to see how you were affected for me, and yet withdrew, to avoid reproaching me so much as with a look. Surely, Pamela, I must then make a most contemptible appearance in your eye! Did you not disdain me at that moment?" "Dearest Sir! how can you speak such a word? A word I cannot repeat after you! For at that very time, I beheld you with the more reverence, for seeing your noble heart touched with a sense of your error; and it was such an earnest to me of the happiest change I could ever wish for, and in so young a gentleman, that it was one half joy for that, and the other half concern at the little charmer's accidental plea, to her best and nearest friend, for coming home to her new aunt, that affected me so sensibly as you saw." "You must not talk to me of the child's coming home, after this visit, Pamela; for how, at this rate, shall I stand the reproaches of my own mind, when I see the little prater every day before me, and think of what her poor mamma has suffered on my account! 'Tis enough, that in _you_, my dear, I have an hourly reproach before me, for my attempts on your virtue; and I have nothing to boast of, but that I gave way to the triumphs of your innocence: and what then is my boast?" "What is your boast, dearest Sir? You have everything to boast, that is worthy of being boasted of. "You are the best of husbands, the best of landlords, the best of masters, the best of friends; and, with all these excellencies, and a mind, as I hope, continually improving, and more and more affected with the sense of its past mistakes, will you ask, dear Sir, what is your boast? "O my dearest, dear Mr. B.," and then I pressed his hands with my lips, "whatever you are to yourself, when you give way to reflections so hopeful, you are the glory and the boast of your grateful Pamela! And permit me to add," tears standing in my eyes, and holding his hand between mine, "that I never beheld you in my life, in a more amiable light, than when I saw that noble consciousness which you speak of, manifest itself in your eyes, and your countenance--O Sir! this was a sight of joy, of true joy! to one who loves you for your dear soul's sake, as well as for that of your person; and who looks forward to a companionship with you beyond the term of this transitory life." Putting my arms round his arms, as I sat, my fearful eye watching his, "I fear. Sir, I have been too serious! I have, perhaps, broken one of your injunctions! Have cast a gloominess over your mind! And if I have, dear Sir, forgive me!" He clasped his arms around me: "O my beloved Pamela," said he; "thou dear confirmer of all my better purposes! How shall I acknowledge your inexpressible goodness to me? I see every day more and more, my dear love, what confidence I may repose in your generosity and discretion! You want no forgiveness; and my silence was owing to much better motives than to those you were apprehensive of." He saw my grateful transport, and kindly said, "Struggle not, my beloved Pamela, for words to express sentiments which your eyes and your countenance much more significantly express than any words _can_ do. Every day produces new instances of your affectionate concern for my _future_ as well as _present_ happiness: and I will endeavour to confirm to you all the hopes which the present occasion has given you of me, and which I see by these transporting effects are so desirable to you." The chariot brought us home sooner than I wished, and Mr. B. handed me into the parlour. "Here, Mrs. Jervis," said he, meeting her in the passage, "receive your angelic lady. I must take a little tour without you, Pamela; for I have had _too much_ of your dear company, and must leave you, to descend again into myself; for you have raised me to such a height, that it is with pain I look down from it." He kissed my hand, and went into his chariot again; for it was but half an hour after twelve; and said he would be back by two at dinner. He left Mrs. Jervis wondering at his words, and at the solemn air with which he uttered them. But when I told that good friend the occasion, I had a new joy in the pleasure and gratulations of the dear good woman, on what had passed. My next letter will be from London, and to you, my honoured parents; for to you, my dear, I shall not write again, expecting to see you soon. But I must now write seldomer, because I am to renew my correspondence with Lady Davers; with whom I cannot be so free, as I have been with Miss Darnford; and so I doubt, my dear father and mother, you cannot have the particulars of that correspondence; for I shall never find time to transcribe. But every opportunity that offers, you may assure yourselves, shall be laid hold of by your ever-dutiful daughter. And now, my dear Miss Darnford, as I inscribed this letter to you, let me conclude it, with the assurance, that I am, and ever will be _your most affectionate friend and servant_, P.B. LETTER XLIII MY DEAR FATHER AND MOTHER, I know you will be pleased to hear that we arrived safely in town last night. We found a stately, well-furnished, and convenient house; and I had my closet, or library, and my withdrawing room, all in complete order, which Mr. B. gave me possession of in the most obliging manner. I am in a new world, as I may say, and see such vast piles of building, and such a concourse of people, and hear such a rattling of coaches in the day, that I hardly know what to make of it, as yet. Then the nightly watch, going their hourly rounds, disturbed me. But I shall soon be used to that, and sleep the sounder, perhaps, for the security it assures to us. Mr. B. is impatient to shew me what is curious in and about this vast city, and to hear, as he is pleased to say, my observations upon what I shall see. He has carried me through several of the fine streets this day in his chariot; but, at present, I have too confused a notion of things, to give any account of them: nor shall I trouble you with descriptions of that kind; for you being within a day's journey of London, I hope for the pleasure of seeing you oftener than I could expect before; and shall therefore leave these matters to your own observations, and what you'll hear from others. I am impatient for the arrival of my dear Miss Darnford, whose company and conversation will reconcile me, in a great measure, to this new world. Our family at present are Colbrand, Jonathan, and six men servants, including the coachman. The four maids are also with us. But my good Mrs. Jervis was indisposed; so came not up with us; but we expect her and Mr. Longman in a day or two: for Mr. B. has given her to my wishes; and as Mr. Longman's business will require him to be up and down frequently, Mrs. Jervis's care will be the better dispensed with. I long to see the dear good woman, and shall be more in my element when I do. Then I have, besides, my penitent Polly Barlow, who has never held up her head since that deplorable instance of her weakness, which I mentioned to you and to Miss Darnford, yet am I as kind to her as if nothing bad happened. I wish, however, some good husband would offer for her. Mr. Adams, our worthy chaplain, is now with Mr. Williams. He purposes to give us his company here till Christmas, when probably matters will be adjusted for him to take possession of his living. Meantime, not to let fall a good custom, when perhaps we have most occasion for it, I make Jonathan, who is reverend by his years and silver hairs, supply his place, appointing him the prayers he is to read. God preserve you both in health, and continue to me, I beseech you, your prayers and blessings, concludes _your ever dutiful daughter_, P. B. LETTER XLIV _From Mrs. B. to Lady Davers._ My Dearest Lady, I must beg pardon, for having been in this great town more than a week, and not having found an opportunity to tender my devoirs to your ladyship. You know, dear Madam, what hurries and fatigues must attend such a journey, to one in my way, and to an entire new settlement in which an hundred things must be done, and attended to, with a preference to other occasions, however delightful. Yet, I must own, we found a stately, well-ordered, and convenient house: but, although it is not far from the fields, and has an airy opening to its back part, and its front to a square, as it is called, yet I am not reconciled to it, so entirely as to the beloved mansion we left. My dear Mr. B. has been, and is, busily employed in ordering some few alterations, to make things still more commodious. He has furnished me out a pretty library; and has allotted me very convenient apartments besides: the furniture of every place is rich, as befits the mind and fortune of the generous owner. But I shall not offer at particulars, as we hope to have the honour of a visit from my good lord, and your ladyship, before the winter weather sets in, to make the roads too dirty and deep: but it is proper to mention, that the house is so large, that we can make a great number of beds, the more conveniently to receive the honours of your ladyship, and my lord, and Mr. B.'s other friends will do us. I have not yet been at any of the public diversions. Mr. B. has carried me, by gentle turns, out of his workmen's way, ten miles round this overgrown capital, and through the principal of its numerous streets. The villages that lie spangled about this vast circumference, as well on the other side the noble Thames (which I had before a notion of, from Sir John Denham's celebrated Cooper's Hill), as on the Middlesex side, are beautiful, both by buildings and situation, beyond what I had imagined, and several of them seem larger than many of our country towns of note. But it would be impertinent to trouble your ladyship with these matters, who are no stranger to what is worthy of notice in London. But I was surprised, when Mr. B. observed to me, that this whole county, and the two cities of London and Westminster, are represented in parliament by no more than eight members, when so many borough towns in England are inferior to the meanest villages about London. I am in daily expectation of the arrival of Miss Darnford, and then I shall wish (accompanied by a young lady of so polite a taste) to see a good play. Mr. B. has already shewn me the opera-house, and the play-houses, though silent, as I may say; that, as he was pleased to observe, they should not be new to me, and that the sight might not take off my attention from the performance, when I went to the play; so that I can conceive a tolerable notion of every thing, from the disposition of the seats, the boxes, galleries, pit, the music, scenes, and the stage; and so shall have no occasion to gaze about me, like a country novice, whereby I might attract a notice that I would not wish, either for my own credit, or your dear brother's honour. I have had a pleasure which I had not in Bedfordshire; and that is, that on Sunday I was at church, without gaping crowds to attend us, and blessings too loud for my wishes. Yet I was more gazed at (and so was Mr. B.) than I expected, considering there were so many well-dressed gentry, and some nobility there, and _they_ stared as much as any body, but will not, I hope, when we cease to be a novelty. We have already had several visitors to welcome Mr. B. to town, and to congratulate him on his marriage; but some, no doubt, to see, and to find fault with his rustic; for it is impossible, you know, Madam, that a gentleman so distinguished by his merit and fortune should have taken a step of such consequence to himself and family, and not to have been known by every body so to have done. Sir Thomas Atkyns is in town, and has taken apartments in Hanover Square; and he brought with him a younger brother of Mr. Arthur's, who, it seems, is a merchant. Lord F. has also been to pay his respects to Mr. B. whose school fellow he was at Eton, the little time Mr. B. was there. His lordship promises, that his lady shall make me a visit, and accompany me to the opera, as soon as we are fully settled. A gentleman of the Temple, Mr. Turner by name, and Mr. Fanshow of Gray's Inn, both lawyers, and of Mr. B.'s former acquaintance, very sprightly and modish gentlemen, have also welcomed us to town, and made Mr. B. abundance of gay compliments on my account to my face, all in the common frothy run. They may be polite gentlemen, but I can't say I over-much like them. There is something so opiniated, so seemingly insensible of rebuke, either from _within_ or _without_, and yet not promising to avoid deserving one occasionally, that I could as _lieve_ wish Mr. B. and they would not renew their former acquaintance. I am very bold your ladyship will say--But you command me to write freely: yet I would not be thought to be uneasy, with regard to your dear brother's morals, from these gentlemen; for, oh, Madam, I am a blessed creature, and am hourly happier and happier in the confidence I have as to that particular: but I imagine they will force themselves upon him, more than he may wish, or would permit, were the acquaintance now to begin; for they are not of his turn of mind, as it seems to me; being, by a sentence or two that dropt from them, very free, and very frothy in their conversation; and by their laughing at what they say themselves, taking that for wit which will not stand the test, if I may be allowed to say so. But they have heard, no doubt, what a person Mr. B.'s goodness to me has lifted into notice; and they think themselves warranted to say any thing before his country girl. He was pleased to ask me, when they were gone, how I liked his two lawyers? And said, they were persons of family and fortune. "I am glad of it, Sir," said I; "for their own sakes." "Then you don't approve of them, Pamela?" "They are _your_ friends, Sir; and I cannot have any dislike to them." "They say good things _sometimes_," returned he. "I don't doubt it, Sir; but you say good things _always_." "'Tis happy for me, my dear, you think so. But tell me, what you think of 'em?" "I shall be better able, Sir, to answer your questions, if I see them a second time." "But we form notions of persons at first sight, sometimes, my dear; and you are seldom mistaken in yours." "I only think. Sir, that they have neither of them any diffidence: but their profession, perhaps, may set them above that." "They don't _practise_, my dear; their fortunes enable them to live without it; and they are too studious of their pleasures, to give themselves any trouble they are not obliged to take." "They seem to me. Sir, _qualified_ for practice: they would make great figures at the bar, I fancy." "Why so?" "Only, because they seem prepared to think _well_ of what they say _themselves_; and _lightly_ of what _other people_ say, or may think, _of them_." "That, indeed, my dear, is the necessary qualifications of a public speaker, be he lawyer, or what he will: the man who cannot doubt _himself_, and can think meanly of his _auditors_, never fails to speak with _self-applause_ at least." "But you'll pardon me, good Sir, for speaking my mind so freely, and so early of these _your friends_." "I never, my love, ask you a question, I wish you not to answer; and always expect your answer should be without reserve; for many times I may ask your opinion, as a corrective or a confirmation of my own judgment." How kind, how indulgent was this, my good lady! But you know, how generously your dear brother treats me, on all occasions; and this makes me so bold as I often am. It may be necessary, my dear lady, to give you an account of our visitors, in order to make the future parts of my writing the more intelligible; because what I have to write may turn sometimes upon the company we see: for which reason, I shall also just mention Sir George Stuart, a Scottish gentleman, with whom Mr. B. became acquainted in his travels, who seems to be a polite (and Mr. B. says, is a learned) man, and a virtuoso: he, and a nephew of his, of the same name, a bashful gentleman, and who, for that reason, I imagine, has a merit that lies deeper than a first observation can reach, are just gone from us, and were received with so much civility by Mr. B. as entitles them to my respectful regard. Thus, Madam, do I run on, in a manner, without materials; and only to shew you the pleasure I take in obeying you. I hope my good Lord Davers enjoys his health, and continues me in his favour; which I value extremely, as well as your ladyship's. Mr. H., I hope, likewise enjoys his health. But let me not forget my particular and thankful respects to the Countess, for her favour and goodness to me, which I shall ever place next, in my grateful esteem, to the honours I have received from your ladyship, and which bind me to be, with the greatest respect, _your faithful and obliged servant_, P.B. LETTER XLV MY DEAR FATHER AND MOTHER, I write to you both, at this time, for your advice in a particular dispute, which is the only one I have had, or I hope ever shall have, with my dear benefactor; and as he is pleased to insist upon his way, and it is a point of conscience with me, I must resolve to be determined by your joint advice; for, if my father and mother, and husband, are of one opinion, I must, I think, yield up my own. This is the subject:--I think a mother ought, if she can, to be the nurse to her own children. Mr. B. says, he will not permit it. It is the first _will not_ I have heard from him, or given occasion for: and I tell him, that it is a point of conscience with me, and I hope he will indulge me: but the dear gentleman has an odd way of arguing, that sometimes puzzles me. He pretends to answer me from Scripture; but I have some doubts of _his_ exposition; and he gives me leave to write to you, though yet he won't promise to be determined by your opinions if they are not the same with his own; and I say to him, "Is this fair, my dearest Mr. B.? Is it?" He has got the dean's opinion with him; for our debate began before we came to town: and then he would not let me state the case; but did it himself; and yet 'tis but an half opinion, as I may, neither. For it is, that if the husband is set upon it, it is a wife's duty to obey. But I can't see how that is; for if it be the _natural_ duty of a mother, it is a _divine_ duty; and how can a husband have power to discharge a divine duty? As great as a wife's obligation is to obey her husband, which is, I own, one indispensable of the marriage contract, it ought not to interfere with what one takes to be a superior duty; and must not one be one's own judge of actions, by which we must stand or fall? I'll tell you my plea: I say, that where a mother is unhealthy; subject to communicative distempers, as scrophulous or scorbutic, or consumptive disorders, which have infected the blood or lungs; or where they have not plenty of nourishment for the child, that in these cases, a dispensation lies of course. But where there is good health, free spirits, and plentiful nourishment, I think it an indispensable duty. For this was the custom of old, of all the good wives we read of in Scripture. Then the nourishment of the mother must be most natural to the child. These were my pleas, among others: and this is his answer which he gave to me in writing: "As to what you allege, my dear, of old customs; times and fashions are much changed. If you tell me of Sarah's, or Rachel's, or Rebecca's, or Leah's nursing their children, I can answer, that the one drew water at a well, for her father's flocks; another kneaded cakes, and baked them on the hearth; another dressed savoury meat for her husband; and all of them performed the common offices of the household: and when our modern ladies shall follow such examples in _every thing_, their plea ought to be allowed in this. "Besides, my fondness for your personal graces, and the laudable, and, I will say, honest pleasure, I take in that easy, genteel form, which every body admires in you, at first sight, oblige me to declare, that I can by no means consent to sacrifice these to the carelessness into which I have seen very nice ladies sink, when they became nurses. Moreover, my chief delight in you is for the beauties of your mind; and unequalled as they are, in my opinion, you have still a genius capable of great improvement; and I shan't care, when I want to hear my Pamela read her French and Latin lessons, which I take so much delight to teach her (and to endeavour to improve myself from her virtue and piety, at the same time), to seek my beloved in the nursery; or to permit her to be engrossed by those baby offices, which will better befit weaker minds. "No, my dear, you must allow me to look upon you as my scholar, in one sense; as my companion in another; and as my instructress, in a third. You know I am not governed by the worst motives: I am half overcome by your virtue: and you must take care, that you leave not your work half done. But I cannot help looking upon the nurse's office, as an office beneath Pamela. Let it have your inspection, your direction, and your sole attention, if you please, when I am abroad: but when I am at home, even a son and heir, so jealous am I of your affections, shall not be my rival in them: nor will I have my rest broken in upon, by your servants bringing to you your dear little one, at times, perhaps, as unsuitable to my repose and your own, as to the child's necessities. "The chief thing with you, my dear, is that you think it unnatural in a mother not to be a nurse to her own child, if she can; and what is unnatural, you say, is sin. "Some men may be fond of having their wives undertake this province, and good reasons may be assigned for such their fondness; but it suits not me at all. And yet no man would be thought to have a greater affection for children than myself, or be more desirous to do them justice; for I think every one should look forward to posterity with a preference: but if my Pamela can be _better_ employed; if the office can be equally well performed; if your direction and superintendence will be sufficient; and if I cannot look upon you in that way with equal delight, as if it was otherwise; I insist upon it, my Pamela, that you acquiesce with my _dispensation_, and don't think to let me lose my beloved wife, and have a nurse put upon me instead of her. "As to that (the nearest to me of all) of dangers to your constitution: there is as much reason to hope it may not be so, as to fear that it _may_. For children sometimes bring health with them as well as infirmity; and it is not a little likely, that the _nurse's_ office may affect the health of one I hold most dear, who has no very robust constitution, and thinks it so much her duty to attend to it, that she will abridge herself of half the pleasures of life, and on that account confine herself within doors, or, in the other case, must take with her her infant and her nursery-maid wherever she goes; and I shall either have very fine company (shall I not?) or be obliged to deny myself yours. "Then, as I propose to give you a smattering of the French and Italian, I know not but I may take you on a little tour into France and Italy; at least, to Bath, Tunbridge, Oxford, York, and the principal places of England. Wherefore, as I love to look upon you as the companion of my pleasures, I advise you, my dearest love, not to weaken, or, to speak in a phrase proper to the present subject, _wean_ me from that love _to_ you, and admiration _of_ you, which hitherto has been rather increasing than otherwise, as your merit, and regard for me have increased." These, my dear parents, are charming allurements, almost irresistible temptations! And what makes me mistrust myself the more, and be the more diffident; for we are but too apt to be persuaded into any thing, when the motives are so tempting as the last. I take it for granted, that many wives will not choose to dispute this point so earnestly as I have done; for we have had several little debates about it; and it is the only point I have ever yet debated with him; but one would not be altogether implicit neither. It is no compliment to him to be quite passive, and to have no will at all of one's own: yet would I not dispute one point, but in supposition of a superior obligation: and this, he says, he can _dispense_ with. But alas! my dear Mr. B. was never yet thought so entirely fit to fill up the character of a casuistical divine, as that one may absolutely rely upon his decisions in these serious points: and you know we must stand or fall by our own judgments. Upon condition, therefore, that he requires not to see this my letter, nor your answer to it, I write for your advice. But this I see plainly, that he will have his own way; and if I cannot get over my scruples, what shall I do? For if I think it a _sin_ to submit to the dispensation he insists upon as in his power to grant, and to submit to it, what will become of my peace of mind? For it is not in our power to believe as one will. As to the liberty he gives me for a month, I should be loath to take it; for one knows not the inconveniences that may attend a change of nourishment; or if I did, I should rather--But I know not what I would say; for I am but a young creature to be in this way, and so very unequal to it in every respect! So I commit myself to God's direction, and your advice, as becomes _your ever dutiful daughter_, P.B. LETTER XLVI My Dearest Child, Your mother and I have as well considered the case you put as we are able; and we think your own reasons very good; and it is a thousand pities your honoured husband will not allow them, as you, my dear, make it such a point with you. Very few ladies would give their spouses, we believe, the trouble of this debate; and few gentlemen are so very nice as yours in this respect; for I (but what signifies what such a mean soul as I think, compared to so learned and brave a gentleman; yet I) always thought your dear mother, and she has been a pretty woman too, in her time, never looked so lovely, as when I saw her, like the pelican in the wilderness, feeding her young ones from her kind breast:--and had I never so noble an estate, I should have had the same thoughts. But since the good 'squire cannot take this pleasure; since he so much values your person; since he gives you warning, that it may estrange his affections; since he is impatient of denial, and thinks so highly of his prerogative; since he may, if disobliged, resume some bad habits, and so you may have all your prayers and hopes in his perfect reformation frustrated, and find your own power to do good more narrowed: we think, besides the obedience you have vowed to him, and is the duty of every good wife, you ought to give up the point, and acquiesce; for this seemeth to us to be the lesser evil: and God Almighty, if it should be your duty, will not be less merciful than men; who, as his honour says, by the laws of the realm, excuses a wife, when she is faulty by the command of the husband; and we hope, the fault he is pleased to make you commit (if a fault, for he really gives very praise-worthy motives for his dispensation) will not be laid at his own door. So e'en resolve, my dearest child, to submit to it, and with cheerfulness too. God send you an happy hour! But who knows, when the time comes, whether it may not be proper to dispense with this duty, as you deem it, on other accounts? For every young person is not enabled to perform it. So, to shew his honour, that you will cheerfully acquiesce, your dear mother advises you to look out for a wholesome, good-humoured, honest body, as near your complexion and temper, and constitution, as may be; and it may not be the worse, she thinks, if she is twenty, or one--or two-and-twenty; for she will have more strength and perfection, as one may say, than even you can have at your tender age: and, above all, for the wise reason you give from your reading, that she may be brought to-bed much about your time, if possible. We can look out, about us, for such an one. And, as Mr. B. is not adverse to have the dear child in the house, you will have as much delight, and the dear baby may fare as well, under your prudent and careful eye, as if you were obliged in the way you would choose. So God direct you, my child, in all your ways, and make you acquiesce in this point with cheerfulness (although, as you say, one cannot believe, as one pleases; for we verily are of opinion you safely may, as matters stand) and continue to you, and your honoured husband, health, and all manner of happiness, are the prayers of _your most affectionate father and mother,_ J. _and_ E. ANDREWS. LETTER XLVII I thank you, my dearest parents, for your kind letter; it was given to Mr. B. and he brought it to me himself, and was angry with me: indeed he was, as you shall hear: "'Tis from the good couple, my dear, I see. I hope they are of my opinion--But whether they be or not--But I will leave you; and do you, Pamela, step down to my closet, when you have perused it." He was pleased to withdraw; and I read it, and sat down, and considered it well; but, as you know I made it always my maxim to do what I could not avoid to do, with as good a grace as possible, I waited on the dear gentleman. "Well, Pamela," said he, a little seriously, "what say the worthy pair?" "O Sir! they declare for you. They say, it is best for me to yield up this point." "They are certainly in the right--But were you not a dear perverse creature, to give me all this trouble about your saucy scruples?" "Nay, Sir, don't call them so," said I, little thinking he was displeased with me. "I still am somewhat wavering; though they advise me to acquiesce; and, as it is your will, and you have determined, it is my duty to yield up the point." "But do you yield it up cheerfully, my dear?" "I do, Sir; and will never more dispute it, let what will happen. And I beg pardon for having so often entered into this subject with you. But you know, Sir, if one's weakness of mind gives one scruples, one should not yield implicitly, till they are satisfied; for that would look as if one gave not you the obedience of a free mind." "You are very obliging, _just now_, my dear; but I can tell you, you had made me half serious; yet I would not shew it, in compliment to your present condition; for I did not expect that you would have thought any appeal necessary, though to your parents, in a point that I was determined upon, as you must see, every time we talked of it." This struck me all in a heap. I looked down to the ground: having no courage to look up to his face, for fear I should behold his aspect as mortifying to me as his words. But he took both my hands, and drew me kindly to him, and saluted me, "Excuse me, my dearest love: I am not angry with you. Why starts this precious pearl?" and kissed my cheek: "speak to me, Pamela!" "I will, Sir--I will--as soon as I can:" for this being my first check, so seriously given, my heart was full. But as I knew he would be angry, and think me obstinate, if I did not speak, I said, full of concern, "I wish, Sir--I wish--you had been pleased to spare me a little longer, for the same kind, very kind, consideration." "But is it not better, my dear, to tell you I _was_ a little out of humour with you, than that I _am_?--But you were very earnest with me on this point more than once; and you put me upon a hated, because ungenerous, necessity of pleading my prerogative, as I call it; yet this would not do, but you appealed against me in the point I was determined upon, for reasons altogether in your favour: and if this was not like my Pamela, excuse me, that I could not help being a little unlike myself." "Ah!" thought I, "this is not so very unlike your dear self, were I to give the least shadow of an occasion; for it is of a piece with your lessons formerly." "I am sure," said I, "I was not in the least aware, that I had offended. But I was too little circumspect. I had been used to your goodness for so long a time, that I expected it, it seems; and thought I was sure of your favourable construction." "Why, so you may be, my dear, in every thing _almost_. But I don't love to speak twice my mind on the same subject; you know I don't! and you have really disputed this point with me five or six times; insomuch, that I wondered what was come to my dearest." "I thought, Sir, you would have distinguished between a command where my _conscience_ was concerned, and a _common_ point: you know. Sir, I never had any will but yours in _common_ points. But, indeed, you make me fearful because my task is rendered too difficult for my own weak judgment." I was silent, but by my tears. "Now, I doubt, Pamela, your spirit is high. You won't speak, because you are out of humour at what I say. I will have no sullen reserves, my dearest. What means that heaving sob? I know that this is the time with your sex, when, saddened with your apprehensions, and indulged because of them, by the fond husband, it is needful, for both their sakes, to watch over the changes of their temper. For ladies in your way are often like encroaching subjects; apt to extend what they call their privileges, on the indulgence shewed them; and the husband never again recovers the ascendant he had before." "You know these things better than I, Mr. B. But I had no intention to invade your province, or to go out of my own. Yet I thought I had a right to a little free will, on some greater occasions." "Why, so you have, my dear. But you must not plead in behalf of your own will, and refuse to give due weight to mine." "Well, Sir, I must needs say, I have one advantage above others of my sex; for if wives, in my circumstances, are apt to grow upon indulgence, I am very happy that your kind and watchful care will hinder me from falling into that error." He gave me a gentle tap on the neck: "Let me beat my beloved sauce-box," said he: "is it thus you rally my watchful care over you for your own good? But tell me, truly, Pamela, are you not a little sullen? Look up to me, my dear. Are you not?" "I believe I am; but 'tis but very little, Sir. It will soon go off. Please to let me withdraw, that I may take myself to task about it;-for at present, I know not what to do, because I did not expect the displeasure I have incurred." "Is it not the same thing," replied he, "if this our first quarrel end here, without your withdrawing?--I forgive you heartily, my Pamela; and give me one kiss, and I will think of your saucy appeal against me no more." "I will comply with your condition, Sir; but I have a great mind to be saucy. I wish you would let me for this once." "What would you say, my dearest?--Be saucy then, as you call it, as saucy as you can." "Why; then I _am_ a little sullen at present, that I am; and I am not fully convinced, whether it must be I that forgive you, or you me. For, indeed, if I can recollect, I cannot think my fault so great in this point, that was a point of conscience to me, as (pardon me Sir), to stand in need of your forgiveness." "Well, then, my dearest," said he, "we will forgive one another? but take this with you, that it is my love to you that makes me more delicate than otherwise I should be; and you have inured me so much to a faultless conduct, that I can hardly bear with natural infirmities from you.--But," giving me another tap, "get you gone; I leave you to your recollection; and let me know what fruits it produces: for I must not be put off with a half-compliance; I must have your whole will with me, if possible." So I went up, and recollecting every thing, _sacrificed to my sex_, as Mr. B. calls it, when he talks of a wife's reluctance to yield a favourite point: for I shed many tears, because my heart was set upon it. And so, my dear parents, twenty charming ideas and pleasures I had formed to myself, are vanished from me, and my measures are quite broken. But after my heart was relieved by my eye, I was lighter and easier. And the result is, we have heard of a good sort of woman, that is to be my poor _baby's mother_, when it comes; so your kindly-offered enquiries are needless, I believe. 'Tis well for our sex in general, that there are not many husbands who distinguish thus nicely. For, I doubt, there are but very few so well entitled to their ladies' observances as Mr. B. is to mine, and who would act so generously and so tenderly by a wife as he does, in every material instance on which the happiness of life depends. But we are quite reconciled; although as I said, upon his own terms: and so I can still style myself, _my dear honoured parents, your happy, as well as your dutiful daughter_, P.B. LETTER XLVIII _From Lady Davers to Mrs. B._ My Dear Pamela, I have sent you a present, the completest I could procure, of every thing that may suit your approaching happy circumstance; as I hope it will be to you, and to us all: but it is with a hope annexed, that although both sexes are thought of in it, you will not put us off with a girl: no, child, we will not permit you, may we have our wills, to _think_ of giving us a girl, till you have presented us with half a dozen fine boys. For our line is gone so low, we expect that human security from you in your first seven years, or we shall be disappointed. I will now give you their names, if my brother and you approve of them: your first shall be BILLY; my Lord Davers, and the Earl of C----, godfathers; and it must be doubly godmothered too, or I am afraid the countess and I shall fall out about it. Your second DAVERS; be sure remember that.--Your third, CHARLEY; your fourth, JEMMY; your fifth, HARRY; your sixth--DUDLEY, if you will--and your girl, if you had not rather call it PAMELA, shall be called BARBARA.--The rest name as you please.--And so, my dear, I wish all seven happily over with you. I am glad you got safe to town: and long to hear of Miss Darnford's arrival, because I know you'll be out of your bias in your new settlement till then. She is a fine lady, and writes the most to my taste of any one of her sex that I know, next to you. I wish she'd be so kind as to correspond with me. But be sure don't omit to give me the sequel of her sister's and Murray's affair, and what you think will please me in relation to her.-You do well to save yourself the trouble of describing the town and the public places. We are no strangers to them; and they are too much our table talk, when any country lady has for the first time been carried to town, and returned: besides, what London affords, is nothing that deserves mention, compared to what we have seen at Paris and at Versailles, and other of the French palaces. You exactly, therefore, hit our tastes, and answer our expectations, when you give us, in your peculiar manner, sentiments on what we may call the _soul of things_, and such characters as you draw with a pencil borrowed from the hand of nature, intermingled with those fine lights and shades of reflections and observations, that make your pictures glow, and instruct as well as delight. There, Pamela, is encouragement for you to proceed in obliging us. We are all of one mind in this respect; and more than ever, since we have seen your actions so well answered to your writings; and that theory and practice, as to every excellence that can adorn a lady, is the same thing with you. We are pleased with your lawyers' characters. There are life and nature in them; but never avoid giving all that occur to you, for that seems to be one of your talents; and in the ugliest, there will be matter of instruction; especially as you seem naturally to fall upon such as are so general, that no one who converses, but must see in them the picture of one or other he is acquainted with. By this time, perhaps, Miss Darnford will be with you.--Our respects to her, if so.--And you will have been at some of the theatrical entertainments: so will not want subjects to oblige us.--'Twas a good thought of your dear man's, to carry you to see the several houses, and to make you a judge, by that means, of the disposition and fashion of every thing in them.-Tell him, I love him better and better. I am proud of my brother, and do nothing but talk of what a charming husband he makes. But then, he gives an example to all who know him, and his uncontrollable temper (which makes against many of us), that it is possible for a good wife to make even a bad man a worthy husband: and this affords an instruction, which may stand all our sex in good stead.--But then they must have been cautious first, to choose a man of natural good sense, and good manners, and not a brutal or abandoned debauchee. But hark-ye-me, my sweet girl, what have I done, that you won't write yourself _sister_ to me? I could find in my heart to be angry with you. Before my last visit, I was scrupulous to subscribe myself so to _you_. But since I have seen myself so much surpassed in every excellence, that I would take pleasure in the name, you assume a pride in your turn, and may think it under-valuing yourself, to call _me_ so--Ay, that's the thing, I doubt--Although I have endeavoured by several regulations since my return (and the countess, too, keeps your example in distant view, as well as I), to be more worthy of the appellation. If, therefore, you would avoid the reproaches of secret pride, under the shadow of so remarkable an humility, for the future never omit subscribing as I do, with great pleasure, _your truly affectionate sister and friend_, B. DAVERS. I always take it for granted, that my worthy brother sends his respects to us; as you must, that Lord Davers, the Countess of C. and Jackey (who, as well as his uncle, talks of nothing else but you), send theirs; and so unnecessary compliments will be always excluded our correspondence. LETTER XLIX _In answer to the preceding._ How you overwhelm me with your goodness, my dearest lady, in every word of your last welcome letter, is beyond my power to express I How nobly has your ladyship contrived, in your ever-valued present, to encourage a doubting and apprehensive mind! And how does it contribute to my joy and my glory, that I am deemed by the noble sister of my best beloved, not wholly unworthy of being the humble means to continue, and, perhaps, to perpetuate, a family so ancient and so honourable! When I contemplate this, and look upon what I was--How shall I express a sense of the honour done me!--And when, reading over the other engaging particulars in your ladyship's letter, I come to the last charming paragraph, I am doubly affected to see myself seemingly upbraided, but so politely emboldened to assume an appellation, that otherwise I hardly dared. I--_humble_ I--who never had a sister before--to find one now in Lady Davers! O Madam, you, and _only_ you, can teach me words fit to express the joy and the gratitude that filled my delighted heart!--But thus much I am taught, that there is some thing more than the low-born can imagine in birth and education. This is so evident in your ladyship's actions, words, and manner, that it strikes one with a becoming reverence; and we look up with awe to a condition we emulate in vain, when raised by partial favour, like what I have found; and are confounded when we see grandeur of soul joined with grandeur of birth and condition; and a noble lady acting thus nobly, as Lady Davers acts. My best wishes, and a thousand blessings, attend your ladyship in all you undertake! And I am persuaded the latter will, and a peace and satisfaction of mind incomparably to be preferred to whatever else this world can afford, in the new regulations, which you, and my dear lady countess, have set on foot in your families: and when I can have the happiness to know what they are, I shall, I am confident, greatly improve my own methods by them. Were we to live for ever in this life, we might be careless and indifferent about these matters: but when such an uncertainty as to the time, and such a certainty as to the event is before us, a prudent mind will be always preparing, till prepared; and what can be a better preparative, than charitable actions to our fellow-creatures in the eye of that Majesty, which wants nothing of us himself, but to do just the merciful things to one another. Pardon me, my dearest lady, for this my free style. Methinks I am out of myself! I know not how to descend all at once from the height to which you have raised me: and you must forgive the reflections to which you yourself and your own noble actions have given birth. Here, having taken respite a little, I naturally sink into _body_ again.--And will not your ladyship confine your expectations from me within narrower limits?--For, O, I cannot even with my wishes, so swiftly follow your expectations, if such they are! But, however, leaving futurity to HIM, who only governs futurity, and who conducts us all, and our affairs, as shall best answer his own divine purposes, I will proceed as well as I can, to obey you in those articles, which are, at present, more within my own power. My dear Miss Darnford, then, let me acquaint your ladyship, arrived on Thursday last: she had given us notice, by a line, of the day she set out; and Sir Simon and Lady Darnford saw her ten miles on the way to the stage coach in Sir Simon's coach, Mr. Murray attending her on horseback. They parted with her, as was easy to guess from her merit, with great tenderness; and we are to look upon the visit (as we do) as a high favour from her papa and mamma; who, however, charge her not to exceed a month in and out, which I regret much. Mr. B. kindly proposed to me, as she came in the stage coach, attended with one maid-servant, to meet her part of the way in his coach and six, if, as he was pleased to say, it would not be too fatiguing to me; and we would go so early, as to dine at St. Alban's. I gladly consented, and we got thither about one o'clock; and while dinner was preparing, he was pleased to shew me the great church there, and the curious vault of the good Duke of Gloucester, and also the monument of the great Lord Chancellor Bacon in St. Michael's church; all which, no doubt, your ladyship has seen. There happened to be six passengers in the stage coach, including Miss Darnford and her maid; she was exceeding glad to be relieved from them, though the weather was cold enough, two of the passengers being not very agreeable company, one a rough military man, and the other a positive humoursome old gentlewoman: and the others two sisters--"who jangled now and then," said she, "as much as _my_ sister, and my sister's _sister_." Judge how joyful this meeting was to us both. Mr. B. was no less delighted, and said, he was infinitely obliged to Sir Simon for this precious trust. "I come with double pleasure," said she, "to see the greatest curiosity in England, a husband and wife, who have not, in so many months as you have been married, if I may believe report, and your letters, Mrs. B., once repented." "You are severe, Miss Darnford," replied Mr. B., "upon people in the married state: I hope there are many such instances." "There might, if there were more such husbands as Mr. B. makes.--I hated you once, and thought you very wicked; but I revere you now." "If you will _revere_ any body, my dear Miss Darnford," said he, "let it be this good girl; for it is all owing to her conduct and direction, that I make a tolerable husband: were there more such wives, I am persuaded, there would be more such husbands than there are." "You see, my dear," said I, "what it is to be wedded to a generous man. Mr. B., by his noble treatment of me, creates a merit in me, and disclaims the natural effects of his own goodness." "Well, you're a charming couple--person and mind. I know not any equal either of you have.--But, Mr. B., I will not compliment you too highly. I may make _you_ proud, for men are saucy creatures; but I cannot make your _lady_ so: and in this doubt of the one, and confidence in the other, I must join with you, that her merit is the greatest.--Since, excuse me, Sir, her example has reformed her rake; and you have only confirmed in her the virtues you found ready formed to your hand." "That distinction," said Mr. B., "is worthy of Miss Darnford's judgment." "My dearest Miss Darnford--my dearest Mr. B.," said I, laying my hand upon the hand of each, "how can you go on thus!--As I look upon every kind thing, two such dear friends say of me, as incentives for me to endeavour to deserve it, you must not ask me too high; for then, instead of encouraging, you'll make me despair." He led us into the coach; and in a free, easy, joyful manner, not in the least tired or fatigued, did we reach the town and Mr. B.'s house; with which and its furniture, and the apartments allotted for her, my dear friend is highly pleased. But the dear lady put me into some little confusion, when she saw me first, taking notice of my _improvements_, as she called them, before Mr. B. I looked at him and her with a downcast eye. He smiled, and said, "Would you, my good Miss Darnford, look so silly, after such a length of time, with a husband you need not be ashamed of?" "No, indeed, Sir, not I, I'll assure you; nor will I forgive those maiden airs in a wife so happy as you are." I said nothing. But I wished myself, in mind and behaviour, to be just what Miss Darnford is. But, my dear lady, Miss Darnford has had those early advantages from conversation, which I had not; and so must never expect to know how to deport myself with that modest freedom and ease, which I know I want, and shall always want, although some of my partial favourers think I do not. For I am every day more and more sensible of the great difference there is between being used to the politest conversation as an inferior, and being born to bear a part in it: in the one, all is set, stiff, awkward, and the person just such an ape of imitation as poor I; in the other, all is natural ease and sweetness--like Miss Darnford. Knowing this, I don't indeed aim at what I am sensible I cannot attain; and so, I hope, am less exposed to censure than I should be if I did. For, I have heard Mr. B. observe with regard to gentlemen who build fine houses, make fine gardens, and open fine prospects, that art should never take place of, but be subservient to, nature; and a gentleman, if confined to a situation, had better conform his designs to that, than to do as at Chatsworth, level a mountain at a monstrous expense; which, had it been suffered to remain, in so wild and romantic a scene as Chatsworth affords, might have been made one of the greatest beauties of the place. So I think I had better endeavour to make the best of those natural defects I cannot master, than, by assuming airs and dignities in appearance, to which I was not born, act neither part tolerably. By this means, instead of being thought neither gentlewoman nor rustic, as Sir Jacob hinted (_linsey-wolsey_, I think was his term too), I may be looked upon as an original in my way; and all originals pass well enough, you know, Madam, even with judges. Now I am upon this subject, I can form to myself, if your ladyship will excuse me, two such polite gentlemen as my lawyers mentioned in my former, who, with a true London magnanimity and penetration (for, Madam, I fancy your London critics will be the severest upon the country girl), will put on mighty significant looks, forgetting, it may be, that they have any faults themselves, and apprehending that they have nothing to do, but to sit in judgment upon others, one of them expressing himself after this manner--"Why, truly, Jack, the girl is well enough--_considering_--I can't say--" (then a pinch of snuff, perhaps, adds importance to his air)--"but a man might love her for a month or two." (These sparks talked thus of other ladies before me.) "She behaves better than I expected from her--_considering_--" again will follow. "So I think," cries the other, and tosses his tie behind him, with an air partly of contempt, and partly of rakery. "As you say. Jemmy, I expected to find an awkward country girl, but she tops her part, I'll assure you!--Nay, for that matter, behaves very tolerably for _what she was_--And is right, not to seem desirous to drown the remembrance of her original in her elevation--And, I can't but say" (for something like it he did say), "is mighty pretty, and passably genteel." And thus with their poor praise of Mr. B.'s girl, they think they have made a fine compliment to his judgment. But for _his_ sake (for as to my own, I am not solicitous about such gentlemen's good opinions), I owe them a spite; and believe, I shall find an opportunity to come out of their debt. For I have the vanity to think, now you have made me proud by your kind encouragements and approbation, that the country girl will make 'em look about them, with all their _genteel contempts_, which they miscall _praise_. But how I run on! Your ladyship expects that I shall write as freely to you as I used to do to my parents. I have the merit of obeying you, that I have; but, I doubt, too much to the exercise of your patience. This (like all mine) is a long letter; and I will only add to it Miss Darnford's humble respects, and thanks for your ladyship's kind mention of her, which she receives as no small honour. And now. Madam, with a greater pleasure than I can express, will I make use of the liberty you so kindly allow me to take, of subscribing myself with that profound respect which becomes me, _your ladyship's most obliged sister, and obedient servant,_ P.B. Mr. Adams, Mr. Longman, and Mrs. Jervis, are just arrived; and our household is now complete. LETTER L _From Lady Davers to Mrs. B._ MY DEAR PAMELA, After I have thanked you for your last agreeable letter, which has added the Earl and Lady Jenny to the number of your admirers (you know Lady Betty, her sister, was so before), I shall tell you, that I now write, at their requests, as well as at those of my Lord Davers, the countess you so dearly love, and Lady Betty, for your decision of an odd dispute, that, on reading your letter, and talking of your domestic excellencies, happened among us. Lady Betty says, that, notwithstanding any awkwardness you attribute to yourself, she cannot but decide, by all she has seen of your writings, and heard from us, that yours is the perfectest character she ever found in the sex. The countess said, that you wrong yourself in supposing you are not every thing that is polite and genteel, as well in your behaviour, as in your person; and that she knows not any lady in England who better becomes her station than you do. "Why, then," said Lady Jenny, "Mrs. B. must be quite perfect: that's certain." So said the earl; so said they all. And Lord Davers confirmed that you were. Yet, as we are sure, there cannot be such a character in this life as has not one fault, although we could not tell where to fix it, the countess made a whimsical motion: "Lady Davers," said she, "pray do you write to Mrs. B. and acquaint her with our subject; and as it is impossible, for one who can act as she does, not to know herself better than any body else can do, desire her to acquaint us with some of those secret foibles, that leave room for her to be still more perfect." "A good thought," said they all. And this is the present occasion of my writing; and pray see that you accuse yourself, of no more than you know yourself guilty: for over-modesty borders nearly on pride, and too liberal self-accusations are generally but so many traps for acquittal with applause: so that (whatever other ladies might) you will not be forgiven, if you deal with us in a way so poorly artful; let your faults, therefore, be such as you think we can subscribe to, from what we have _seen_ of _you_ and what we have _read_ of _yours_; and you must try to extenuate them too, as you give them, lest we should think you above that nature, which, in the _best_ cases, is your undoubted talent. I congratulate you and Miss Damford on her arrival: she is a charming young lady; but tell her, that we shall not allow her to take you at your word, and to think that she excels you in any one thing: only, indeed, we think you nicer in some points than you need be to, as to your present agreeable circumstance. And yet, let me tell you, that the easy, unaffected, conjugal purity, in word and behaviour, between your good man and you, is worthy of imitation, and what the countess and I have with pleasure contemplated since we left you, an hundred times, and admire in you both: and it is good policy too, child, as well as high decorum; for it is what will make you ever new and respectful to one another. But _you_ have the honour of it all, whose sweet, natural, and easy modesty, in person, behaviour, and conversation, forbid indecency, even in thought, much more in word, to approach you: insomuch that no rakes can be rakes in your presence, and yet they hardly know to what they owe their restraint. However, as people who see you at this time, will take it for granted that you and Mr. B. have been very intimate together, I should think you need not be ashamed of your appearance, because, as he rightly observes, you have no reason to be ashamed of your husband. Excuse my pleasantry, my dear: and answer our demand upon you, as soon as you can; which will oblige us all; particularly _your affectionate sister_, B. DAVERS. LETTER LI MY DEAREST LADY, What a task have you imposed upon me! And according to the terms you annex to it, how shall I acquit myself of it, without incurring the censure of affectation, if I freely accuse myself as I may deserve, or of vanity, if I do not? Indeed, Madam, I have a great many failings: and you don't know the pain it costs me to keep them under; not so much for fear the world should see them, for I bless God, I can hope they are not capital, as for fear they should become capital, if I were to let them grow upon me. And this, surely, I need not have told your ladyship, and the Countess of C., who have read my papers, and seen my behaviour in the kind visit you made to your dear brother, and had from _both_ but too much reason to censure me, did not your generous and partial favour make you overlook my greater failings, and pass under a kinder name many of my lesser; for surely, my good ladies, you must both of you have observed, in what you have read and seen, that I am naturally of a saucy temper: and with all my appearance of meekness and humility, can resent, and sting too, when I think myself provoked. I have also discovered in myself, on many occasions (of some of which I will by-and-by remind your ladyship), a malignancy of heart, that, it is true, lasts but a little while--nor had it need--but for which I have often called myself to account--to very little purpose hitherto. And, indeed, Madam (now for a little extenuation, as you expect from me), I have some difficulty, whether I ought to take such pains to subdue myself in some instances, in the station to which I am raised, that otherwise it would have become me to attempt to do: for it is no easy task, for one in my circumstances, to distinguish between the _ought_ and the _ought_ not; to be humble without meanness, and decent without arrogance. And if all persons thought as justly as I flatter myself I do, of the inconveniences, as well as conveniences, which attend their being raised to a condition above them, they would not imagine all the world was their own, when they came to be distinguished as I have been: for, what with the contempts of superior relations on one side, the envy of the world, and low reflections arising from it, on the other, from which no one must hope to be totally exempted, and the awkwardness, besides, with which they support their elevated condition, if they have sense to judge of their own imperfections; and if the gentleman be not such an one as mine--(and where will such another be found?)--On all these accounts, I say, they will be made sensible, that, whatever they might once think, happiness and an high estate are two very different things. But I shall be too grave, when your ladyship, and all my kind and noble friends, expect, perhaps, I should give the uncommon subject a pleasanter air: yet what must that mind be, that is not serious, when obliged to recollect, and give account of its defects? But I must not only accuse myself, it seems, I must give _proofs_, such as your ladyship can subscribe to, of my imperfections. There is so much _real kindness_ in this _seeming hardship_, that I will obey you. Madam, and produce proofs in a moment, which cannot be controverted. As to my _sauciness_, those papers will give an hundred instances against me, as well to your dear brother, as to others. Indeed, to extenuate, as you command me, as I go along, these were mostly when I was apprehensive for my honour, they were. And then, I have a little tincture of _jealousy_, which sometimes has made me more uneasy than I ought to be, as the papers you have not seen would have demonstrated, particularly in Miss Godfrey's case, and in my conversation with your ladyships, in which I have frequently betrayed my fears of what might happen when in London: yet, to extenuate again, I have examined myself very strictly on this head; and really think, that I can ascribe a great part of this jealousy to laudable motives; no less than to my concern for your dear brother's future happiness, in the hope, that I may be a humble means, through Providence, to induce him to abhor those crimes of which young gentlemen too often are guilty, and bring him over to the practice of those virtues, in which he will ever have cause to rejoice.--Yet, my lady, some other parts of the charge must stand against me; for as I love his person, as well as his mind, I have pride in my jealousy, that would not permit me, I verily think, to support myself as I ought, under trial of a competition, in this very tender point. And this obliges me to own, that I have a little spark--not a little one, perhaps of _secret pride_ and _vanity_, that will arise, now and then, on the honours done me; but which I keep under as much as I can; and to this pride, let me tell your ladyship, I know no one contributes, or can contribute, more largely than yourself. So you see, my dear lady, what a naughty heart I have, and how far I am from being a faultless creature--I hope I shall be better and better, however, as I live longer, and have more grace, and more wit: for here to recapitulate my faults, is in the first place, _vindictiveness_, I will not call it downright revenge--And how much room do all these leave for amendment, and greater perfection? Had your ladyship, and the countess, favoured us longer in your kind visit, I must have so improved, by your charming conversations, and by that natural ease and dignity which accompany everything your ladyships do and say, as to have got over such of these foibles as are not rooted in nature: till in time I had been able to do more than emulate those perfections, which at present, I can only at an awful distance revere; as becomes, _my dear ladies, your most humble admirer, and obliged servant_, P.B. * * * * * LETTER LII _From Miss Darnford to her Father and Mother_. MY EVER-HONOURED PAPA AND MAMMA, I arrived safely in London on Thursday, after a tolerable journey, considering Deb and I made six in the coach (two having been taken up on the way, after you left me), and none of the six highly agreeable. Mr. B. and his lady, who looks very stately upon us (from the circumstance of _person_, rather than of _mind_, however), were so good as to meet me at St. Alban's, in their coach and six. They have a fine house here, richly furnished in every part, and have allotted me the best apartment in it. We are happy beyond expression. Mr. B. is a charming husband; so easy, so pleased with, and so tender of his lady: and she so much all that we saw her in the country, as to humility and affability, and improved in every thing else which we hardly thought possible she could be--that I never knew so happy a matrimony.--All that _prerogative sauciness_, which we apprehended would so eminently display itself in his behaviour to his wife, had she been ever so distinguished by birth and fortune, is vanished. I did not think it was in the power of an angel, if our sex could have produced one, to have made so tender and so fond a husband of Mr. B. as he makes. And should I have the sense to follow Mrs. B.'s example, if ever I marry, I should not despair of making myself happy, let it be to whom it would, provided he was not a brute, nor sordid in his temper; which two characters are too obvious to be concealed, if persons take due care, and make proper inquiries, and if they are not led by blind passion. May Mr. Murray and Miss Nancy make just such a happy pair! You commanded me, my honoured mamma, to write to you an account of every thing that pleased me--I said I would: but what a task should I then have!--I did not think I had undertaken to write volumes.--You must therefore allow me to be more brief than I had intended. In the first place, it would take up five or six long letters to do justice to the economy observed in this happy family. You know that Mrs. B. has not changed one of her servants, and only added her Polly to them. This is an unexampled thing, especially as they were her _fellow-servants_ as we may say: but since they have the sense to admire so good an example, and are proud to follow it, each to his and her power, I think it one of her peculiar facilities to have continued them, and to choose to reform such as were exceptionable rather than dismiss them. Their mouths, Deb tells me, are continually full of their lady's praises, and prayers, and blessings, uttered with such delight and fervour for the happy pair, that it makes her eyes, she says, ready to run over to hear them. Moreover, I think it an extraordinary degree of policy (whether designed or not) to keep them, as they were all worthy folks; for had she turned them off, what had she done but made as many enemies as she had discarded servants; and as many more as those had friends and acquaintance? And we all know, how much the reputation of families lies at the mercy of servants; and it is easy to guess to what cause each would have imputed his or her dismission. And so she has escaped, as she ought, the censure of pride; and made every one, instead of reproaching her with her descent, find those graces in her, which turn that very disadvantage to her glory. She is exceedingly affable; always speaks to them with a smile; but yet has such a dignity in her manner, that it secures her their respect and reverence; and they are ready to fly at a look, and seem proud to have her commands to execute; insomuch, that the words--"_My lady commands so, or so,_" from one servant to another, are sure to meet with an indisputable obedience, be the duty required what it will. If any of them are the least indisposed, her care and tenderness for them engage the veneration and gratitude of all the rest, who see how kindly they will be treated, should they ail any thing themselves. And in all this she is very happy in Mrs. Jervis, who is an excellent second to her admirable lady; and is treated by her with as much respect and affection, as if she was her mother. You may remember, Madam, that in the account she gave us of her _benevolent round_, as Lady Davers calls it, she says, that as she was going to London, she should instruct Mrs. Jervis about some of her _clients_, as I find she calls her poor, to avoid a word which her delicacy accounts harsh with regard to them, and ostentatious with respect to herself. I asked her, how (since, contrary to her then expectation, Mrs. Jervis was permitted to be in town with her) she had provided to answer her intention as to those her clients, whom she had referred to the care of that good woman? She said, that Mr. Barlow, her apothecary, was a very worthy man, and she had given him a plenary power in that particular, and likewise desired him to recommend any new and worthy case to her that no deserving person among the destitute sick poor, might be unrelieved by reason of her absence. And here in London she has applied herself to Dr.----(her parish minister, a fine preacher, and sound divine, who promises on all opportunities to pay his respects to Mr. B.) to recommend to her any poor housekeepers, who would be glad to accept of some private benefactions, and yet, having lived creditably, till reduced by misfortunes, are ashamed to apply for public relief: and she has several of these already on her _benevolent list_, to some of whom she sends coals now at the entrance on the wintry season, to some a piece of Irish or Scottish linen, or so many yards of Norwich stuff, for gowns and coats for the girls, or Yorkshire cloth for the boys; and money to some, who she is most assured will lay it out with care. And she has moreover _mortified_, as the Scots call it, one hundred and fifty pounds as a fund for loans, without interest, of five, ten, or fifteen, but not exceeding twenty pounds, to answer some present exigence in some honest families, who find the best security they can, to repay it in a given time; and this fund, she purposes, as she grows richer, she says, to increase; and estimates pleasantly her worth by this sum, saying sometimes, "Who would ever have thought I should have been worth one hundred and fifty pounds so soon? I shall be a rich body in time." But in all these things, she enjoins secresy, which the doctor has promised. She told the doctor what Mr. Adams's office is in her family; and hoped, she said, he would give her his sanction to it; assuring him, that she thought it her duty to ask it, as she was one of his flock, and he, on that account, her principal shepherd, which made a spiritual relation between them, the requisites of which, on her part, were not to be dispensed with. The good gentleman very cheerfully and applaudingly gave his consent; and when she told him how well Mr. Adams was provided for, and that she would apply to him to supply her with a town chaplain, when she was deprived of him, he wished that the other duties of his function (for he has a large parish) would permit him to be the happy person himself, saying, that till she was supplied to her mind, either he or his curate would take care that so laudable a method should be kept up. You will do me the justice, Madam, to believe, that I very cheerfully join in my dear friend's Sunday duties; and I am not a little edified, with the good example, and the harmony and good-will that this excellent method preserves in the family. I must own I never saw such a family of love in my life: for here, under the eye of the best of mistresses, they twice every Sunday see one another all together (as they used to do in the country), superior as well as inferior servants; and Deb tells me, after Mrs. B. and I are withdrawn, there are such friendly salutations among them, that she never heard the like--"Your servant, good Master Longman:"--"Your servant, Master Colbrand," cries one and another:--"How do you, John?"--"I'm glad to see you, Abraham!"--"All blessedly met once more!" cries Jonathan, the venerable butler, with his silver hairs, as Mrs. B. always distinguishes him:--"Good Madam Jervis," cries another, "you look purely this blessed day, thank God!" And they return to their several vocations, so light, so easy, so pleased, so even-tempered in their minds, as their cheerful countenances, as well as expressions, testify, that it is a heaven of a house: and being wound up thus constantly once a week, at least, like a good eight-day clock, no piece of machinery that ever was made is so regular and uniform as this family is. What an example does this dear lady set to all who see her, know her, and who hear of her; how happy they who have the grace to follow it! What a public blessing would such a mind as hers be, could it be vested with the robes of royalty, and adorn the sovereign dignity! But what are the princes of the earth, look at them in every nation, and what they have been for ages past, compared to this lady? who acts from the impulses of her own heart, unaided in most cases, by any human example. In short, when I contemplate her innumerable excellencies, and that sweetness of temper, and universal benevolence, which shine in every thing she says and does, I cannot sometimes help looking upon her in the light of an angel, dropped down from heaven, and received into bodily organs, to live among men and women, in order to shew what the first of the species was designed to be. And, here, is the admiration, that one sees all these duties performed in such an easy and pleasant manner, as any body may perform them; for they interfere not with any parts of the family management; but rather aid and inspirit every one in the discharge of all their domestic services; and, moreover, keep their minds in a state of preparation for the more solemn duties of the day; and all without the least intermixture of affectation, enthusiasm, or ostentation. O my dear papa and mamma, permit me but to tarry here till I am perfect in all these good lessons, and how happy shall I be! As to the town, and the diversions of it, I shall not trouble you with any accounts, as, from your former thorough knowledge of both, you will want no information about them; for, generally speaking, all who reside constantly in London, allow, that there is little other difference in the diversions of one winter and another, than such as are in clothes; a few variations of the fashions only, which are mostly owing to the ingenious contrivances of persons who are to get their bread by diversifying them. Mrs. B. has undertaken to give Lady Davers an account of the matters as they pass, and her sentiments on what she sees. There must be something new in her observations, because she is a stranger to these diversions, and unbiassed entirely by favour or prejudice; and so will not play the partial critic, but give to a beauty its due praise, and to a fault its due censure, according to that truth and nature which are the unerring guides of her actions as well as sentiments. These I will transcribe for you; and you'll be so good as to return them when perused, because I will lend them, as I used to do her letters, to her good parents; and so I shall give her a pleasure at the same time in the accommodating them with the knowledge of all that passes, which she makes it a point of duty to do, because they take delight in her writings. My papa's observation, that a woman never takes a journey but she forgets something, is justified by me; for, with all my care, I have left my diamond buckle, which Miss Nancy will find in the inner till of my bureau, wrapt up in cotton; and I beg it may be sent me by the first opportunity. With my humble duty to you both, my dear indulgent papa and mamma, thanks for the favour I now rejoice in, and affectionate respects to Miss Nancy (I wish she would love me as well as I love her), and service to Mr. Murray, and all our good neighbours, conclude _me your dutiful, and highly-favoured daughter_, M. DARNFORD. Mr. B. and Mrs. B, desire their compliments of congratulation to Mr. and Mrs. Peters, on the marriage of their worthy niece; also to your honoured selves they desire their kind respects and thanks for the loan of your worthless daughter. I experience every hour some new token of their politeness and affection; and I make no scruple to think I am with such a brother, and such a sister as any happy creature may rejoice in, and be proud of. Mr. B. I cannot but repeat, is a charming husband, and a most polite gentleman. His lady is always accusing herself to me of awkwardness and insufficiency; but not a soul who sees her can find it out; she is all genteel ease; and the admiration of every one who beholds her. Only I tell her, with such happiness in possession, she is a little of the gravest sometimes. LETTER LIII _From Mrs. B. to Lady Davers._ MY GOOD LADY, You command me to acquaint you with the proceedings between Mr. Murray and Miss Nanny Darnford: and Miss Polly makes it easy for me to obey you in this particular, and in very few words; for she says, every thing was adjusted before she came away, and the ceremony, she believes, may be performed by this time. She rejoices that she was out of the way of it: for, she says, love is so awkward a thing to Mr. Murray, and good-humour so uncommon an one to Miss Nancy, that she hopes she shall never see such another courtship. We have been at the play-house several time; and, give me leave to say, Madam, (for I have now read as well as seen several), that I think the stage, by proper regulations, might be made a profitable amusement.--But nothing more convinces one of the truth of the common observation, that the best things, corrupted, prove the worst, than these representations. The terror and compunction for evil deeds, the compassion for a just distress, and the general beneficence which those lively exhibitions are so capable of raising in the human mind, might be of great service, when directed to right ends, and induced by proper motives: particularly where the actions which the catastrophe is designed to punish, are not set in such advantageous lights, as shall destroy the end of the moral, and make the vice that ought to be censured, imitable; where instruction is kept in view all the way, and where vice is punished, and virtue rewarded. But give me leave to say, that I think there is hardly one play I have seen, or read hitherto, but has too much of love in it, as that passion is generally treated. How unnatural in some, how inflaming in others, are the descriptions of it!--In most, rather rant and fury, like the loves of the fiercer brute animals, as Virgil, translated by Dryden, describes them, than the soft, sighing, fearfully hopeful murmurs, that swell the bosoms of our gentler sex: and the respectful, timorous, submissive complainings of the other, when the truth of the passion humanizes, as one may say, their more rugged hearts. In particular, what strange indelicates do these writers of tragedy often make of our sex! They don't enter into the passion at all, if I have any notion of it; but when the authors want to paint it strongly (at least in those plays I have seen and read) their aim seems to raise a whirlwind, as I may say, which sweeps down reason, religion, and decency; and carries every laudable duty away before it; so that all the examples can serve to shew is, how a disappointed lover may rage and storm, resent and revenge. The play I first saw was the tragedy of _The Distressed Mother;_ and a great many beautiful things I think there are in it: but half of it is a tempestuous, cruel, ungoverned rant of passion, and ends in cruelty, bloodshed, and desolation, which the truth of the story not warranting, as Mr. B. tells me, makes it the more pity, that the original author (for it is a French play, translated, you know, Madam), had not conducted it, since it was his choice, with less terror, and with greater propriety, to the passions intended to be raised, and actually raised in many places. But the epilogue spoken after the play, by Mrs. Oldfield, in the character of Andromache, was more shocking to me, than the most terrible parts of the play; as by lewd and even senseless _double entendre_, it could be calculated only to efface all the tender, all the virtuous sentiments, which the tragedy was designed to raise. The pleasure this gave the men was equally barbarous and insulting; all turning to the boxes, pit, and galleries, where ladies were, to see how they looked, and stood an emphatical and too-well pronounced ridicule, not only upon the play in general, but upon the part of Andromache in particular, which had been so well sustained by an excellent actress; and I was extremely mortified to see my favourite (and the only perfect) character debased and despoiled, and the widow of Hector, prince of Troy, talking nastiness to an audience, and setting it out with all the wicked graces of action, and affected archness of look, attitude, and emphasis. I stood up--"Dear Sir!--Dear Miss!" said I. "What's the matter, my love?" said Mr. B. smiling. "Why have I wept the distresses of the injured Hermione?" whispered I: "why have I been moved by the murder of the brave Pyrrhus, and shocked by the madness of Orestes! Is it for this? See you not Hector's widow, the noble Andromache, inverting the design of the whole play, satirizing her own sex, but indeed most of all ridiculing and shaming, in _my_ mind, that part of the audience, who can be delighted with this vile epilogue, after such scenes of horror and distress?" He was pleased to say, smiling, "I expected, my dear, that your delicacy, and Miss Darnford's too, would be shocked on this preposterous occasion. I never saw this play, rake as I was, but the impropriety of the epilogue sent me away dissatisfied with it, and with human nature too: and you only see, by this one instance, what a character that of an actor or actress is, and how capable they are to personate any thing for a sorry subsistence." "Well, but, Sir," said I, "are there not, think you, extravagant scenes and characters enough in most plays to justify the censures of the virtuous upon them, that the wicked friend of the author must crown the work in an epilogue, for fear the audience should go away improved by the representation? It is not, I see, always narrowness of spirit, as I have heard some say, that opens the mouths of good people against these diversions." In this wild way talked I; for I was quite out of patience at this unnatural and unexpected piece of ridicule, tacked to so serious a play, and coming after such a moral. Here is a specimen, my dear lady, of my observations on the first play I saw. How just or how impertinent, I must leave to your better judgment. I very probably expose my ignorance and folly in them, but I will not say presumption, because you have put me upon the task, which otherwise I should hardly have attempted. I have very little reason therefore to blame myself on this score; but, on the contrary, if I can escape your ladyship's censure, have cause to pride myself in the opportunity you have thereby given me to shew my readiness to obey you; and the rather, since I am sure of your kindest indulgence, now you have given me leave to style myself _your ladyship's obliged sister, and humble servant,_ P.B. LETTER LIV MY DEAR LADY, I gave you in my last my bold remarks upon a TRAGEDY-_The Distressed Mother_. I will now give you my shallow notions of a COMEDY--_The Tender Husband_. I liked this part of the title; though I was not pleased with the other, explanatory of it; _Or--The Accomplished Fools_. But when I heard it was written by Sir Richard Steele, and that Mr. Addison had given some hints towards it, if not some characters--"O, dear Sir," said I, "give us your company to this play; for the authors of the Spectator cannot possibly produce a faulty scene." Mr. B. indeed smiled; for I had not then read the play: and the Earl of F., his countess, Miss Darnford, Mr. B. and myself, agreed to meet with a niece of my lord's in the stage-box, which was taken on purpose. There seemed to me to be much wit and satire in the play: but, upon my word, I was grievously disappointed as to the morality of it; nor, in some places, is--_probability_ preserved; and there are divers speeches so very free, that I could not have expected to meet with such, from the names I mentioned. In short the author seems to have forgotten the moral all the way; and being put in mind of it by some kind friend (Mr. Addison, perhaps), was at a loss to draw one from such characters and plots as he had produced; and so put down what came uppermost, for the sake of custom, without much regard to propriety. And truly, I should think, that the play was begun with a design to draw more amiable characters, answerable to the title of _The Tender Husband_; but that the author, being carried away by the luxuriancy of a genius, which he had not the heart to prune, on a general survey of the whole, distrusting the propriety of that title, added the under one: with an OR, _The Accomplished Fools_, in justice to his piece, and compliment to his audience. Had he called it _The Accomplished Knaves_, I would not have been angry at him, because there would have been more propriety in the title. I wish I could, for the sake of the authors, have praised every scene of this play: I hoped to have reason for it. Judge then, my dear lady, my mortification, not to be able to say I liked above one, the _Painter's scene_, which too was out of time, being on the wedding-day; and am forced to disapprove of every character in it, and the views of every one. I am, dear Madam, _your most obliged sister and servant_, P.B. LETTER LV My Dear Lady, Although I cannot tell how you received my observations on the tragedy of _The Distressed Mother_, and the comedy of _The Tender Husband_, yet will I proceed to give your ladyship my opinion of the opera I was at last night. But what can I say, after mentioning what you so well know, the fine scenes, the genteel and splendid company, the charming voices, and delightful music? If, Madam, one were all ear, and lost to every sense but that of harmony, surely the Italian opera would be a transporting thing!--But when one finds good sense, and instruction, and propriety, sacrificed to the charms of sound, what an unedifying, what a mere temporary delight does it afford! For what does one carry home, but the remembrance of having been pleased so many hours by the mere vibration of air, which, being but sound, you cannot bring away with you; and must therefore enter the time passed in such a diversion, into the account of those blank hours, from which one has not reaped so much as one improving lesson? Mr. B. observes, that when once sound is preferred to sense, we shall depart from all our own worthiness, and, at best, be but the apes, yea, the dupes, of those whom we may strive to imitate, but never can reach, much less excel. Mr. B. says, sometimes, that this taste is almost the only good fruit our young nobility gather, and bring home from their foreign tours; and that he found the English nation much ridiculed on this score, by those very people who are benefited by their depravity. And if this be the best, what must the other qualifications be, which they bring home?--Yet every one does not return with so little improvement, it is to be hoped. But what can I say of an Italian opera?--For who can describe sound! Or what words shall be found to embody air? And when we return, and are asked our opinion of what we have seen or heard, we are only able to answer, as I hinted above the scenery is fine, the company splendid and genteel, the music charming for the time, the action not extraordinary, the language unintelligible, and, for all these reasons--the instruction none at all. This is all the thing itself gives me room to say of the Italian opera; very probably, for want of a polite taste, and a knowledge of the language. In my next, I believe, I shall give you, Madam, my opinion of a diversion, which, I doubt, I shall like still less, and that is a masquerade; for I fear I shall not be excused going to one, although I have no manner of liking to it, especially in my present way. I am. Madam, _your ladyship's most obliged and faithful_ P.B. I must add another half sheet to this letter on the subject matter of it, the opera; and am sure you will not be displeased with the addition. Mr. B. coming up just as I had concluded my letter, asked me what was my subject? I told him I was giving your ladyship my notions of the Italian opera. "Let me see what they are, my dear; for this is a subject that very few of those who admire these performances, and fewer still of those who decry them, know any thing of." He read the above, and was pleased to commend it. "Operas," said he, "are very sad things in England, to what they are in Italy; and the translations given of them abominable: and indeed, our language will not do them justice. "Every nation, as you say, has its excellencies; and ours should not quit the manly nervous sense, which is the distinction of the English drama. One play of our celebrated Shakespeare will give infinitely more pleasure to a sensible mind than a dozen English-Italian operas. But, my dear, in Italy, they are quite another thing: and the sense is not, as here, sacrificed so much to the sound, but that they are both very compatible." "Be pleased, Sir, to give me your observations on this head in writing, and then I shall have something to send worthy of Lady Davers's acceptance." "I will, my dear;" and he took a pen, and wrote the inclosed; which I beg your ladyship to return me; because I will keep it for my instruction, if I should be led to talk of this subject in company. "Let my sister know," said he, "that I have given myself no time to re-peruse what I have written. She will do well, therefore, to correct it, and return it to you." "In Italy, judges of operas are so far from thinking the drama or poetical part of their operas nonsense, as the unskilled in Italian rashly conclude in England, that if the Libretto, as they call it, is not approved, the opera, notwithstanding the excellence of the music, will be condemned. For the Italians justly determine, that the very music of an opera cannot be complete and pleasing, if the drama be incongruous, as I may call it, in its composition, because, in order to please, it must have the necessary contrast of the grave and the light, that is, the diverting equally blended through the whole. If there be too much of the first, let the music be composed ever so masterly in that style, it will become heavy and tiresome; if the latter prevail, it will surfeit with its levity: wherefore it is the poet's business to adapt the words for this agreeable mixture: for the music is but secondary, and subservient to the words; and if there be an artful contrast in the drama, there will be the same in the music, supposing the composer to be a skilful master. "Now, since in England, the practice has been to mutilate, curtail, and patch up a drama in Italian, in order to introduce favourite airs, selected from different authors, the contrast has always been broken thereby, without every one's knowing the reason: and since ignorant mercenary prompters, though Italians, have been employed in hotch-potch, and in translating our dramas from Italian into English, how could such operas appear any other than incongruous nonsense?" Permit me, dear Madam, to repeat my assurances, that I am, and must ever be, _your obliged sister and servant_, P.B. LETTER LVI Well, now, my dear lady, I will give you my poor opinion of a masquerade, to which Mr. B. persuaded me to accompany Miss Darnford; for, as I hinted in my former, I had a great indifference, or rather dislike, to go, and Miss therefore wanted so powerful a second, to get me with her; because I was afraid the freedoms which I had heard were used there, would not be very agreeable to my apprehensive temper, at _this_ time especially. But finding Mr. B. chose to have me go, if, as he was pleased to say, I had no objection, "I said, I _will_ have none, I _can_ have none, when you tell me it is your choice; and so send for the habits you like, and that you would have me appear in, and I will cheerfully attend you." The habit Mr. B. pitched upon was that of a Spanish Don, and it well befitted the majesty of his person and air; and Miss Darnford chose that of a young Widow; and Mr. B. recommended that of a Quaker for me. We all admired one another in our dresses; and Mr. B. promising to have me always in his eye, we went thither. But I never desire to be present at another. Mr. B. was singled out by a bold Nun, who talked Italian to him with such free airs, that I did not much like it, though I knew not what she said; for I thought the dear gentleman no more kept to his Spanish gravity, than she to the requisites of the habit she wore: when I had imagined that all that was tolerable in a masquerade, was the acting up to the character each person assumed: and this gave me no objection to the Quaker's dress; for I thought I was prim enough for that naturally. I said softly, "Dear Miss Darnford" (for Mr. B. and the Nun were out of sight in a moment), "what is become of that Nun?"--"Rather," whispered she, "what is become of the Spaniard?" A Cardinal attacked me instantly in French; but I answered in English, not knowing what he said, "Quakers are not fit company for Red-hats." "They are," said he, in the same language; "for a Quaker and a Jesuit is the same thing." Miss Darnford was addressed by the name of the Sprightly Widow: another asked, how long she intended to wear those weeds? And a footman, in a rich livery, answered for her eyes, through her mask, that it would not be a month. But I was startled when a Presbyterian Parson came up, and bid me look after my Musidorus--So that I doubted not by this, it must be one who knew my name to be Pamela; and I soon thought of one of my lawyers, whose characters I gave before. Indeed, he needed not to bid me; for I was sorry, on more accounts than that of my timorousness, to have lost sight of him. "Out upon these nasty masquerades!" thought I; "I can't abide them already!" An egregious beauish appearance came up to Miss, and said, "You hang out a very pretty _sign_, Widow." "Not," replied she, "to invite such fops as you to my shop." "Any customer would be welcome," returned he, "in my opinion. I whisper this as a secret." "And I whisper another," said she, but not whisperingly, "that no place warrants ill manners." "Are you angry, Widow?" She affected a laugh: "No, indeed, it i'n't worth while." He turned to me--and I was afraid of some such hit as he gave me. "I hope, friend, thou art prepared with a father for the light within thee?" "Is this wit?" said I, turning to Miss Darnford: "I have enough of this diversion, where nothing but coarse jests appear _barefac'd_." At last Mr. B. accosted us, as if he had not known us. "So lovely a widow, and so sweet a friend! no wonder you do not separate: for I see not in this various assembly a third person of your sex fit to join with you." "Not _one_, Sir!" said I. "Will not a penitent Nun make a good third with a mournful Widow, and a prim Quaker?" "Not for more than ten minutes at most." Instantly the Nun, a fine person of a lady, with a noble air, though I did not like her, joined us, and spoke in Italian something very free, as it seemed by her manner, and Mr. B.'s smiling answer; but neither Miss Darnford nor I understood that language, and Mr. B. would not explain it to us. But she gave him a signal to follow her, seeming to be much taken with his person and air; for though there were three other Spanish habits there, he was called _The stately Spaniard_ by one, _The handsome Spaniard_ by another, in our hearing, as he passed with us to the dessert, where we drank each of us a glass of Champaign, and eat a few sweetmeats, with a crowd about us; but we appeared not to know one another: while several odd appearances, as one Indian Prince, one Chinese Mandarin, several Domino's, of both sexes, a Dutch Skipper, a Jewish Rabbi, a Greek Monk, a Harlequin, a Turkish Bashaw, and Capuchin Friar, glided by us, as we returned into company, signifying that we were strangers to them by squeaking out--"_I know you!_"--Which is half the wit of the place. Two ladies, one in a very fantastic party-coloured habit, with a plume of feathers, the other in a rustic one, with a garland of flowers round her head, were much taken notice of for their freedom, and having something to say to every body. They were as seldom separated as Miss Darnford and I, and were followed by a crowd wherever they went. The party-coloured one came up to me: "Friend," said she, "there is something in thy person that attracts every one's notice: but if a sack had not been a profane thing, it would have become thee almost as well."--"I thank thee, friend," said I, "for thy counsel; but if thou hadst been pleased to look at home, thou wouldst not have taken so much pains to join such advice, and such an appearance, together, as thou makest!" This made every one that heard it laugh.--One said, the butterfly hath met with her match. She returned, with an affected laugh, "Smartly said!--But art thou come hither, friend, to make thy light shine before men or women?" "Verily, friend, neither," replied I: "but out of mere curiosity, to look into the _minds_ of both sexes; which I read in their _dresses_." "A general satire on the assemblée, by the mass!" said a fat Monk. The Nun whisked to us: "We're all concerned in my friend's remark."-- "And no disgrace to a fair Nun," returned I, "if her behaviour answer her dress--Nor to a reverend Friar," turning to the Monk, "if his mind be not a discredit to his appearance--Nor yet to a Country-girl," turning to the party-coloured lady's companion, "if she has not weeds in her heart to disgrace the flowers on her head." An odd figure, representing a _Merry Andrew_, took my hand, and said, I had the most piquant wit he had met with that night: "And, friend," said he, "let us be better acquainted!" "Forbear," said I, withdrawing my hand; "not a companion for a Jack-pudding, neither!" A Roman Senator just then accosted Miss Darnford; and Mr. B. seeing me so much engaged, "'Twere hard," said he, "if our nation, in spite of Cervantes, produced not one cavalier to protect a fair lady thus surrounded." "Though surrounded, not distressed, my good knight-errant," said the Nun: "the fair Quaker will be too hard for half-a-dozen antagonists, and wants not your protection:--but your poor Nun bespeaks it," whispered she, "who has not a word to say for herself." Mr. B. answered her in Italian (I wish I understood Italian!)--and she had recourse to her beads. You can't imagine, Madam, how this Nun haunted him!--I don't like these masquerades at all. Many ladies, on these occasions, are so very free, that the censorious will be apt to blame the whole sex for _their_ conduct, and to say, their hearts are as faulty as those of the most culpable men, since they scruple not to shew as much, when they think they cannot be known by their faces. But it is my humble opinion, that could a standard be fixed, by which one could determine readily what _is_, and what is _not_ wit, decency would not be so often wounded by attempts to be witty, as it is. For here every one, who can say things that shock a modester person, not meeting with due rebuke, but perhaps a smile, (without considering whether it be of contempt or approbation) mistakes courage for wit; and every thing sacred or civil becomes the subject of his frothy jest. But what a moralizer am I! will your ladyship say: indeed I can't help it:--and especially on such a subject as a _masquerade_, which I dislike more than any thing I ever saw. I could say a great deal more on this occasion; but, upon my word, I am quite out of humour with it: for I liked my English Mr. B. better than my Spaniard: and the Nun I approved not by any means; though there were some who observed, that she was one of the gracefullest figures in the place. And, indeed, in spite of my own heart, I could not help thinking so too. Your ladyship knows so well what _masquerades_ are, that I may well be excused saying any thing further on a subject I am so little pleased with: for you only desire my notions of those diversions, because I am a novice in them; and this, I doubt not, will doubly serve to answer that purpose. I shall only therefore add, that after an hundred other impertinences spoken to Miss Darnford and me, and retorted with spirit by her, and as well as I could by myself, quite sick of the place, I feigned to be more indisposed than I was, and so got my beloved Spaniard to go off with us, and reached home by three in the morning. And so much for _masquerades_. I hope I shall never have occasion to mention them again to your ladyship. I am, my dearest Madam, _your ever obliged sister and servant_, P.B. LETTER LVII MY DEAREST LADY, My mind is so wholly engrossed by thoughts of a very different nature from those which the diversions of the town and theatres inspire, that I beg to be excused, if, for the present, I say nothing further of those lighter matters. But as you do not disapprove of my remarks, I intend, if God spares my life, to make a little book, which I will present to your ladyship, of my poor observations on all the dramatic entertainments I have seen, and shall see, this winter: and for this purpose I have made brief notes in the margin of the printed plays I have bought, as I saw them, with a pencil; by referring to which, as helps to my memory, I shall be able to state what my thoughts were at the time of seeing them pretty nearly with the same advantage, as if I had written them at my return from each. I have obtained Sir Simon, and Lady Darnford's permission for Miss to stay with me till it shall be seen how it will please God to deal with me, and I owe this favour partly to a kind letter written in my behalf to Sir Simon, by Mr. B., and partly to the young lady's earnest request to her papa, to oblige me; Sir Simon having made some difficulty to comply, as Mr. Murray and his bride have left them, saying, he could not live long, if he had not the company of his beloved daughter. But what shall I say, when I find my frailty so much increased, that I cannot, with the same intenseness of devotion I used to be blest with, apply myself to the throne of Grace, nor, of consequence, find my invocations answered by that delight and inward satisfaction, with which I used when the present near prospect was more remote? I hope I shall not be deserted in the hour of trial, and that this my weakness of mind will not be punished with a spiritual dereliction, for suffering myself to be too much attached to those worldly delights and pleasures, which no mortal ever enjoyed in a more exalted degree than myself. And I beseech you, my dearest lady, let me be always remembered in your prayers--_only_ for a resignation to the Divine will; a _cheerful_ resignation! I presume not to prescribe to his gracious Providence; for if one has but _that_, one has every thing that one need to have. Forgive me, my dearest lady, for being so deeply serious. I have just been contending with a severe pang, that is now gone off; what effect its return may have, God only knows. And if this is the last line I shall ever write, it will be the more satisfactory to me, as (with my humble respects to my good Lord Davers, and my dear countess, and praying for the continuance of all your healths and happiness, both here and hereafter), I am permitted to subscribe myself _your ladyship's obliged sister and humble servant_, P.B. LETTER LVIII _From Lady Davers to Mr. B._ MY DEAREST BROTHER, Although I believe it needless to put a man of your generous spirit in mind of doing a worthy action; yet, as I do not know whether you have thought of what I am going to hint to you, I cannot forbear a line or two with regard to the good old couple in Kent. I am sure, if, for our sins, God Almighty should take from us my incomparable sister (forgive me, my dear brother, but to intimate what _may_ be, although I hourly pray, as her trying minute approaches, that it will not), you will, for her sake, take care that her honest parents have not the loss of your favour, to deepen the inconsolable one, they will have, in such a case, of the best of daughters. I say, I am sure you will do as generously by them as ever: and I dare say your sweet Pamela doubts it not: yet, as you know how sensible she is of every favour done them, it is the countess's opinion and mine, and Lady Betty's too, that you give _her_ this assurance, in some _legal_ way: for, as she is naturally apprehensive, and thinks more of her present circumstances, than, for your sake, she chooses to express to you, it will be like a cordial to her dutiful and grateful heart; and I do not know, if it will not contribute, more than any _one_ thing, to make her go through her task with ease and safety. I know how much your heart is wrapped up in the dear creature: and you are a worthy brother to let it be so! You will excuse me therefore, I am sure, for this my officiousness. I have no doubt but God will spare her to us, because, although we may not be worthy of such excellence, yet we all now unite so gratefully to thank him, for such a worthy relation, that I hope we shall not be deprived of an example so necessary to us all. I can have but one fear, and that is, that, young as she is, she seems ripened for glory: she seems to have lived long enough for _herself_. But for _you_, and for _us_, that God will _still_ spare her, shall be the hourly prayer of, _my dear worthy brother, your ever affectionate sister_, B. DAVERS. Have you got her mother with you? I hope you have. God give you a son and heir, if it be his blessed will! But, however that be, preserve your Pamela to you! for you never can have such _another_ wife. LETTER LIX _From Mrs. B. to Mr. B._ MY DEAR AND EVER-HONOURED MR. B., Since I know not how it may please God Almighty to dispose of me on the approaching occasion, I should think myself inexcusable, not to find one or two select hours to dedicate to you, out of the very many, in the writing way, which your goodness has indulged me, because you saw I took delight in it. But yet, think not, O best beloved of my heart! that I have any boon to beg, any favour to ask, either for myself or for my friends, or so much as the _continuance_ of your favour, to the one or the other. As to them, you have prevented and exceeded all my wishes: as to myself, if it please God to spare me, I know I shall always be rewarded beyond my desert, let my deservings be what they will. I have only therefore to acknowledge with the deepest sense of your goodness to me, and with the most heart-affecting gratitude, that from the happy, the thrice happy hour, that you so generously made me yours, till _this_ moment, you have not left one thing, on my own part, to wish for, but the continuance and increase of your felicity, and that I might be still worthier of the unexampled goodness, tenderness, and condescension, wherewith you have always treated me. No, my dearest, my best beloved master, friend, husband, my _first_, my _last_, and _only_ love! believe me, I have nothing to wish for but your honour and felicity, temporal and eternal; and I make no doubt, that God, in his infinite goodness and mercy, will perfect his own good work, begun in your dear heart; and, whatever may now happen, give us a happy meeting, never more to part from one another. Let me then beg of you, my dearest protector, to pardon all my imperfections and defects; and if, ever since I have had the honour to be yours, I have in _looks_, or in _word_, or in _deed_, given you cause to wish me other than I was, that you will kindly put it to the score of natural infirmity (for in _thought_ or _intention_, I can truly boast, I have never wilfully erred). Your tenderness, and generous politeness to me, always gave me apprehension, that I was not what you wished me to be, because you would not find fault with me so often as I fear I deserved: and this makes me beg of you to do, as I hope God Almighty will, pardon all my involuntary errors and omissions. But let me say one word for my dear worthy Mrs. Jervis. Her care and fidelity will be very necessary for your affairs, dear Sir, while you remain single, which I hope will not be long. But, whenever you make a second choice, be pleased to allow her such an annuity as may make her independent, and pass away the remainder of her life with ease and comfort. And this I the rather presume to request, as my late honoured lady once intimated the same thing to you. If I were to name what that may be, it would not be with the thought of _heightening_, but of _limiting_ rather, the natural bounty of your heart; and fifty pounds a-year would be a rich provision, in her opinion, and will entail upon you, dear Sir, the blessings of one of the faithfullest and worthiest hearts in the kingdom. Nor will Christian charity permit me to forget the once wicked, but now penitent Jewkes. I understand by Miss Darnford, that she begs for nothing but to have the pleasure of dying in your service, and by that means to atone for some small slips and mistakes in her accounts, which she had made formerly, and she accuses herself; for she will have it, that Mr. Longman has been better to her than she deserved, in passing one account particularly, to which he had, with too much reason, objected; do, dear Sir, if your _future_ happy lady has no great dislike to the poor woman, be pleased to grant her request, except her own mind should alter, and she desire her dismission. And now I have to beg of God to shower down his most precious blessings upon you, my dearest, my _first_, my _last_, and my _only_ love! and to return to you an hundred fold, the benefits which you have conferred upon me and mine, and upon so many poor souls, as you have blessed through my hands! And that you may in your next choice be happy with a lady, who may have every thing I want; and who may love and honour you, with the same affectionate duty, which has been my delight and my glory to pay you: for in this I am sure, no one _can_ exceed me!--And after having given you long life, prosperity, and increase of honour, translate you into a blessed eternity, where, through the merits of our common Redeemer, I hope I shall be allowed a place, and be permitted (O let me indulge that pleasing, that _consolatory_ thought!) to receive and rejoice in my restored spouse, for ever and ever: are the prayers, the _last_ prayers, if it so please God! of, my dearest dear Mr. B., _your dutiful and affectionate wife, and faithful servant_, P.B. LETTER LX _From Miss Darnford to Lady Darnford._ MY HONOURED MAMMA, You cannot conceive how you and my dear papa have delighted my good Mrs. B. and obliged her Mr. B. by the permission you have given me to attend her till the important hour shall be over with her; for she is exceedingly apprehensive, and one can hardly blame her; since there is hardly such another happy couple in the world. I am glad to hear that the ceremony is over, so much to both your satisfactions: may this matrimony be but a _tenth part_ as happy as that I am witness to here; and Mr. and Mrs. Murray will have that to boast of, which few married people have, even among those we call happy! For my part, I believe I shall never care to marry at all; for though I cannot be so deserving as Mrs. B. yet I shall not bear to think of a husband much less excellent than hers. Nay, by what I see in _her_ apprehensions, and conceive of the condition she hourly expects to be in, I don't think a lady can be requited with a _less_ worthy one, for all she is likely to suffer on a husband's account, and for the sake of _his_ family and name. Mrs. Andrews, a discreet worthy soul as ever I knew, and who in her aspect and behaviour is far from being a disgrace even to Mr. B.'s lady, is with her dear daughter, to her no small satisfaction, as you may suppose. Mr. B. asked my advice yesterday, about having in the house a midwife, to be at hand, at a moment's warning. I said I feared the sight of such a person would terrify her: and so he instantly started an expedient, of which her mother, Mrs. Jervis, and myself, approved, and have put into practice; for this day, Mrs. Harris, a distant relation of _mine_, though not of yours, Sir and Madam, is arrived from Essex to make me a visit; and Mr. B. has prevailed upon her, in _compliment to me_, as he pretended, to accept of her board in his house, while she stays in town, which she says, will be about a week. Mrs. Harris being a discreet, modest, matron-like person, Mrs. B. took a liking to her at first sight, and is already very familiar with her; and understanding that she was a doctor of physic's lady, and takes as much delight in administering to the health of her own sex, as her husband used to do to that of both, Mrs. B. says it is very fortunate, that she has so experienced a lady to consult, as she is such a novice in her own case. Mr. B. however, to carry on the honest imposture the better, just now, in presence of Mrs. Harris, and Mrs. Andrews, and me, asked the former, if it was not necessary to have in the house the good woman? This frighted Mrs. B. who turned pale, and said she could not bear the thoughts of it. Mrs. Harris said it was highly necessary that Mrs. B. if she would not permit the gentlewoman to be in the house, should see her; and that then, she apprehended, there would be no necessity, as she did not live far off, to have her in the house, since Mrs. B. was so uneasy upon that account. This pleased Mrs. B. much, and Mrs. Thomas was admitted to attend her. Now, you must know, that this is the assistant of my new relation; and she being apprised of the matter, came; but never did I see so much shyness and apprehension as Mrs. B. shewed all the time Mrs. Thomas was with her, holding sometimes her mother, sometimes Mrs. Harris, by the hand, and being ready to sweat with terror. Mrs. Harris scraped acquaintance with Mrs. Thomas, who, pretending to recollect her, gave Mrs. Harris great praises; which increased Mrs. B.'s confidence in her: and she undertakes to govern the whole so, that the dreaded Mrs. Thomas need not come till the very moment: which is no small pleasure to the over-nice lady. And she seems every hour to be better pleased with Mrs. Harris, who, by her prudent talk, will more and more familiarize her to the circumstance, unawares to herself in a manner. But notwithstanding this precaution, of a midwife in the house, Mr. B. intends to have a gentleman of the profession in readiness, for fear of the worst. Mrs. B. has written a letter, with this superscription: "To the ever-honoured and ever-dear Mr. B., with prayers for his health, honour, and prosperity in this world, and everlasting felicity in that to come. P.B." It is sealed with black wax, and she gave it me this moment, on her being taken ill, to give to Mr. B. if she dies. But God, of his mercy, avert that! and preserve the dear lady, for the honour of her sex, and the happiness of all who know her, and particularly for that of your Polly Darnford; for I cannot have a greater loss, I am sure, while my honoured papa and mamma are living: and may that be for many, very many, happy years! I will not close this letter till all is over: happily, as I hope!-- Mrs. B. is better again, and has, occasionally, made some fine reflections, directing herself to me, but designed for the benefit of her Polly, on the subject of the inconsideration of some of our sex, with regard to the circumstances she is in. I knew what her design was, and said, "Aye, Polly, let you and I, and every single young body, bear these reflections in mind, pronounced by so excellent a lady, in a moment so arduous as these!" The girl wept, and very movingly fell down by the door, on her knees, praying to God to preserve her dear lady, and she should be happy for ever! Mrs. B. is exceedingly pleased with my new relation Mrs. Harris, as we call her, who behaves with so much prudence, that she suspects nothing, and told Mrs. Jervis, she wished nobody else was to come near her. And as she goes out (being a person of eminence in her way) two or three times a day, and last night staid out late, Mrs. B. said, she hoped she would not be abroad, when she should wish her to be at home-- I have the very great pleasure, my dear papa and mamma, to acquaint you, and I know you will rejoice with me upon it, that just half an hour ago, my dear Mrs. B. was brought to-bed of a fine boy. We are all out of our wits for joy almost. I ran down to Mr. B. myself, who received me with trembling impatience. "A boy! a fine boy! dear Mr. B.," said I: "a son and heir, indeed!" "But how does my Pamela? Is _she_ safe? Is _she_ like to do well?"--"We hope so," said I: "or I had not come down to you, I'll assure you." He folded me in his arms, in a joyful rapture: "How happy you make me, dearest Miss Darnford! If my Pamela is safe, the boy is welcome, welcome, indeed!--But when may I go up to thank my jewel?" Mrs. Andrews is so overjoyed, and so thankful, that there is no getting her from her knees. A man and horse is dispatched already to Lady Davers, and another ordered to Kent, to the good old man. Mrs. Jervis, when I went up, said she must go down and release the good folks from their knees; for, half an hour before, they declared they would not stir from that posture till they heard how it went with their lady; and when the happy news was brought them of her safety, and of a young master, they were quite ecstatic, she says, in their joy, and not a dry eye among them, shaking hands, and congratulating one another, men and maids; which made it one of the most affecting sights that can be imagined. And Mr. Longman, who had no power to leave the house for three days past, hasted to congratulate his worthy principal; and never was so much moving joy seen, as this honest-hearted steward ran over with. I did a foolish thing in my joy--I gave Mr. B. the letter designed for him, had an unhappy event followed; and he won't return it: but says, he will obtain Mrs. B.'s leave, when she is better, to open it; and the happier turn will augment his thankfulness to God, and love to her, when he shall, by this means, be blest with sentiments so different from what the other case would have afforded. Mrs. B. had a very sharp time. Never more, my dear papa, talk of a husband to me. Place all your expectations on Nancy! Not one of these men that I have yet seen, is worth running these risques for! But Mr. B.'s endearments and tenderness to his lady, his thankful and manly gratitude and politeness, when he was admitted to pay his respects to her, and his behaviour to Mrs. Andrews, and to us all, though but for a visit of ten minutes, was alone worthy of all her risque. I would give you a description of it, had I Mrs. B.'s pen, and of twenty agreeable scenes and conversations besides: but, for want of that, must conclude, with my humble duty, as becomes, honoured Sir, and Madam, _your ever grateful_ POLLY DARNFORD. LETTER LXI _From the Same._ MY HONOURED PAPA AND MAMMA, We have nothing but joy and festivity in this house: and it would be endless to tell you the congratulations the happy family receives every day, from tenants and friends. Mr. B., you know, was always deemed one of the kindest landlords in England; and his tenants are overjoyed at the happy event which has given them a young landlord of his name: for all those who live in that large part of the estate, which came by Mrs. B. his mother, were much afraid of having any of Sir Jacob Swynford's family for their landlord, who, they say, are all made up of pride and cruelty, and would have racked them to death: insomuch that they had a voluntary meeting of about twenty of the principal of them, to rejoice on the occasion; and it was unanimously agreed to make a present of a piece of gilt plate, to serve as basin for the christening, to the value of one hundred guineas; on which is to be engraven the following inscription: _"In acknowledgment of the humanity and generosity of the best of landlords, and as a token of his tenants' joy on the birth of a son and heir, who will, it is hoped, inherit his father's generosity, and his mother's virtues, this piece of plate is, with all due gratitude, presented, as a christening basin to all the children that shall proceed from such worthy parents, and their descendants, to the end of time._ _"By the obliged and joyful tenants of the maternal estate in Bedfordshire and Gloucestershire, the initials of whose names are under engraven, viz._" Then are to follow the first letters of each person's Christian and surname. What an honour is this to a landlord! In my opinion very far surpassing the _mis-nomer'd_ free gifts which we read of in some kingdoms on extraordinary occasions, some of them like this! For here it is all truly spontaneous--A free gift _indeed_! and Mr. B. took it very kindly, and has put off the christening for a week, to give time for its being completed and inscribed as above. The Earl and Countess of C. and Lord and Lady Davers, are here, to stand in person at the christening; and you cannot conceive how greatly my Lady Davers is transported with joy, to have a son and heir to the estate: she is every hour, almost, thanking her dear sister for him; and reads in the child all the great qualities she forms to herself in him. 'Tis indeed a charming boy, and has a great deal (if one may judge of a child so very young) of his father's manly aspect. The dear lady herself is still but weak; but the joy of all around her, and her spouse's tenderness and politeness, give her cheerful and free spirits; and she is all serenity, ease, and thankfulness. Mrs. B., as soon as the danger was over, asked me for her letter with the black seal. I had been very earnest to get it from Mr. B. but to no purpose; so I was forced to tell who had it. She said, but very composedly, she was sorry for it, and hoped he had not opened it. He came into her chamber soon after, and I demanded it before her. He said he had designed to ask her leave to break the seal, which he had not yet done; nor would without her consent. "Will you give me leave, my dear," said he, "to break the seal?"--"If you do, Sir, let it not be in my presence; but it is too serious."--"Not, my dear, now the apprehension is so happily over: it may now add to my joy and my thankfulness on that account."--"Then, do as you please, Sir; but I had rather you would not." "Then here it is, Miss Darnford: it was put into your hands, and there I place it again."--"That's something like," said I, "considering the gentleman. Mrs. B., I hope we shall bring him into good order between us in time." So I returned it to the dear writer; who put it into her bosom. I related to Lady Davers, when she came, this circumstance; and she, I believe, has leave to take it with her. She is very proud of all opportunities now of justifying her brother's choice, and doing honour to his wife, with Lady Betty C., who is her great favourite, and who delights to read Mrs. B.'s letters. You desire to know, my honoured papa, how Mr. B. passes his time, and whether it be in his lady's chamber? No, indeed! Catch gentlemen, the best of them, in too great a complaisance that way, if you can. "What then, does he pass his time _with you_, Polly?" you are pleased to ask. What a disadvantage a man lies under, who has been once a rake! But I am so generally with Mrs. B. that when I tell you, Sir, his visits to her are much of the polite form, I believe I answer all you mean by your questions; and especially when I remind you, Sir, that Lord and Lady Davers, and the Earl and Countess of C. and your unworthy daughter, are at dinner and supper-time generally together; for Mrs. Andrews, who is not yet gone back to Kent, breakfasts, dines, and sups with her beloved daughter, and is hardly ever out of her room. Then, Sir, Mr. B., the Earl, and Lord Davers, give pretty constant attendance to the business of parliament; and, now and-then, sup abroad--So, Sir, we are all upon honour; and I could wish (only that your facetiousness always gives me pleasure, as it is a token that you have your much-desired health and freedom of spirits), that even in jest, my mamma's daughter might pass unquestioned. But I know _why_ you do it: it is only to put me out of heart to ask to stay longer. Yet I wish--But I know you won't permit me to go through the whole winter here. Will my dear papa grant it, do you think, if you were to lay the highest obligation upon your dutiful daughter, and petition for me? And should you care to try? I dare not hope it myself: but when one sees a gentleman here, who denies his lady nothing, it makes one wish, methinks, that Lady Darnford, was as happy in that particular as Mrs. B. _Your_ indulgence for this _one_ winter, or, rather this small _remainder_ of it, I make not so much doubt of, you see, Madam. I know you'll call me a bold girl; but then you always, when you do, condescend to grant my request: and I will be as good as ever I can be afterwards. I will fetch up all the lost time; rise an hour sooner in the morning, go to bed an hour later at night; flower my papa any thing he pleases; read him to sleep when he pleases; put his gout into good-humour, when it will be soothed--And Mrs. B., to crown all, will come down with me, by permission of her sovereign lord, who will attend her, you may be sure: and will not _all_ this do, to procure me a month or two more?--If it won't, why then, I will thank you for your past goodness to me, and with all duty and cheerfulness, bid adieu to this dear London, this dearer family, and tend a _still_ dearer papa and mamma; whose dutiful daughter I will ever be, whilst POLLY DARNFORD. LETTER LXII _To the Same._ MY HONOURED PAPA AND MAMMA, I have received your joint commands, and intend to set out on Wednesday, next week. I hope to find my papa in better health than at present, and in better humour too; for I am sorry he is displeased with my petitioning for a little longer time in London. It is very severe to impute to me want of duty and affection, which would, if deserved, make me most unworthy of your favour. Mr. B. and his lady are resolved to accompany me in their coach, till your chariot meets me, if you will be pleased to permit it so to do; and even set me down at your gate, if it did not; but he vows, that he will neither alight at your house, nor let his lady. But I say, that this is a misplaced resentment, because I ought to think it a favour, that you have indulged me so much as you have done. And yet even this is likewise a favour on _their_ side, to me, because it is an instance of their fondness for your unworthy daughter's company. Mrs. B. is, if possible, more lovely since her lying-in than before. She has so much delight in her nursery, that I fear it will take her off from her pen, which will be a great loss to all whom she used to oblige with her correspondence. Indeed this new object of her care is a charming child; and she is exceedingly pleased with her nurse;--for she is not permitted, as she very much desired, to suckle it herself. She makes a great proficiency in the French and Italian languages; and well she may; for she has the best schoolmaster in the world, and one whom she loves better than any lady ever loved a tutor. He is lofty, and will not be disputed with; but I never saw a more polite and tender husband, for all that. We had a splendid christening, exceedingly well ordered, and every body was delighted at it. The quality gossips went away but on Tuesday; and my Lady Davers took leave of her charming sister with all the blessings, and all the kindness, and affectionate fondness, that could be expressed. Mr. Andrews, that worthy old man, came up to see his grandson, yesterday. You would never have forgotten the good man's behaviour (had you seen it), to his daughter, and to the charming child; I wish I could describe it to you; but I am apt to think Mrs. B. will notice it to Lady Davers; and if she enters into the description of it while I stay, I will beg a copy of it, to bring down with me; because I know you were pleased with the sensible, plain, good man, and his ways, when at the Hall in your neighbourhood. The child is named William, and I should have told you; but I write without any manner of connection, just as things come uppermost: but don't, my dear papa, construe this, too, as an instance of disrespect. I see but one thing that can possibly happen to disturb the felicity of this charming couple; and that I will mention, in confidence. Mr. B. and Mrs. B. and myself were at the masquerade, before she lay-in: there was a lady greatly taken with Mr. B. She was in a nun's habit, and followed him wherever he went; and Mr. Turner, a gentleman of one of the inns of court, who visits Mr. B. and is an old acquaintance of his, tells me, by-the bye, that the lady took an opportunity to unmask to Mr. B. Mr. Turner has since found she is the young Countess Dowager of----, a fine lady; but not the most reserved in her conduct of late, since her widowhood. And he has since discovered, as he says, that a letter or two, if not more, have passed between Mr. B. and that lady. Now Mrs. B., with all her perfections, has, as she _owns_, a little spice of jealousy; and should she be once alarmed, I tremble for the consequence to both their happiness. I conceive, that if ever anything makes a misunderstanding between them, it will be from some such quarter as this. But 'tis a thousand pities it should. And I hope, as to the actual correspondence begun, Mr. Turner is mistaken. But be it as it will, I would not for the world, that the first hints of this matter should come from me.--Mr. B. is a very enterprising and gallant man, a fine figure, and I don't wonder a lady may like him. But he seems so pleased, so satisfied with his wife, and carries it to her with so much tenderness and affection, that I hope her merit, and his affection for her, will secure his conjugal fidelity. If it prove otherwise, and she discovers it, I know not one that would be more miserable than Mrs. B., as well from motives of piety and virtue, as from the excessive love she bears him. But I hope for better things, for both their sakes. My humble thanks for all your indulgence to me, with hopes, that you will not, my dear papa and mamma, hold your displeasure against me, when I throw myself at your feet, as I now soon hope to do. Conclude me _your dutiful daughter_, P. DARNFORD. LETTER LXIII _From Mrs. B. to Lady Davers_. MY DEAR LADY, We are just returned from accompanying the worthy Miss Darnford as far as Bedford, in her way home, where her papa and mamma met her in their coach. Sir Simon put on his pleasant airs, and schooled Mr. B. for persuading his daughter to stay so long from him; _me_ for putting her upon asking to stay longer; and _she_ for being persuaded by us. We tarried two days together at Bedford; for we knew not how to part; and then we took a most affectionate leave of each other. We struck out of the road a little, to make a visit to the dear house, where we tarried one night; and next morning before any body could come to congratulate us (designing to be _incog_.), we proceeded on our journey to London, and found my dearest, dear boy, in charming health. What a new pleasure has God bestowed upon me; which, after every little absence, rises upon me in a true maternal tenderness, every step I move toward the dear little blessing! Yet sometimes, I think your dear brother is not so fond of him as I wish him to be. He says, "'tis time enough for him to mind him, when he can return his notice, and be grateful!"--A negligent word isn't it, Madam--considering-- My dear father came to town, to accompany my good mother down to Kent, and they set out soon after your ladyship left us. It is impossible to describe the joy with which his worthy heart overflowed, when he congratulated us on the happy event. And as he had been apprehensive for his daughter's safety, judge, my lady, what his transports must be, to see us all safe and well, and happy, and a son given to Mr. B. by his greatly honoured daughter. I was in the nursery when he came. So was my mother. Miss Darnford also was there. And Mr. B., who was in his closet, at his arrival, after having received his most respectful congratulations himself, brought him up (though he has not been there since: indeed he ha'n't!) "Pamela," said the dear gentleman, "see who's here!" I sprang to him, and kneeled for his blessing: "O my father!" said I, "see" (pointing to the dear baby at the nurse's breast), "how God Almighty has answered all our prayers!" He dropped down on his knees by me, clasping me in his indulgent arms: "O my daughter!--My blessed daughter!--And do I once more see you! And see you safe and well!--I do! I do!--Blessed be thy name, O gracious God, for these thy mercies!" While we were thus joined, happy father, and happy daughter, in one thanksgiving, the sweet baby having fallen asleep, the nurse had put it into the cradle; and when my father rose from me, he went to my mother, "God bless my dear Betty," said he, "I longed to see you, after this separation. Here's joy! here's pleasure! O how happy are we!" And taking her hand, he kneeled down on one side the cradle, and my mother on the other, both looking at the dear baby, with eyes running over; and, hand in hand, he prayed, in the most fervent manner, for a blessing upon the dear infant, and that God Almighty would make him an honour to his father's family, and to his mother's virtue; and that, in the words of Scripture, _"he might grow on, and be in favour both with the Lord, and with man."_ Mr. B. has just put into my hands Mr. Locke's Treatise on Education, and he commands me to give him my thoughts upon it in writing. He has a very high regard for this author, and tells me, that my tenderness for Billy will make me think some of the first advice given in it a little harsh; but although he has not read it through, only having dipped into it here and there, he believes from the name of the author, I cannot have a better directory; and my opinion of it, after I have well considered it, will inform him, he says, of my own capacity and prudence, and how far he may rely upon both in the point of a _first education_. I asked, if I might not be excused writing, only making my observations, here and there, to himself, as I found occasion? But he said, "You will yourself, my dear, better consider the subject, and be more a mistress of it, and I shall the better attend to your reasonings, when put into writing: and surely, Pamela, you may, in such an important point as this, as well oblige _me_ with a little of your penmanship, as your other dear friends." After this, your ladyship will judge I had not another word to say. He cuts one to the heart, when he speaks so seriously. I have looked a little into it. It is a book quite accommodated to my case, being written to a gentleman, the author's friend, for the regulation of his conduct towards his children. But how shall I do, if in such a famed and renowned author, I see already some few things, which I think want clearing up. Won't it look like intolerable vanity in me, to find fault with such a genius as Mr. Locke? I must, on this occasion, give your ladyship the particulars of a short conversation between your brother and me; which, however, perhaps, will not be to my advantage, because it will shew you what a teazing body I can be, if I am indulged. But Mr. B. will not spoil me neither in that way, I dare say!--Your ladyship will see this in the very dialogue I shall give you. Thus it was. I had been reading in Mr. Locke's book, and Mr. B. asked me how I liked it?--"Exceedingly well, Sir. But I have a proposal to make, which, if you will be pleased to comply with, will give me a charming opportunity of understanding Mr. Locke." "What is your proposal, my dear? I see it is some very particular one, by that sweet earnestness in your look." "Why, so it is, Sir: and I must know, whether you are in high good humour, before I make it. I think you look grave upon me; and my proposal will not then do, I'm sure." "You have all the amusing ways of your sex, my dear Pamela. But tell me what you would say? You know I don't love suspense." "May-be you're busy. Sir. Perhaps I break in upon you. I believe you were going into your closet." "True woman!--How you love to put one upon the tenters! Yet, my life for yours, by your parade, what I just now thought important, is some pretty trifle!--Speak it at once, or I'll be angry with you;" and tapped my cheek. "Well, I wish I had not come just now!--I see you are not in a good humour enough for my proposal.--So, pray, Sir, excuse me till to-morrow." He took my hand, and led me to his closet, calling me his pretty impertinent; and then urging me, I said, "You know, Sir, I have not been used to the company of children. Your dear Billy will not make me fit, for a long time, to judge of any part of education. I can learn of the charming boy nothing but the baby conduct: but now, if I might take into the house some little Master of three or four years old, or Miss of five or six, I should watch over all their little ways; and now reading a chapter in the _child_, and now one in the _book_, I can look forward, and with advantage, into the subject; and go through all the parts of education tolerably, for one of my capacity; for, Sir, I can, by my own defects, and what I have wished to mend, know how to judge of, and supply that part of life which carries a child up to eleven or twelve years of age, which was mine, when my lady took me." "A pretty thought, Pamela! but tell me, who will part with their child, think you? Would _you_, if it were your case, although ever so well assured of the advantages your little one would reap by it?--For don't you consider, that the child ought to be wholly subjected to your authority? That its father or mother ought seldom to see it; because it should think itself absolutely dependent upon you?--And where, my dear, will you meet with parents so resigned?--Besides, one would have the child descended of genteel parents, and not such as could do nothing for it; otherwise the turn of mind and education you would give it, might do it more harm than good." "All this, Sir, is very true. But have you no other objection, if one could find a genteely-descended young Master? And would you join to persuade his papa to give me up his power, only from three months to three months, as I liked, and the child liked, and as the papa approved of my proceedings?" "This is so reasonable, with these last conditions, Pamela, that I should be pleased with your notion, if it could be put in practice, because the child would be benefited by your instruction, and you would be improved in an art, which I could wish to see you an adept in." "But, perhaps. Sir, you had rather it were a girl than a boy?"--"I had, my dear, if a girl could be found, whose parents would give her up to you; but I suppose you have some boy in your head, by your putting it upon that sex at first." "Let me see, Sir, you say you are in a good humour! Let me see if you be;"--looking boldly in his face. "What now," with some little impatience, "would the pretty fool be at?" "Only, Sir, that you have nothing to do, but to speak the word, and there is a child, whose papa and mamma too, I am sure, would consent to give up to me for my own instruction, as well as for her sake; and if, to speak in the Scripture phrase, I have found _grace in your sight_, kind Sir, speak this word to the dear child's papa." "And have you thus come over me, Pamela!--Go, I am half angry with you, for leading me on in this manner against myself. This looks so artful, that I won't love you!"--"Dear Sir!"--"And dear Madam too! Be gone, I say!--You have surprised me by art, when your talent is nature, and you should keep to that!" I was sadly baulked, and had neither power to go nor stay! At last, seeing I had put him into a kind of flutter, as now he had put me, I moved my unwilling feet towards the door.--He took a turn about the closet meantime.--"Yet stay," said he, "there is something so generous in your art, that, on recollection, I cannot part with you." He took notice of the starting tear--"I am to blame!--You had surprised me so, that my hasty temper got the better of my consideration. Let me kiss away this pearly fugitive. Forgive me, my dearest love! What an inconsiderate brute am I, when compared to such an angel as my Pamela! I see at once now, all the force, and all the merit, of your amiable generosity: and to make you amends for this my hastiness, I will coolly consider of the matter, and will either satisfy you by my compliance, or by the reasons, which I will give you for the contrary. "But, say, my Pamela, can you forgive my harshness?"--"Can I!--Yes, indeed, Sir," pressing his hand to my lips; "and bid me Go, and Be gone, twenty times a-day, if I am to be thus kindly called back to you, thus nobly and condescendingly treated, in the same breath!-I see, dear Sir," continued I, "that I must be in fault, if ever you are lastingly displeased with me. For as soon as you turn yourself about, your anger vanishes, and you make me rich amends for a few harsh words. Only one thing, dear Sir, let me add; if I have dealt artfully with you, impute it to my fear of offending you, through the nature of my petition, and not to design; and that I took the example of the prophet, to King David, in the parable of the _Ewe-Lamb._" "I remember it, my dear--and you have well pointed your parable, and had nothing to do, but to say--'_Thou art the man!'_" I am called upon by my dear benefactor for a little airing, and he suffers me only to conclude this long letter. So I am obliged, with greater abruptness than I had designed, to mention thankfully your ladyship's goodness to me; particularly in that kind, kind letter, in behalf of my dear parents, had a certain event taken place. Mr. B. shewed it to me _this morning_, and not before--I believe, for fear I should have been so much oppressed by the sense of your unmerited goodness to me, had he let me known of it before your departure from us, that I should not have been able to look up at you; heaping favours and blessings upon me, as you were hourly doing besides. What a happy creature am I!--But my gratitude runs me into length; and sorry I am, that I cannot have time just now to indulge it. Is there nothing, my dear Lord and Lady Davers, my dear Lady Countess, and my good Lord C., that I can do, to shew at least, that I have a _will_, and am not an ungrateful, sordid creature? And yet, if you give me power to do any thing that will have the _appearance_ of a return, even that _power_ will be laying a fresh obligation upon me--Which, however, I should be very proud of, because I should thereby convince you, by more than words, how much I am (most particularly, my dearest Lady Davers, my sister, my friend, my patroness), _your most obliged and faithful servant,_ P.B. Your dear brother joins in respectful thankfulness to his four noble gossips. And my Billy, by his lips, subscribed his. I hope so to direct his earliest notions, as to make him sensible of his dutiful obligation. LETTER LXIV _From Lady Davers to Mrs. B._ MY DEAREST PAMELA, Talk not to us of unreturnable obligations and all that. You do more for us, in the entertainment you give us all, by your letters, than we _have_ done, or even _can_ do, for you. And as to me, I know no greater pleasure in the world than that which my brother's felicity and yours gives me. God continue this felicity to you both. I am sure it will be _his_ fault, and not yours, if it be at all diminished. We have heard some idle rumours here, as if you were a little uneasy of late; and having not had a letter from you for this fortnight past, it makes me write, to ask you how you all do? and whether you expected an answer from me to your last? I hope you won't be punctilious with me. For we have nothing to write about, except it be how much we all love and honour you; and that you believe already, or else you don't do us justice. I suppose you will be going out of town soon, now the parliament is rising. My Lord is resolved to put his proxy into another hand, and intends I believe, to take my brother's advice in it. Both the Earl and his Lordship are highly pleased with my brother's moderate and independent principles. He has got great credit among all unprejudiced men, by the part he acted throughout the last session, in which he has shown, that he would no more join to distress and clog the wheels of government, by an unreasonable opposition, than he would do the dirty work of any administration. As he has so noble a fortune and wants nothing of any body, he would be doubly to blame, to take any other part than that of his country, in which he has so great a stake. May he act _out_ of the house, and _in_ the house with equal honour; and he will be his country's pride, and your pride, and mine too! which is the wish of _your affectionate sister_, B. DAVERS. LETTER LXV MY DEAREST LADY, I have been a little in disorder, that I have. Some few rubs have happened. I hope they will be happily removed, I am unwilling to believe all that is said. But this is a wicked town. I wish we were out of it. Yet I see not when that will be. I wish Mr. B. would permit me and my Billy to go into Kent. But I don't care to leave him behind me, neither; and he is not inclined to go. Excuse my brevity, my dearest lady--But I must break off, with only assuring your ladyship, that I am, and ever will be, _your obliged and grateful_, P.B. LETTER LXVI MY DEAREST PAMELA, I understand things are not so well as I wish. If you think my coming up to town, and residing with you, while you stay, will be of service, or help you to get out of it, I will set out directly. I will pretend some indisposition, and a desire of consulting the London physicians; or any thing you shall think fit to be done, by _your affectionate sister, and faithful friend_, B. DAVERS LETTER LXVII MY DEAREST LADY, A thousand thanks for your goodness to me; but I hope all will be well. I hope God will enable me to act so prudent a part, as will touch his generous breast. Be pleased to tell me what your ladyship has heard; but it becomes not me, I think, till I cannot help it, to make any appeals; for I know those will not be excused; and I do all I can to suppress my uneasiness before him. But I pay for it, when I am alone. My nursery and my reliance on God (I should have said the latter first), are all my consolation. God preserve and bless you, my good lady, and my noble lord! (but I am apt to think your ladyship's presence will not avail), prays _your affectionate and obliged,_ P.B. LETTER LXVIII Why does not my sweet girl subscribe _Sister_, as usual? I have done nothing amiss to you! I love you dearly, and ever will. I can't help my brother's faults. But I hope he treats you with politeness and decency. He shall be none of my brother if he don't. I rest a great deal upon your prudence: and it will be very meritorious, if you can overcome yourself, so as to act unexceptionably, though it may not be deserved on this occasion. For in doing so, you'll have a triumph over nature itself; for, my dear girl, as you have formerly owned, you have a little touch of jealousy in your composition. What I have heard, is no secret to any body. The injured party is generally the last who hears in these cases, and you shall not first be told anything by me that must _afflict_ you, but cannot _you_, more than it does _me_. God give you patience and comfort! The wicked lady has a deal to answer for, to disturb such an uncommon happiness. But no more, than that I am _your ever-affectionate sister_, B. DAVERS. I am all impatience to hear how you conduct yourself upon this trying occasion. Let me know what you have heard, and _how_ you came to hear it. LETTER LXIX Why don't I subscribe Sister? asks my dearest Lady Davers.--I have not had the courage to do it of late. For my title to that honour arises from the dear, thrice dear Mr. B. And how long I may be permitted to call him mine, I cannot say. But since you command it, I will call your ladyship by that beloved name, let the rest happen as God shall see fit. Mr. B. cannot be unpolite, in the main; but he is cold, and a little cross, and short in his speeches to me. I try to hide my grief from everybody, and most from him: for neither my parents, nor Miss Darnford know anything from me. Mrs. Jervis, from whom I seldom hide any thing, as she is on the spot with me, hears not my complainings, nor my uneasiness; for I would not lessen the dear man. He may _yet_ see the error of the way he is in. God grant it, for his own sake as well as mine.--I am even sorry your ladyship is afflicted with the knowledge of the matter. The unhappy lady (God forgive her!) is to be pitied: she loves him, and having strong passions, and being unused to be controlled, is lost to a sense of honour and justice.--From these wicked masquerades springs all the unhappiness; my Spaniard was too amiable, and met with a lady who was no Nun, but in habit. Every one was taken with him in that habit, so suited to the natural dignity of his person!--O these wicked masquerades! I am all patience in appearance, all uneasiness in reality. I did not think I could, especially in _this_ most _affecting_ point, be such an hypocrite. Your ladyship knows not what it has cost me, to be able to assume that character! Yet my eyes are swelled with crying, and look red, although I am always breathing on my hand, and patting them with it, and my warm breath, to hide the distress that will, from my overcharged heart, appear in them. Then he says, "What's the matter with the little fool! You are always in this way of late! What ails you, Pamela?" "Only a little vapourish, Sir!--Don't be angry at me!--Billy, I thought, was not very well!" "This boy will spoil your temper: at this rate, what should be your joy, will become your misfortune. Don't receive me in this manner, I charge you." "In what manner. Sir? I always receive you with a grateful heart! If any thing troubles me, it is in your absence: but see, Sir" (then I try to smile, and seem pleased), "I am all sunshine, now you are come!--don't you see I am?" "Yes, your sunshine of late is all through a cloud! I know not what's the matter with you. Your temper will alter, and then--" "It shan't alter, Sir--it shan't--if I can help it." And then I kissed his hand; that dear hand, that, perhaps, was last about his more beloved Countess's neck--Distracting reflection! But come, may-be I think the worst! To be sure I do! For my apprehensions were ever aforehand with events; and bad must be the case, if it be worse than I think it. You command me to let you know _what_ I have heard, and how I _came_ to hear it. I told your ladyship in one of my former that two gentlemen brought up to the law, but above the practice of it, though I doubt, not above practices less honourable, had visited us on coming to town. They have been often here since, Mr. Turner particularly: and sometimes by himself, when Mr. B. has happened to be out: and he it was, as I guessed, that gave me, at the wicked masquerade, the advice to look after my _Musidorus_. I did not like their visits, and _his_ much less: for he seemed to be a man of intriguing spirit. But about three weeks ago, Mr. B. setting out upon a party of pleasure to Oxford, he came and pretended great business with me. I was at breakfast in the parlour, only Polly attending me, and admitted him, to drink a dish of chocolate with me. When Polly had stept out, he told me, after many apologies, that he had discovered who the nun was at the masquerade, that had engaged Mr. B. I said it was very indifferent to me who the lady was. He replied (making still more apologies, and pretending great reluctance to speak out), that it was no less a lady than the young Countess Dowager of----, a lady noted for her wit and beauty, but of a gay disposition, though he believed not yet culpable. I was alarmed; but would not let him see it; and told Mr. Turner, that I was so well satisfied in Mr. B.'s affection for me, and his well-known honour, that I could not think myself obliged to any gentleman who should endeavour to give me a less opinion of either than I ought to have. He then bluntly told me, that the very party Mr. B. was upon, was with the Countess for one, and Lord----, who had married her sister. I said, I was glad he was in such good company, and wished him every pleasure in it. He hoped, he said, he might trust to my discretion, that I would not let Mr. B. know from whom I had the information: that, indeed, his motive in mentioning it was self-interest; having presumed to make some overture of an honourable nature to the Countess, in his own behalf; which had been rejected since that masquerade night: and he hoped the prudent use I would make of the intimation, might somehow be a means to break off that correspondence, before it was attended with bad consequences. I told him coldly, though it stung me to the heart, that I was fully assured of Mr. B.'s honour; and was sorry he, Mr. Turner, had so bad an opinion of a lady to whom he professed so high a consideration. And rising up--"Will you excuse me, Sir, that I cannot attend at all to such a subject as this? I think I ought not: and so must withdraw." "Only, Madam, one word." He offered to take my hand, but I would not permit it. He then swore a great oath, that he had told me his true and only motive; that letters had passed between the Countess and Mr. B., adding, "But I beg you'll keep it within your own breast; else, from two such hasty spirits as his and mine, it might be attended with still worse consequences." "I will never. Sir, enter into a subject that is not proper to be communicated every tittle of it to Mr. B.; and this must be my excuse for withdrawing." And away I went from him. Your ladyship will judge with how uneasy a heart; which became more so, when I sat down to reflect upon what he had told me. But I was resolved to give it as little credit as I could, or that any thing would come of it, till Mr. B.'s own behaviour should convince me, to my affliction, that I had some reason to be alarmed: so I opened not my lips about it, not even to Mrs. Jervis. At Mr. B.'s return, I received him in my usual affectionate and unreserved manner: and he behaved himself to me with his accustomed goodness and kindness: or, at least, with so little difference, that had not Mr. Turner's officiousness made me more watchful, I should not have perceived it. But next day a letter was brought by a footman for Mr. B. He was out: so John gave it to me. The superscription was a lady's writing: the seal, the Dowager Lady's, with a coronet. This gave me great uneasiness; and when Mr. B. came in, I said, "Here is a letter for you. Sir; and from a lady too!" "What then," said he, with quickness. I was baulked, and withdrew. For I saw him turn the seal about and about, as if he would see whether I had endeavoured to look into it. He needed not to have been so afraid; for I would not have done such a thing had I known my life was to depend upon it. I went up, and could not help weeping at his quick answer; yet I did my endeavour to hide it, when he came up. "Was not my girl a little inquisitive upon me just now?" "I spoke pleasantly. Sir--But you were very quick on your girl." "'Tis my temper, my dear--You know I mean nothing. You should not mind it." "I should not, Sir, if I had been _used_ to it." He looked at me with sternness, "Do you doubt my honour, Madam?" "_Madam!_ I did you say. Sir?--I won't take that word!--Dear Sir, call it back--I won't be called _Madam!_--Call me your girl, your rustic, your Pamela--call me any thing but _Madam!_" "My charmer, then, my life, my soul: will any of those do?" and saluted me: "but whatever you do, let me not see that you have any doubts of my honour to you." "The very mention of the word, dear Sir, is a security to me; I want no other; I cannot doubt: but if you speak short to me, how shall I bear that?" He withdrew, speaking nothing of the contents of his letter; as I dare say he would, had the subject been such as he chose to mention to me. We being alone, after supper, I took the liberty to ask him, who was of his party to Oxford? He named the Viscountess---, and her lord, Mr. Howard, and his daughter, Mr. Herbert and his lady: "And I had a partner too, my dear, to represent you." "I am much obliged to the lady, Sir, be she who she would." "Why, my dear, you are so engaged in your nursery! Then this was a sudden thing; as you know I told you." "Nay, Sir, as long as it was agreeable to you, I had nothing to do, but to be pleased with it." He watched my eyes, and the turn of my countenance--"You look, Pamela, as if you'd be glad to return the lady thanks in person. Shall I engage her to visit you? She longs to see you." "Sir--Sir," hesitated I, "as you please--I can't--I can't be displeased--" "_Displeased?_" interrupted he: "why that word? and why that hesitation in your answer? You speak very volubly, my dear, when you're not moved." "Dear Sir," said I, almost as quick as he was, "why should I be moved? What occasion is there for it? I hope you have a better opinion of me than--" "Than what, Pamela?--What would you say? I know you are a little jealous rogue, I know you are." "But, dear Sir, why do you impute jealousy to me on _this_ score?--What a creature must I be, if you could not be abroad with a lady, but I must be jealous of you?--No, Sir, I have reason to rely upon your honour; and I _do_ rely upon it; and----" "And what? Why, my dear, you are giving me assurances, as if you thought the case required it!" "Ah!" thought I, "so it does, I see too plainly, or apprehend I do; but I durst not say so, nor give him any hint about my informant; though now confirmed of the truth of what Mr. Turner had said." Yet I resolved, if possible, not to alter my conduct. But my frequent weepings, when by myself, could not be hid as I wished; my eyes not keeping my heart's counsel. And this gives occasion to some of the stern words which I have mentioned above. All that he further said at this time was, with a negligent, yet a determined air--"Well, Pamela, don't be doubtful of my honour. You know how much I love you. But, one day or other I shall gratify this lady's curiosity, and bring her to pay you a visit, and you shall see you need not be ashamed of her acquaintance."--"Whenever you please, Sir," was all I cared to say farther; for I saw he was upon the catch, and looked steadfastly upon me whenever I moved my lips; and I am not a finished hypocrite, and he can read the lines of one's face, and the motions of one's heart, I think. I am sure mine is a very uneasy one. But till I reflected, and weighed well the matter, it was worse; and my natural imperfection of this sort made me see a necessity to be more watchful over myself, and to doubt my own prudence. And thus I reasoned when he withdrew: "Here," thought I, "I have had a greater proportion of happiness without alloy, fallen to my share, than any of my sex; and I ought to be prepared for some trials. "'Tis true, this is of the sorest kind: 'tis worse than death itself to me, who had an opinion of the dear man's reformation, and prided myself not a little on that account. So that the blow is full upon my sore place. 'Tis on the side I could be the most easily penetrated. But Achilles could be touched only in his heel; and if he was to die by an enemy's hands, must not the arrow find out that only vulnerable place? My jealousy is that place with me, as your ladyship observes; but it is seated deeper than the heel: it is in my heart. The barbed dart has found that out, and there it sticks up to the very feathers. "Yet," thought I, "I will take care, that I do not exasperate him by upbraidings, when I should try to move him by patience and forbearance. For the breach of his duty cannot warrant the neglect of _mine_. My business is to reclaim, and not to provoke. And when, if it please God, this storm shall be over-blown, let me not, by my present behaviour, leave any room for heart-burnings; but, like a skilful surgeon, so heal the wound to the bottom, though the operation be painful, that it may not fester, and break out again with fresh violence, on future misunderstandings, if any shall happen. "Well, but," thought I, "let the worst come to the worst, he perhaps may be so good as to permit me to pass the remainder of my days with my dear Billy, in Kent, with my father and mother; and so, when I cannot rejoice in possession of a virtuous husband, I shall be employed in praying for him, and enjoy a two-fold happiness, that of doing my own duty to my dear baby--a pleasing entertainment this! and that of comforting my worthy parents, and being comforted by them--a no small consolation! And who knows, but I may be permitted to steal a visit now-and-then to dear Lady Davers, and be called Sister, and be deemed a _faultless_ sister too?" But remember, my dear lady, that if ever it comes to this, I will not bear, that, for my sake, you shall, with too much asperity, blame your brother; for I will be ingenious to find excuses or extenuations for him; and I will now-and-then, in some disguised habit, steal the pleasure of seeing him and his happier Countess; and give him, with a silent tear, my blessing for the good I and mine have reaped at his hands. But oh! if he takes from me my Billy, who must, after all, be his heir, and gives him to the cruel Countess, he will at once burst asunder the strings of my heart! For, oh, my happy rivaless! if you tear from me my husband, he is in his own disposal, and I cannot help it: nor can I indeed, if he will give you my Billy. But this I am sure of, that my child and my life must go together! Your ladyship will think I rave. Indeed I am almost crazed at times. For the dear man is so negligent, so cold, so haughty, that I cannot bear it. He says, just now, "You are quite altered, Pamela." I believe I am. Madam. But what can I do? He knows not that I know so much. I dare not tell him. For he will have me then reveal my intelligencer: and what may be the case between them? I weep in the night, when he is asleep; and in the day when he is absent: and I am happy when I can, unobserved, steal this poor relief. I believe already I have shed as many tears as would drown my baby. How many more I may have to shed, God only knows! For, O Madam, after all my fortitude, and my recollection, to fall from so much happiness, and so soon, is a trying thing! But I will still hope the best, and should this matter blow over, I shall be ashamed of my weakness, and the trouble I must give to your generous heart, for one so undeservedly favoured by you, as _your obliged sister, and most humble servant,_ P.B. Dear Madam, let no soul see any part of this our present correspondence, for your brother's sake, and your sake, and my sake. LETTER LXX MY DEAREST PAMELA, You need not be afraid of any body's knowing what passes between us on this cutting subject. Though I hear of it from every mouth, yet I pretend 'tis all falsehood and malice. Yet Lady Betty will have it that there is more in it than I will own; and that I know my brother's wickedness by my pensive looks. She will make a vow, she says, never to marry any man living. I am greatly moved by your affecting periods. Charming Pamela! what a tempest do you raise in one's mind, when you please, and lay it too, at your own will! Your colourings are strong; but, I hope, your imagination carries you much farther than it is possible he should go. I am pleased with your prudent reasonings, and your wise resolutions. I see nobody can advise or help you. God only can! And his direction you beg _so_ hourly, that I make no doubt you will have it. What vexes me is, that when the noble uncle of this vile lady--(why don't you call her so as well as I?)--expostulated with her on the scandals she brought upon her character and family, she pretended to argue (foolish creature!) to polygamy: and said, she had rather be a certain gentleman's second wife, than the first to the greatest man in England. I leave you to your own workings; but if I find your prudence unrewarded by the wretch, the storm you saw raised at the Hall, shall be nothing to the hurricane I will excite, to tear up by the roots all the happiness the two wretches propose to themselves. Don't let my intelligence, which is undoubted, grieve you over-much. Try some way to move the wretch. It must be done by touching his generosity: he has that in some perfection. But how in _this_ case to move it, is beyond my power or skill to prescribe. God bless you, my dearest Pamela! You shall be my _only_ sister. And I will never own my brother, if he be so base to your superlative merit. Adieu once more, _from your sister and friend,_ B. DAVERS. LETTER LXXI MY DEAREST LADY, A thousand thanks for your kind, your truly sisterly letter and advice. Mr. B. is just returned from a tour to Portsmouth, with the Countess, I believe, but am not sure. Here I am forced to leave off. Let me scratch through this last surmise. It seems she was not with him. This is some comfort. He is very kind: and Billy not being well when he came in, my grief passed off without blame. He had said many tender things to me; but added, that if I gave myself so much uneasiness every time the child ailed any thing, he would hire the nurse to overlay him. Bless me. Madam! what hard-hearted shocking things are these men capable of saying!--The farthest from their hearts, indeed; so they had need--For he was as glad of the child's being better as I could be. In the morning he went out in the chariot for about an hour, and returned in a good humour, saying twenty agreeable things to me, which makes me _so_ proud, and _so_ pleased! He is gone out again. Could I but find this matter happily conquered, for his own soul's sake!--But he seems, by what your ladyship mentions, to have carried this polygamy point with the lady. Can I live with him. Madam--_ought_ I--if this be the case? I have it under his hand, that the laws of his country were sufficient to deter him from that practice. But alas! he knew not this countess then! But here I must break off. He is returned, and coming up. "Go into my bosom for the present, O letter dedicated to dear Lady Davers--Come to my hand the play employment, so unsuited to my present afflicted mind!"--Here he comes! O, Madam! my heart is almost broken!--Just now Mr. B. tells me, that the Countess Dowager and the Viscountess, her sister, are to be here to see my Billy, and to drink tea with me, this very afternoon! I was all confusion when he told me this. I looked around and around, and upon every thing but him. "Will not my friends be welcome, Pamela?" said he sternly. "O yes, very welcome! But I have these wretched vapours so, that I wish I might be excused--I wish I might be allowed to take an airing in the chariot for two or three hours; for I shall not be fit to be seen by such--ladies," said I, half out of breath. "You'll be fit to be seen by nobody, my dear, if you go on thus. But, do as you please." He was going, and I took his hand: "Stay, dear Sir, let me know what you would have me do. If you would have me stay, I will." "To be sure I would." "Well, Sir, then I will. For it is hard," thought I, "if an innocent person cannot look up in her own house too, as it now is, as I may say, to a guilty one! Guilty in her heart, at least!--Though, poor lady, I hope she is not so in fact; and, if God hears my prayers, never will, for all three of our sakes." But, Madam, think of me, what a task I have!--How my heart throbs in my bosom! How I tremble! how I struggle with myself! What rules I form for my behaviour to this naughty lady! How they are dashed in pieces as soon as formed, and new ones taken up! And yet I doubt myself when I come to the test. But one thing will help me. I _pity_ the poor lady; and as she comes with the heart of a robber, to invade me in my lawful right, I pride myself in a superiority over this countess; and will endeavour to shew her the country girl in a light which would better become _her_ to appear in. I must be forced to leave off here; for Mr. B. is just come in to receive his guests; and I am in a sad flutter upon it. All my resolution fails me; what shall I do? O that this countess was come and gone! I have one comfort, however, in the midst of all my griefs; and that is in your ladyship's goodness, which gives me leave to assume the honoured title, that let what may happen, will always give me equal pride and pleasure, in subscribing myself, _your ladyship's most obliged sister, and humble servant_, P.B. LETTER LXXII MY DEAR LADY, I will now pursue my last affecting subject; for the visit is over; but a sad situation I am in with Mr. B. for all that: but, bad as it is, I'll try to forget it, till I come to it in course. At four in the afternoon Mr. B. came in to receive his guests, whom he expected at five. He came up to me. I had just closed my last letter; but put it up, and set before me your ladyship's play subjects. "So, Pamela!--How do you do now?" Your ladyship may guess, by what I wrote before, that I could not give any extraordinary account of myself--"As well--as well, Sir, as possible;" half out of breath. "You give yourself strange melancholy airs of late, my dear. All that cheerfulness, which used to delight me whenever I saw you, I am sorry for it, is quite vanished. You and I must shortly have a little serious talk together." "When you please. Sir. I believe it is only being used to this smoky thick air of London!--I shall be better when you carry me into the country. I dare say I shall. But I never was in London so long before, you know, Sir." "All in good time, Pamela!--But is this the best appearance you choose to make, to receive such guests?" "If it displeases you. Sir, I will dress otherwise in a minute." "You look well in any thing. But I thought you'd have been better dressed. Yet it would never have less become you; for of late your eyes have lost that brilliancy that used to strike me with a lustre, much surpassing that of the finest diamonds." "I am sorry for it, Sir. But as I never could pride myself in deserving such a kind of compliment, I should be too happy, forgive me, my dearest Mr. B., if the failure be not rather in your eyes, than in _mine_." He looked at me steadfastly. "I fear, Pamela--But don't be a fool." "You are angry with me. Sir?" "No, not I." "Would you have me dress better?" "No, not I. If your eyes looked a little more brilliant, you want no addition." Down he went. Strange short speeches, these, my lady, to what you have heard from his dear mouth!--"Yet they shall not rob me of the merit of a patient sufferer, I am resolved," thought I. Now, my lady, as I doubted not my rival would come adorned with every outward ornament, I put on only a white damask gown, having no desire to vie with her in appearance; for a virtuous and honest heart is my glory, I bless God! I wish the countess had the same to boast of! About five, their ladyships came in the countess's new chariot: for she has not been long out of her transitory mourning, and dressed as rich as jewels, and a profusion of expense, could make her. I saw them from the window alight. O how my heart throbbed!--"Lie still," said I, "busy thing! why all this emotion?--Those shining ornaments cover not such a guileless flatterer as thou. Why then all this emotion?" Polly Barlow came up instantly from Mr. B. I hastened down; tremble, tremble, tremble, went my feet, in spite of all the resolution I had been endeavouring so long to collect together. Mr. B. presented the countess to me, both of us covered with blushes; but from very different motives, as I imagine. "The Countess of---, my dear." She saluted me, and looked, as I thought, half with envy, half with shame: but one is apt to form people's countenances by what one judges of their hearts. "O too lovely, too charming rival!" thought I--"Would to heaven I saw less attraction in you!"--For indeed she is a charming lady; yet she could not help calling me Mrs. B., that was some pride to me: every little distinction is a pride to me now--and said, she hoped I would excuse the liberty she had taken: but the character given of me by Mr. B. made her desirous of paying her respects to me. "O these villainous masquerades," thought I!--"You would never have wanted to see me, but for them, poor naughty Nun, that was!" Mr. B. presented also the Viscountess to me; I saluted her ladyship; her _sister_ saluted _me_. She is a graceful lady; better, as I hope, in heart, but not equal in person to her sister. "You have a charming boy, I am told, Madam; but no wonder from such a pair!" "O dear heart," thought I, "i'n't it so!" Your ladyship may guess what I thought farther. "Will your ladyship see him now?" said Mr. B. He did not look down; no, not one bit!--though the Countess played with her fan, and looked at him, and at me, and then down by turns, a little consciously: while I wrapped up myself in my innocence, my first flutters being over, and thought I was superior, by reason of that, even to a Countess. With all her heart, she said. I rang. "Polly, bid nurse bring _my_ Billy down."--_My_, said I, with an emphasis. I met the nurse at the stairs' foot, and brought in my dear baby in my arms: "Such a child, and such a mamma!" said the Viscountess. "Will you give Master to my arms, one moment, Madam?" said the Countess. "Yes," thought I, "much rather than my dear naughty gentleman should any other." I _yielded_, it to her: I thought she would have stifled it with her warm kisses. "Sweet boy I charming creature," and pressed it to her too lovely bosom, with such emotion, looking on the child, and on Mr. B., that I liked it not by any means. "Go, you naughty lady," thought I: But I durst not say so. "And go, naughty man, too!" thought I: "for you seem to look too much gratified in your pride, by her fondness for your boy. I wish I did not love you so well as I do!" But neither, your ladyship may believe, did I say this. Mr. B. looked at me, but with a bravery, I thought, too like what I had been witness to, in some former scenes, in as bad a cause. "But," thought I, "God delivered me _then_; I will confide in him. He will now, I doubt not, restore thy heart to my prayers; untainted, I hope, for thy own dear sake as well as mine." The Viscountess took the child from her sister, and kissed him with great pleasure. She is a married lady. Would to God, the Countess was so too! for Mr. B. never corresponded, as I told your ladyship once, with married ladies: so I was not afraid of _her_ love to my Billy. "But let me," said she, "have the pleasure of restoring Master to his charming mamma. I thought," added she, "I never saw a lovelier sight in my life, than when in his mamma's arms." "Why, I _can't_ say," said the Countess, "but Master and his mamma do credit to one another. Dear Madam, let us have the pleasure of seeing him still on your lap, while he is so good." I wondered the dear baby was so quiet; though, indeed, he is generally so: but _he_ might surely, if but by sympathy, have complained for his poor mamma, though she durst not for herself. How apt one is to engage every thing in one's distress, when it is deep! and one wonders too, that things animate and inanimate look with the same face, when we are greatly moved by any extraordinary and interesting event. I sat down with my baby on my lap, looking, I believe, with a righteous boldness (I will call it so; for well says the text, _"The righteous is as bold as a lion_,") now on my Billy, now on his papa, and now on the Countess, with such a _triumph_ in my heart; for I saw her blush, and look down, and the dear gentleman seemed to eye me with a kind of conscious tenderness, as I thought. A silence of five minutes, I believe, succeeded, we all four looking upon one another; and the little dear was awake, and stared full upon me, with such innocent smiles, as if he promised to love me, and make me amends for all. I kissed him, and took his pretty little hand in mine--"You are very good, my charmer, in this company!" said I. I remembered a scene, which made greatly for me in the papers you have seen, when, instead of recriminating, as I might have done, before Mr. Longman for harsh usage (for, O my lady, your dear brother has a hard heart indeed when he pleases), I only prayed for him on my knees. And I hope I was not now too mean; for I had dignity and a proud superiority in my vain heart, over them all. Then it was not my part to be upon defiances, where I loved, and where I hoped to reclaim. Besides, what had I done by that, but justified, seemingly, by after acts in a passionate resentment, to their minds, at least, their too wicked treatment of me?--Moreover, your ladyship will remember, that Mr. B. knew not that I was acquainted with his intrigue: for I must call it so. If he had, he is too noble to insult me by such a visit; and he had told me, I should see the lady he was at Oxford with. And this, breaking silence, he mentioned; saying, "I gave you hope, my dear, that I should procure you the honour of a visit from a lady who put herself under my care at Oxford." I bowed my head to the Countess; but my tears being ready to start, I kissed my Billy: "Dearest baby," said I, "you are not going to cry, are you?"--I would have had him just then to cry, instead of me. The tea equipage was brought in. "Polly, carry the child to nurse." I gave it another kiss, and the Countess desired another. I grudged it, to think her naughty lips should so closely follow mine. Her sister kissed it also, and carried him to Mr. B. "Take him away," said he, "I owe him my blessing." "O these young gentlemen papas!" said the Countess--"They are like young unbroken horses, just put into the traces!" --"Are they so?" thought I. "Matrimony must not expect your good word, I doubt." Mr. B. after tea, at which I was far from being talkative (for I could not tell what to say, though I tried, as much as I could not to appear sullen), desired the Countess to play one tune upon the harpsichord.--She did, and sung, at his request, an Italian song to it very prettily; too prettily, I thought. I wanted to find some faults, some great faults in her: but, O Madam, she has too many outward excellencies!--pity she wants a good heart. He could ask nothing, that she was not ready to oblige him; indeed he could not. She desired me to touch the keys. I would have been excused; but could not. And the ladies commended my performance; but neither my heart to play, nor my fingers in playing, deserved their praises. Mr. B. _said_, indeed--"You play better sometimes, my dear."--"Do I, Sir?" was all the answer I made. The Countess hoped, she said, I would return her visit; and so said the Viscountess. I replied, Mr. B. would command me whenever he pleased. She said, she hoped to be better acquainted--("I hope not," thought I)--and that I would give her my company, for a week or so, upon the Forest: it seems she has a seat upon Windsor Forest. "Mr. B. says," added she, "you can't ride a single horse; but we'll teach you there. 'Tis a sweet place for that purpose." "How came Mr. B.," thought I, "to tell _you_ that, Madam? I suppose you know more of me than I do myself." Indeed, my lady, this may be too true; for she may know what is to become of me! I told her, I was very much obliged to her ladyship; and that Mr. B. directed all my motions. "What say _you_, Sir?" said the Countess. "I can't promise that. Madam: for Mrs. B. wants to go down to Kent, before we go to Bedfordshire, and I am afraid I can't give her my company thither." "Then, Sir, I shan't choose to go without you." "I suppose not, my dear. But if you are disposed to oblige the Countess for a week, as you never were at Windsor--" "I believe, Sir," interrupted I, "what with my little nursery, and _one_ thing or _another_, I must deny myself that honour, for this season." "Well, Madam, then I'll expect you in Pall Mall." I bowed my head, and said, Mr. B. would command me. They took leave with a politeness natural to them. Mr. B., as he handed them to the chariot, said something in Italian to the Countess: the word Pamela was in what he said: she answered him with a downcast look, in the same language, half-pleased, half-serious, and the chariot drove away. "I would give," said I, "a good deal, Sir, to know what her ladyship said to you; she looked with so particular a meaning, if I may say so." "I'll tell you, truly, Pamela: I said to her, 'Well, now your ladyship has seen my Pamela--Is she not the charmingest girl in the world?' "She answered--'Mrs. B. is very grave, for so young a lady; but I must needs say she is a lovely creature.'" "And did you say so. Sir? And did her ladyship so answer?" And my heart was ready to leap out of my bosom for joy. But my folly spoiled all again; for, to my own surprise, and great regret, I burst out into tears; though I even sobbed to have suppressed them, but could not; and so I lost a fine opportunity to have talked to him while he was so kind; for he was more angry with me than ever. What made me such a fool, I wonder? But I had so long struggled with myself; and not expecting so kind a question from the dear gentleman, or such a favourable answer from the Countess, I had no longer any command of myself. "What ails the little fool?" said he, with a wrathful countenance. This made me worse, and he added, "Take care, take care, Pamela!--You'll drive me from you, in spite of my own heart." So he went into the best parlour, and put on his sword, and took his hat. I followed him--"Sir, Sir!" with my arms expanded, was all I could say; but he avoided me, putting on his hat with an air; and out he went, bidding Abraham follow him. This is the dilemma into which, as I hinted at the beginning of this letter, I have brought myself with Mr. B. How strong, how prevalent is the passion of jealousy; and thus it will shew itself uppermost, when it _is_ uppermost, in spite of one's most watchful regards! My mind is so perplexed, that I must lay down my pen: and, indeed, your ladyship will wonder, all things considered, that I could write the above account as I have done, in this cruel suspense, and with such apprehensions. But writing is all the diversion I have, when my mind is oppressed. PAST TEN O'CLOCK AT NIGHT. I have only time to tell your ladyship (for the postman waits) that Mr. B. is just come in. He is gone into his closet, and has shut the door, and taken the key on the inside; so I dare not go to him there. In this uncertainty and suspense, pity and pray for _your ladyship's afflicted sister and servant_, P.B. LETTER LXXIII MY DEAR LADY, I will now proceed with my melancholy account. Not knowing what to do, and Mr. B. not coming near me, and the clock striking twelve, I ventured to send this billet to him, by Polly. "DEAR SIR, "I know you choose not to be invaded, when retired to your closet; yet, being very uneasy, on account of your abrupt departure, and heavy displeasure, I take the liberty to write these few lines. "I own, Sir, that the sudden flow of tears which involuntarily burst from me, at your kind expressions to the Countess in my favour, when I had thought for more than a month past, you were angry with me, and which had distressed my weak mind beyond expression, might appear unaccountable to you. But had you kindly waited but one moment till this fit, which was rather owing to my gratitude than to perverseness, had been over (and I knew the time when you would have generously soothed it), I should have had the happiness of a more serene and favourable parting. "Will you suffer me, Sir, to attend you? (Polly shall wait your answer). I dare not come _without_ your permission; for should you be as angry as you were, I know not how I shall bear it. But if you say I may come down, I hope to satisfy you, that I intended not any offence. Do, dear Sir, permit me to attend you, I can say no more, than that I am _your ever dutiful_, "P.B." Polly returned with the following. "So," thought I, "a letter!--I could have spared that, I am sure." I expected no favour from it. So tremblingly, opened it. "MY DEAR, "I would not have you sit up for me. We are getting apace into the matrimonial recriminations. _You knew the time!_--So did I, my dear!--But it seems that the time is over with both; and I have had the mortification, for some past weeks, to come home to a very different Pamela, than I used to leave all company and all pleasure for.--I hope we shall better understand one another. But you cannot see me at present with any advantage to yourself; and I would not, that any thing farther should pass, to add to the regrets of both. I wish you good rest. I will give your cause a fair hearing, when I am more fit to hear all your pleas, and your excuses. I cannot be insensible, that the reason for the concern you have lately shewn, must lie deeper than, perhaps, you'll now own. As soon as you are prepared to speak all that is upon your mind, and I to hear it with temper, then we may come to an eclaircissement. Till when I am _your affectionate_, &c." My busy apprehension immediately suggested to me, that I was to be terrified, with a high hand, into a compliance with some new scheme or other that was projecting; and it being near one, and hearing nothing from Mr. B., I bid Polly go to bed, thinking she would wonder at our intercourse by letter, if I should send again. So down I ventured, my feet, however, trembling all the way, and tapped at the door of his closet. "Who's that?" "I, Sir: one word, if you please. Don't be more angry, however, Sir." He opened the door: "Thus poor Hester, to her royal husband, ventured her life, to break in upon him unbidden. But that eastern monarch, great as he was, extended to the fainting suppliant the golden sceptre!" He took my hand: "I hope, my dear, by this tragedy speech, we are not to expect any sad catastrophe to our present misunderstanding." "I hope not, Sir. But 'tis all as God and you shall please. I am resolved to do my duty, Sir, if possible. But, indeed, I cannot bear this cruel suspense! Let me know what is to become of me. Let me know but what is designed for me, and you shall be sure of all the acquiescence that my duty and conscience can give to your pleasure." "What _means_ the dear creature? What _means my_ Pamela? Surely, your head, child, is a little affected!" "I can't tell, Sir, but it may!--But let me have my trial, that you write about. Appoint my day of hearing, and speedily too; for I would not bear such another month, as the last has been, for the world." "Come, my dear," said he, "let me attend you to your chamber. But your mind has taken much too solemn a turn, to enter further now upon this subject. Think as well of me as I do of you, and I shall be as happy as ever." I wept, "Be not angry, dear Sir: your kind words have just the same effect upon me now, as in the afternoon." "Your apprehensions, my dear, must be very strong, that a kind word, as you call it, has such an effect upon you! But let us wave the subject for a few days, because I am to set out on a little journey at four, and had not intended to go to bed, for so few hours." When we came up, I said, "I was very bold. Sir, to break in upon you; but I could not help it, if my life had been the forfeit; and you received me with more goodness than I could have expected. But will you pardon me, if I ask, whither you go so soon? And if you had intended to have gone without taking leave of me?" "I go to Tunbridge, my dear. I should have stept up and taken leave of you before I went." "Well, Sir, I will not ask you, who is of your party: I will not--No," (putting my hand to his lips) "don't tell me. Sir: it mayn't be proper." "Don't fear, my dear; I won't tell you: nor am I certain whether it be _proper_ or not, till we are come to a better understanding. Only, once more, think as well of me as I do of you." "Would to Heaven," thought I, "there was the same reason for the one as for the other!" I intended (for my heart was full) to enter further into this subject, so fatal to my repose: but the dear gentleman had no sooner laid his head on the pillow, but he fell asleep, or feigned to do so, and that was as prohibitory to my talking as if he had. So I had all my own entertaining reflections to myself; which gave me not one wink of sleep; but made me of so much service, as to tell him, when the clock struck four, that he should not (though I did not say so, you may think, Madam) make my ready rivaless (for I doubted not her being one of the party) wait for him. He arose, and was dressed instantly; and saluting me, bid me be easy and happy, while it was _yet_ in my own power. He said, he should be back on Saturday night, as he believed. And I wished him, most fervently, I am sure, health, pleasure, and safety. Here, Madam, must I end this letter. My next, will, perhaps contain my trial, and my sentence: God give me but patience and resignation, and then whatever occurs, I shall not be unhappy: especially while I can have, in the last resource, the pleasure of calling myself _your ladyship's most obliged sister and servant_, P.B. * * * * * LETTER LXXIV My dear Lady, I will be preparing to write to you, as I have opportunity, not doubting but this must be a long letter; and having some apprehensions, that, as things may fall out, I may want either head or heart to write to your ladyship, were I to defer it till the catastrophe of this cruel suspense. O what a happiness am I sunk from!--And in so few days too! O the wicked masquerades! The following letter, in a woman's hand, and signed, as you'll see, by a woman's name, and spelt as I spell it, will account to your ladyship for my beginning so heavily. It came by the penny-post. "Madame, "I ame unknowne to yowe; but yowe are not so altogathar to mee, becaus I haue bene edefy'd by yowre pius behafiorr att church, whir I see yowe with playsir everie Sabbaoth day. I ame welle acquaintid with the famely of the Coumptesse of---; and yowe maie passiblie haue hard what you wished not to haue hard concerninge hir. Butt this verie morninge, I can assur yowe, hir ladishippe is gon with yowre spowse to Tonbrigge; and theire they are to take lodgings, or a hous; and Mr. B. is after to come to town, and settel matters to go downe to hir, where they are to liue as man and wiffe. Make what use yowe pleas of thiss informasion: and belieue me to haue no other motife, than to serue yowe, becavs of yowre vartues, whiche make yowe deserue a better retorne, I am, thof I shall not set my trewe name, _yowre grete admirer and seruant_, "THOMASINE FULLER. "Wednesday morninge, "9 o'clock." Just above I called my state, a state of _cruel suspense_. But I recall the words: for now it is no longer suspense; since, if this letter says truth, I know the worst: and there is too much appearance that it does, let the writer be who he will, or his or her motive what it will: for, after all, I am apt to fancy this a contrivance of Mr. Turner's, though, for fear of ill consequences, I will not say so. And now, Madam, I am endeavouring, by the help of religion, and cool reflection, to bring my mind to bear this heavy evil, and to recollect what I _was_, and how much more honourable an estate I _am in_, than I could ever have expected to be in; that my virtue and good name are secured; and I can return innocent to my dear parents: and these were once the only pride of my heart. In addition to what I was then (and yet I pleased myself with my prospects, poor as they were), I have honest parents, bountifully provided for, thank God and your ever-dear brother for this blessing!--and not only provided for--but made useful to him, to the amount of their provision, well-nigh! There is a pride, my lady! Then I shall have better conditions from his generosity to support myself, than I can wish for, or make use of. Then I have my dear Billy-O be contented, too charming, and too happy rival, with my husband; and tear not from me my dearest baby, the pledge, the beloved pledge, of our happier affections, and the dear remembrance of what I once was!--A thousand pleasing prospects, that had begun to dawn on my mind, I can bear to have dissipated! But I cannot, indeed I cannot! permit my dear Mr. B.'s son and heir to be torn from me. But I am running on in a strain that shews my impatience, rather than my resignation; yet some struggles must be allowed me: I could not have loved, as I love, if I could easily part with my interest in so beloved a husband.--For my interest I _will_ part with, and sooner die, than live with a gentleman who has another wife, though I was the first. Let countesses, if they can, and ladies of birth, choose to humble themselves to this baseness. The low-born Pamela cannot stoop to it. Pardon me; you know I only write this with a view to this poor lady's answer to her noble uncle, of which you wrote me word. FRIDAY Is now concluding. I hope I am much calmer. For, being disappointed, in all likelihood, in twenty agreeable schemes and projects, I am now forming new ones, with as much pleasure to myself as I may. I am thinking to try to get good Mrs. Jervis with me. You must not, Madam, be too much concerned for me. After a while, I shall be no unhappy person; for though I was thankful for my splendid fortunes, and should have been glad, to be sure I should, of continuing in them, with so dear a gentleman; yet a high estate had never such dazzling charms with me as it has with some: if it had, I could not have resisted so many temptations, possibly, as God enabled me to resist. SATURDAY NIGHT Is now come. 'Tis nine, and no Mr. B.--"O why," as Deborah makes the mother of Sisera say, "is his chariot so long in coming? Why tarry the wheels of his chariot?" I have this note now at eleven o'clock: "MY DEAREST PAMELA, "I dispatch the messenger, lest, expecting me this night, you should be uneasy. I shall not be with you till Monday, when I hope to dine with my dearest life. _Ever affectionately yours_." So I'll go up and pray for him, and then to bed.--Yet 'tis a sad thing!--I have had but poor rest for a great while; nor shall have any till my fate is decided.--Hard-hearted man, he knows under what uneasiness he left me! MONDAY, ELEVEN. If God Almighty hears my yesterday's, and indeed my hourly, prayers, the dear man will be good still; but my aching heart, every time I think what company he is in (for I find the Countess is _certainly_ one of the party), bodes me little satisfaction. He's come! He's come! now, just now, come! I will have my trial over before this night be past, if possible. I'll go down and meet him with love unfeigned, and a duty equal to my love, although he may forget his to me. If I conquer myself on this occasion, I conquer nature, as your ladyship says: and then, by God's grace, I can conquer every thing. They have taken their house, I suppose: but what need they, when they'll have one in Bedfordshire, and one in Lincolnshire? But they know best. God bless him, and reform her! That's all the harm I wish them, or will wish them! My dear Mr. B. has received me with great affection and tenderness. Sure he cannot be so bad!--Sure he cannot! "I know, my dear," said he, "I left you in great anxiety; but 'tis an anxiety you have brought upon yourself; and I have not been easy ever since I parted from you." "I am sorry for it, Sir." "Why, my dear love, there is still a melancholy air in your countenance: indeed, it seems mingled with a kind of joy; I hope at my return to you. But 'tis easy to see which of the two is the most natural." "You should see nothing. Sir, that you would not wish to see, if I could help it." "I am sorry you cannot. But I am come home to hear all your grievances, and to redress them, if in my power." "When, Sir, am I to come upon my trial? I have much to say. I will tell you everything I think. And, as it may be the last _grievances_, as you are pleased to call them, I may ever trouble you with, you must promise to answer me not one word till I have done. For, if it does but hold, I have great courage, indeed I you don't know half the sauciness that is in your girl yet; but when I come upon my trial, you'll wonder at my boldness." "What means my dearest?" taking me into his arms. "You alarm me exceedingly, by this moving sedateness." "Don't let it alarm you. Sir! I mean nothing but good!--But I have been preparing myself to tell you all my mind. And as an instance of what you may expect from me, sometimes, Sir, I will be your judge, and put home questions to you; and sometimes you shall be mine, and at last pronounce sentence upon me; or, if you won't, I will upon myself; a severe one to me, it shall be, but an agreeable one, perhaps, to you!--When comes on the trial. Sir?" He looked steadily upon me, but was silent. And I said, "But don't be afraid, Sir, that I will invade your province; for though I shall count myself your judge, in some cases, you shall be judge paramount still." "Dear charmer of my heart," said he, and clasped me to his bosom, "what a _new_ PAMELA have I in my arms! A mysterious charmer! Let us instantly go to my closet, or yours, and come upon our mutual trial; for you have fired my soul with impatience!" "No, Sir, if you please, we will dine first. I have hardly eaten any thing these four days; and your company may give me an appetite. I shall be pleased to sit down at table with you. Sir," taking his hand, and trying to smile upon him; "for the moments I have of your company, may be, some time hence, very precious to my remembrance." I was then forced to turn my head, to hide from him my eyes, brimful as they were of tears. He took me again into his arms:--"My dearest Pamela, if you love me, distract not my soul thus, by your dark and mysterious speeches. You are displeased with _me_, and I thought I had reason, of late, to take something amiss in _your_ conduct; but, instead of your suffering by my anger, you have words and an air that penetrate my very soul." "O Sir, Sir, treat me not thus kindly! Put on an angrier brow, or how shall I retain my purpose? How shall I!" "Dear, dear creature! make not use of _all_ your power to melt me! _Half_ of it is enough. For there is eloquence in your eyes I cannot resist; but in your present solemn air, and affecting sentences, you mould me to every purpose of your heart; so that I am a mere machine, a passive instrument, to be played upon at your pleasure." "Dear, kind Sir, how you revive my heart, by your goodness! Perhaps I have only been in a frightful dream, and am but just now awakened.--But we will not anticipate our trial. Only, Sir, give orders, that you are not to be spoken with by any body, when we have dined; for I must have you all to myself, without interruption." Just as I had said this, a gentleman calling, I retired to my chamber, and wrote to this place. Mr. B. dismissed his friend, without asking him to dine; so I had him all to myself at dinner--But we said little, and sat not above a quarter of an hour; looking at each other: he, with impatience, and some seeming uneasiness; I with more steadiness, I believe, but now and then a tear starting. I eat but little, though I tried all I could, and especially as he helped me, and courted me with tenderness and sweetness--O why were ever such things as _masquerades_ permitted in a Christian nation! I chose to go into _my_ closet rather than into _his_; and here I sit, waiting the dear gentleman's coming up to me. If I keep but my courage, I shall be pleased. I know the worst, and that will help me; for he is too noble to use me roughly, when he sees I mean not to provoke him by upbraidings, any more than I will act, in this case, beneath the character I ought to assume as his wife. Mr. B. came up, with great impatience in his looks. I met him at the chamber door, with a very sedate countenance, and my heart was high with my purpose, and supported me better than I could have expected.--Yet, on recollection, now I impute to myself something of that kind of magnanimity, that was wont to inspire the innocent sufferers of old, for a still worthier cause than mine; though their motives could hardly be more pure, in that one hope I had, to be an humble means of saving the man I love and honour, from errors that might be fatal to his soul. I took his hand with boldness:--"Dear Sir," leading him to my closet, "here is the bar at which I am to take my trial," pointing to the backs of three chairs, which I had placed in a joined row, leaving just room to go by on each side. "You must give me, Sir, all my own way; this is the first, and perhaps the last time, that I shall desire it.--Nay, dear Sir," turning my face from him, "look not upon me with an eye of tenderness: if you do I may lose my purposes, important to me as they are; and however fantastic my behaviour may seem to you, I want not to move your passions (for the good impressions made upon them may be too easily dissipated by the winds of _sense_,) but _your reason_; and if that can be done, I am safe, and shall fear no relapse." "What means all this parade, my dear? Let me perish," that was his word, "if I know how to account for _you_, or your _humour_." "You _will_, presently. Sir. But give me all my ways--I pray you do--This one time only!" "Well, so, this is your bar, is it? There's an elbow-chair, I see; take your place in it, Pamela, and here I'll stand to answer all your questions." "No, Sir, that must not be." So I boldly led him to the elbow-chair. "You are the judge, Sir; it is I that am to be tried. Yet I will not say I am a criminal. I know I am not. But that must be proved, Sir, you know." "Well, take your way; but I fear for your head, my dear, in all this." "I fear only my heart, Sir, that's all! but there you must sit--So here," (retiring to the three chairs, and leaning on the backs,) "here I stand." "And now, my dearest Mr. B., you must begin first; you must be my accuser, as well as my judge." "I have nothing to accuse you of, my dear, if I _must_ give in to your moving whimsy. You are everything I wish you to be. But for the last month you have seemed to be uneasy, and have not done me the justice to acquaint me with your reasons for it." "I was in hopes my reasons might have proved to be no reasons; and I would not trouble you with my ungrounded apprehensions. But now, Sir, we are come directly to the point; and methinks I stand here as Paul did before Felix; and like that poor prisoner, if I, Sir, reason of _righteousness, temperance_, and _judgment to come_, even to make you, as the great Felix did, tremble, don't put me off to _another day_, to a _more convenient season_, as that governor did Paul; for you must bear patiently with all that I have to say." "Strange, uncommon girl I how unaccountable is all this!--Pr'ythee, my dear," and he pulled a chair by him, "come and sit down by me, and without these romantic airs let me hear all you have to say; and teaze me not with this parade." "No, Sir, let me stand, if you please, while I can stand; when weary I will sit down at my bar. "Now, Sir, since you are so good as to say, you have nothing but change of temper to accuse me of, I am to answer to that, and assign a cause; and I will do it without evasion or reserve; but I beseech you say not one word but Yes or No, to my questions, till I have said all I have to say, and then you shall find me all silence and resignation." "Well, my strange dear!--But sure your head is a little turned!--What is your question?" "Whether, Sir, the Nun--I speak boldly; the cause requires it--who followed you at the Masquerade every where, is not the Countess of--?" "What then, my dear:" (speaking with quickness,)--"I _thought_ the occasion of your sullenness and reserve was this!--But, Pamela--" "Nay, Sir," interrupted I, "only Yes, or No, if you please: I will be all silence by-and-by." "Yes, then."--"Well, Sir, then let me tell you, for I _ask_ you not (it may be too bold in me to multiply questions,) that she _loves_ you; that you correspond by letters with her--Yes, Sir, _before_ that letter from her ladyship came, which you received from my hand in so short and angry a manner, for fear of my curiosity to see its contents, which would have been inexcusable in me, I own, if I had. You have talked over to her all your polygamy notions, and she seems so well convinced of them, as to declare to her noble uncle (who expostulated with her on the occasions she gave for talk,) that she had rather be a certain gentleman's second wife, than the first to the greatest man in England: and you are but just returned from a journey to Tunbridge, in which that lady was a party; and the motive for it, I am acquainted with, by this letter." He was displeased, and frowned: I looked down, being resolved not to be terrified, if I could help it. "I have cautioned you, Pamela----" "I know you have, Sir," interrupted I; "but be pleased to answer me. Has not the Countess taken a house or lodgings at Tunbridge?" "She has; and what then?" "And is her ladyship there, or in town?" "_There_--and what then?" "Are you to go to Tunbridge, Sir, soon, or not?--Be pleased to answer but that one question." "I _will_ know," rising up in anger, "your informants, Pamela." "Dear Sir, so you shall, in proper time: you shall know all, when I am convinced, that your wrath will not be attended with bad consequences to yourself and others. That is wholly the cause of my reserve in this point; for I have not had a thought, since I have been yours, that I wished to be concealed from you.--But your knowledge of the informants makes nothing at all as to the truth of the information--Nor will I press you too home. I doubt not, you are soon to return to Tunbridge?" "I _am_, and what then?--Must the consequence be crime enough to warrant your jealousy?" "Dear Sir, don't be so angry," still looking down; for I durst not trust myself to look up. "I don't do this, as your letter charged me, in a spirit of matrimonial recrimination: if you don't _tell_ me, that you see the Countess with pleasure, I _ask_ it not of you; nor have I anything to say by way of upbraiding. 'Tis my misfortune, that she is too lovely, and too attractive: and it is the less wonder, that a fine young gentleman as you are, and a fine young lady as she is, should engage one another's affections. "I knew every thing, except what this letter which you shall read presently, communicates, when you brought the two noble sisters to visit me: hence proceeded my grief; and should I, Sir, have deserved to be what I am, if I was _not_ grieved? Religion has helped me, and God has answered my supplications, and enabled me to act this new uncommon part before you at this imaginary bar. You shall see, Sir, that as, on one hand, I want not, as I said before, to move your passions in my favour; so, on the other, I shall not be terrified by your displeasure, dreaded by me as it used to be, and as it will be again, the moment that my raised spirits sink down to their usual level, or are diverted from this my long meditated purpose, to tell you all my mind. "I repeat, then, Sir, that I knew all this, when the two noble sisters came to visit your poor girl, and to see your Billy. Yet, _grave_ as the Countess called me, (dear Sir! might I not well be grave, knowing what I knew?) did I betray any impatience of speech or action, or any discomposure? "No, Sir," putting my hand on my breast, "_here_ all my discomposure lay, vehemently struggling, now and then, and wanting that vent of my eyes, which it seems (overcome by my joy, to hear myself favourably spoken of by you and the lady,) it _too soon_ made itself. But I could not help it--You might have seen. Sir, I could not! "But I want neither to recriminate nor expostulate; nor yet, Sir, to form excuses for my general conduct; for that you accuse not in the main--but be pleased, Sir, to read this letter. It was brought by the penny-post, as you'll see by the mark. Who the writer is, I know not. And did _you_, Sir, that knowledge, and your resentment upon it, will not alter the fact, or give it a more favourable appearance." I stepped to him, and giving him the letter, came back to my bar, and sat down on one of the chairs while he read it, drying my eyes; for they would overflow as I talked, do what I could. He was much moved at the contents of this letter; called it malice, and hoped he might find out the author of it, saying, he would advertise 500 guineas reward for the discoverer. He put the letter in his pocket, "Well, Pamela, you believe all you have said, no doubt: and this matter has a black appearance, indeed, if you do. But who was your _first_ informant?--Was that by letter or personally? That Turner, I doubt not, is at the bottom of all this. The vain coxcomb has had the insolence to imagine the Countess would favour an address of his; and is enraged to meet with a repulse; and has taken liberties upon it, that have given birth to all the scandals scattered about on this occasion. Nor do I doubt but he has been the Serpent at the ear of my Eve." I stood up at the bar, and said, "Don't be too hasty, Sir, in your judgment--You _may_ be mistaken." "But _am_ I mistaken, Pamela?--You never told me an untruth in cases the most important to you to conceal. _Am_ I mistaken?" "Dear Sir, if I should tell you it is _not_ Mr. Turner, you'll guess at somebody else: and what avails all this to the matter in hand? You are your own master, and must stand or fall by your own conscience. God grant that _that_ may acquit you!--But my intention is not either to accuse or upbraid you." "But, my dear, to the fact then:--This is a malicious and a villainous piece of intelligence, given you, perhaps, for the sake of designs and views, that may not yet be proper to be avowed." "By God's grace, Sir, I defy all designs and views of any one, upon my honour!" "But, my dear, the charge is basely false: we have not agreed upon any such way of life." "Well, Sir, all this only proves, that the intelligence may be a little premature. But now let me, Sir, sit down one minute, to recover my failing spirits, and then I'll tell you all I purpose to do, and all I have to say, and that with as much brevity as I can, for fear neither my head nor my heart should perform the part I have been so long in endeavouring to prevail upon them to perform." I sat down then, he taking out the letter, and reading it again with much vexation and anger in his countenance; and after a few tears and sobs, that would needs be so officious as to offer their service, unbidden, and undesired, to introduce what I had to say; I rose up, my feet trembling, as well as my knees; which, however, leaning against the seats of the chairs, that made my bar, as my hand held by the back, tolerably supported me, I cleared my voice, wiped my eyes, and said: "You have all the excuse, dear Mr. B., that a gentleman can have in the object of your present passion." "Present passion, Pamela!" "Dear Sir, hear me without interruption. "The Countess is a charming lady. She excels your poor girl in all those outward graces of form, which your kind fancy (more valued by me than the opinion of all the world besides) had made you attribute to me. And she has all those additional advantages, as nobleness of birth, of alliance, and deportment, which I want. (Happy for you, Sir, that you had known her ladyship some months ago, before you disgraced yourself by the honours you have done me!) This therefore frees you from the aggravated crime of those, who prefer, to their own ladies, less amiable and less deserving persons; and I have not the sting which those must have, who are contemned and ill-treated for the sake of their inferiors. Yet cannot the Countess love you better than your girl loves you, not even for your person, which must, I doubt, be _her_ principal attachment! when I can truly say, all noble and attracting to the outward eye as it is, that is the least consideration by far with me: no, Sir, your generous and beneficent mind, is the principal object of my affection; and my pride in hoping to be an humble means, in the hands of Providence, to bless you _hereafter_ as well as _here_, gave me more pleasure than all the blessings I reaped from your name or your fortune. Judge then, my dearest Mr. B., my grief and disappointment. "But I will not expostulate: I _will not_, because it _must_ be to no purpose; for could my fondness, and my watchful duty to you, have kept you steady, I should not now appear before you in this solemn manner: and I know the charms of my rival are too powerful for me to contend with. Nothing but divine grace can touch your heart: and that I expect not, from the nature of the case, should be instantaneous. "I will therefore. Sir, dear as you are to me--(Don't look with such tender surprise upon me!) give up your person to the happier, to my _worthier_ rival. For since such is your will, and seem to be your engagements, what avails it to me to oppose them? "I have only to beg, that you will be so good as to permit me to go down to Kent, to my dear parents, who, with many more, are daily rejoicing in your favour and bounty. I will there" (holding up my folded hands) "pray for you every hour of my life; and for every one who shall be dear to you, not excepting the charming Countess. "I will never take your name into my lips, nor suffer any other in my hearing, but with reverence and gratitude, for the good I and mine _have_ reaped at your hands: nor wish to be freed from my obligations to you, except you shall choose to be divorced from me; and if so I will give your wishes all the forwardness I honourably can, with regard to my own character and yours, and that of your beloved baby. "But you must give me something worth living for along with you; your Billy and mine!--Unless it is your desire to kill me quite! and then 'tis done, and nothing will stand in your happy Countess's way, if you tear from my arms my _second_ earthly good, after I am deprived of you, my first. "I will there, Sir, dedicate all my time to my first duties; happier far, than once I could have hoped to be! And if, by any accident, and misunderstanding between you, you should part by consent, and you will have it so, my heart shall be ever yours, and my hopes shall be resumed of being an instrument still for your future good, and I will receive your returning ever-valued heart, as if nothing had happened, the moment I can be sure it will be wholly mine. "For, think not, dear Sir, whatever be your notions of polygamy, that I will, were my life to depend upon it, consent to live with a gentleman, dear as, God is my witness," (lifting up my tearful eyes) "you are to me, who lives in what I cannot but think open sin with another! You _know_, Sir, and I appeal to you for the purity, and I will aver piety of my motives, when I say this, that I _would not_; and as you do know this, I cannot doubt but nay proposal will be agreeable to you both. And I beg of you, dear Sir, to take me at my word; and don't let me be tortured, as I have been so many weeks, with such anguish of mind, that nothing but religious considerations can make supportable to me." "And are you in earnest, Pamela?" coming to me, and folding me in his arms over the chair's back, the seat of which supported my trembling knees, "Can you so easily part with me?" "I can, Sir, and I will!--rather than divide my interest in you, knowingly, with any lady upon earth. But say not, can I part with you. Sir; it is you that part with me: and tell me, Sir, tell me but what you had intended should become of me?" "You talk to me, my dearest life, as if all you had heard against me was true; and you would have me answer you, (would you?) as if it was." "I want nothing to convince me, Sir, that the Countess loves you: you know the rest of my information: judge for me, what I can, what I ought to believe!--You know the rumours of the world concerning you: Even I, who stay so much at home, and have not taken the least pains to find out my wretchedness, nor to confirm it, since I knew it, have come to the hearing of it; and if you know the licence taken with both your characters, and yet correspond so openly, must it not look to me that you value not your honour in the world's eye, nor my lady hers? I told you, Sir, the answer she made to her uncle." "You told me, my dear, as you were told. Be tender of a lady's reputation--for your own sake. No one is exempted from calumny; and even words said, and the occasion of saying them not known, may bear a very different construction from 'what they would have done, had the occasion been told." "This may be all true. Sir: I wish the lady would be as tender of her reputation as I would be, let her injure me in your affections as she will. But can you say, Sir, that there is nothing between you, that should _not_ be, according to _my_ notions of virtue and honour, and according to your _own_, which I took pride in, before that fatal masquerade? "You answer me not," continued I; "and may I not fairly presume you cannot as I wish to be answered? But come, dearest Sir," (and I put my arms around his neck) "let me not urge you too boldly. I will never forget your benefits, and your past kindnesses to me. I have been a happy creature: no one, till within these few weeks, was ever so happy as I. I will love you still with a passion as ardent as ever I loved you. Absence cannot lessen such a love as mine: I am sure it cannot. "I see your difficulties. You have gone too far to recede. If you can make it easy to your conscience, I will wait with patience my happier destiny; and I will wish to live (if I can be convinced you wish me not to die) in order to pray for you, and to be a directress to the first education of my dearest baby. "You sigh, dear Sir; repose your beloved face next to my fond heart. 'Tis all your own: and ever shall be, let it, or let it not, be worthy of the honour in your estimation. "But yet, my dear Mr. B., if one could as easily, in the prime of sensual youth, look twenty years backward, what an empty vanity, what a mere nothing, will be all those grosser satisfactions, that now give wings of desire to our debased appetites! "Motives of religion will have their due force upon _your_ mind one day, I hope; as, blessed be God, they have enabled _me_ to talk to you on such a touching point (after infinite struggles, I own,) with so much temper and resignation; and then, my dearest Mr. B., when we come to that last bed, from which the piety of our friends shall lift us, but from which we shall never be able to raise ourselves; for, dear Sir, your Countess, and you, and your poor Pamela, must all come to this!--we shall find what it is will give us true joy, and enable us to support the pangs of the dying hour. Think you, my dearest Sir," (and I pressed my lips to his forehead, as his head was reclined on my throbbing bosom,) "that _then_, in that important moment, what now gives us the greatest pleasure, will have any part in our consideration, but as it may give us woe or comfort in the reflection? "But I will not, O best beloved of my soul, afflict you farther. Why should I thus sadden all your gaudy prospects? I have said enough to such a heart as yours, if Divine grace touches it. And if not, all I can say will be of no avail!--I will leave you therefore to that, and to your own reflections. And after giving you ten thousand thanks for your indulgent patience with me, I will only beg, that I may set out in a week for Kent, with my dear Billy; that you will receive one letter at least, from me, of gratitude and blessings; it shall not be of upbraidings and exclamations. "But my child you must not deny me; for I shall haunt, like his shadow, every place wherein you shall put my Billy, if you should be so unkind to deny him to me!--And if you will permit me to have the dear Miss Goodwin with me, as you had almost led me to hope, I will read over all the books of education, and digest them, as well as I am able, in order to send you my scheme, and to show you how fit, I hope your _indulgence_, at least, will make you think me, of having two such precious trusts reposed in me!" I was silent, waiting in tears his answer. But his generous heart was touched, and seemed to labour within him for expression. He came round to me at last, and took me in his arms; "Exalted creature!" said he: "noble-minded Pamela! Let no bar be put between us henceforth! No wonder, when one looks back to your first promising dawn of excellence, that your fuller day should thus irresistibly dazzle such weak eyes as mine. Whatever it costs me, and I have been inconsiderately led on by blind passion for an object too charming, but which I never thought equal to my Pamela, I will (for it is yet, I bless God, in my power), restore to your virtue a husband all your own." "O Sir, Sir," (and I should have sunk with joy, had not his kind arms supported me,) "what have you said?--Can I be so happy as to behold you innocent as to deed! God, of his infinite goodness, continue you both so!--And, Oh! that the dear lady would make me as truly love her, for the graces of her mind, as I admire her for the advantages of her person!" "You are virtue itself, my dearest life; and from this moment I will reverence you as my tutelary angel. I shall behold you with awe, and implicitly give up myself to all your dictates: for what you _say_, and what you _do_, must be ever right. But I will not, my dearest life, too lavishly promise, lest you should think it the sudden effects of passions thus movingly touched, and which may subside again, when the soul, as you observed in your own case, sinks to its former level: but this I promise (and I hope you believe me, and will pardon the pain I have given you, which made me fear more than once, that your head was affected, so _uncommon_, yet so like _yourself_, has been the manner of your acting,) that I will break off a correspondence that has given you so much uneasiness: and my Pamela may believe, that if I can be as good as my word in this point, she will never more be in danger of any rival whatever. "But say, my dear love," added he, "say you forgive me; and resume but your former cheerfulness, and affectionate regards to me, else I shall suspect the sincerity of your forgiveness: and you shall indeed go to Kent, but not without me, nor your boy neither; and if you insist upon it, the poor child you have wished so often and so generously to have, shall be given up absolutely to your disposal." Do you think. Madam, I could speak any one distinct sentence? No indeed I could not. I was just choked with my joy; I never was so before. And my eyes were in a manner fixed, as he told me afterwards; and that he was a little startled, seeing nothing but the whites; for the sight was out of its orbits, in a manner lifted up to heaven--in ecstasy for a turn so sudden, and so unexpected! We were forced to separate soon after; for there was no bearing each other, so excessive was my Joy, and his goodness. He left me, and went down to his own closet. Judge my employment you will, I am sure, my dear lady. I had new ecstasy to be blest with, in a thankfulness so exalted, that it left me all light and pleasant, as if I had shook off body, and trod in air; so much heaviness had I lost, and so much joy had I received. From two such extremes, how was it possible I could presently hit the medium? For when I had given up my beloved husband, as lost to me, and had dreaded the consequences to his future state: to find him not only untainted as to deed, but, in all probability, mine upon better and surer terms than ever--O, Madam! must not this give a joy beyond all joy, and surpassing all expression! About eight o'clock Mr. B. sent me up these lines from his closet, which will explain what I meant, as to the papers I must beg your ladyship to return me. "My dear Pamela, "I have so much real concern at the anguish I have given you, and am so much affected with the recollection of the uncommon scenes which passed between us, just now, that I write, because I know not how to look so excellent a creature in the face--You must therefore sup without me, and take your Mrs. Jervis to bed with you; who, I doubt not, knows all this affair; and you may tell her the happy event. "You must not interfere with me just now, while writing upon a subject which takes up all my attention; and which, requiring great delicacy, I may, possibly, be all night before I can please myself in it. "I am determined to make good my promise to you. But if you have written to your mother, Miss Darnford, or to Lady Davers, anything of this affair, you must shew me the copies, and let me into every tittle how you came by your information. I solemnly promise you, on my honour (that has not yet been violated to you, and I hope never will), that not a soul shall know or suffer by the communication, not even Turner; for I am confident he has had some hand in it. This request you must comply with, if you can confide in me; for I shall make some use of it (as prudent a one as I am able), for the sake of every one concerned, in the conclusion of the correspondence between the lady and myself. Whatever you may have said in the bitterness of your heart, in the letters I require to see, or whatever any of those, to whom they are directed, shall say, on the bad prospect, shall be forgiven, and looked upon as deserved, by your _ever-obliged and faithful_, &c." I returned the following: "Dearest, dear Sir, "I will not break in upon you, while you are so importantly employed. Mrs. Jervis has indeed seen my concern for some time past, and has heard rumours, as I know by hints she has given me; but her prudence, and my reserves, have kept us from saying anything to one another of it. Neither my mother nor Miss Darnford know a tittle of it from me. I have received a letter of civility from Miss, and have answered it, taking and giving thanks for the pleasure of each other's company, and best respects from her, and the Lincolnshire families, to your dear self. These, my copy, and her original, you shall see when you please. But, in truth, all that has passed, is between Lady Davers and me, and I have not kept copies of mine; but I will dispatch a messenger to her ladyship for them, if you please, in the morning, before it is light, not doubting your kind promise of excusing everything and everybody. "I beg, dear Sir, you will take care your health suffers not by your sitting up; for the nights are cold and damp. "I will, now you have given me the liberty, let Mrs. Jervis know how happy you have made me, by dissipating my fears, and the idle rumours, as I shall call them to her, of calumniators. "God bless you, dear Sir, for your goodness and favour to _your ever-dutiful_ P.B." He was pleased to return me this: "MY DEAR LIFE, "You need not be in such haste to send. If you write to Lady Davers how the matter has ended, let me see the copy of it: and be very particular in your, or rather, my trial. It shall be a standing lesson to me for my future instruction; as it will be a fresh demonstration of your excellence, which every hour I more and more admire. I am glad Lady Davers only knows the matter. I think I ought to avoid seeing you, till I can assure you, that every thing is accommodated to your desire. Longman has sent me some advices, which will make it proper for me to meet him at Bedford or Gloucester. I will not go to Tunbridge, till I have all your papers; and so you'll have three days to procure them. Your boy, and your penmanship, will find you no disagreeable employment till I return. Nevertheless, on second thoughts, I will do myself the pleasure of breakfasting with you in the morning, to re-assure you of my unalterable purpose to approve myself, _my dearest life, ever faithfully yours."_ Thus, I hope, is happily ended this dreadful affair. My next shall give the particulars of our breakfast conversation. But I would not slip this post, without acquainting you with this blessed turn; and to beg the favour of you to send me back my letters; which will lay a new obligation upon, _dear Madam, your obliged sister, and humble servant,_ P.B. LETTER LXXV MY DEAREST LADY, Your joyful correspondent has obtained leave to get every thing: ready to quit London by Friday next, when your kind brother promises to carry me down to Kent, and allows me to take my charmer with me. There's happiness for you, Madam! To see, as I hope I shall see, upon one blessed spot, a dear faithful husband, a beloved child, and a father and mother, whom I so much love and honour! Mr. B. told me this voluntarily, this morning at breakfast; and then, in the kindest manner, took leave of me, and set out for Bedfordshire. But I should, according to my promise, give you a few particulars of our breakfast conference. I bid Polly withdraw, when her master came up to breakfast; and I ran to the door to meet him, and threw myself on my knees: "O forgive me, dearest, dear Sir, all my boldness of yesterday!--My heart was strangely affected--or I could not have acted as I did. But never fear, my dearest Mr. B., that my future conduct shall be different from what it used to be, or that I shall keep up to a spirit, which you hardly thought had place in the heart of your dutiful Pamela, till she was thus severely tried."--"I have weighed well your conduct, my dear life," raising me to his bosom; "and I find an uniformity in it, that is surprisingly just." He led me to the tea-table, and sat down close by me. Polly came in. "If every thing," said he, "be here, that your lady wants, you may withdraw; and let Colbrand and Abraham know I shall be with them presently. Nobody shall wait upon me but you, my dear." Polly withdrew. "I always _loved_ you, my dearest," added he, "and that with a passionate fondness, which has not, I dare say, many examples in the married life: but I _revere_ you now. And so great is my reverence for your virtue, that I chose to sit up all night, to leave you for a few days, until, by disengaging myself from all intercourses that have given you uneasiness, I can convince you, that I have rendered myself as worthy as I can be, of you upon your own terms. I will account to you for every step I _shall_ take, and will reveal to you every step I have taken: for this I _can_ do, because the lady's honour is untainted, and wicked rumour has treated her worse than she could deserve." I told him, that since _he_ had named the lady, I would take the liberty to say, I was glad, for her own sake, to hear that. Changing the subject a little precipitately, as if it gave him pain, he told me, as above, that I might prepare on Friday for Kent; and I parted with him with greater pleasure than ever I did in my life. So necessary sometimes are afflictions, not only to teach one how to subdue one's passions, and to make us, in our happiest states, know we are still on earth, but even when they are overblown to augment and redouble our joys! I am now giving orders for my journey, and quitting this undelightful town, as it has been, and is, to me. My next will be from Kent, I hope; and I may then have an opportunity to acquaint your ladyship with the particulars, and (if God answers my prayers), the conclusion of the affair, which has given me so much uneasiness. Meantime, I am, with the greatest gratitude, for the kind share you have taken in my past afflictions, my good lady, _your ladyship's most obliged sister and servant_, P.B. LETTER LXXVI My dearest Pamela, Inclosed are all the letters you send for. I rejoice with you upon the turn this afflicting affair has taken, through your inimitable prudence, and a courage I thought not in you. A wretch!--to give you so much discomposure!--But I will not, if he be good now, rave against him, as I was going to do. I am impatient to hear what account he gives of the matter. I hope he will be able to abandon this--I won't call her names; for she loves the wretch; and that, if he be just to _you_, will be her punishment. What care ought these young widows to take of their reputation?--And how watchful ought they to be over themselves!--She was hardly out of her weeds, and yet must go to a masquerade, and tempt her fate, with all her passions about her, with an independence, and an affluence of fortune, that made her able to think of nothing but gratifying them. She has good qualities--is generous--is noble--but has strong passions, and is thoughtless and precipitant. My lord came home last Tuesday, with a long story of my brother and her: for I had kept the matter as secret as I could, for his sake and yours. It seems he had it from Sir John----, uncle to the young Lord C., who is very earnest to bring on a treaty of marriage between her and his nephew, who is in love with her, and is a fine young gentleman; but has held back, on the liberties she has lately given herself with my brother. I hope she is innocent, as to fact; but I know not what to say to it. He ought to be hanged, if he did not say she was. Yet I have great opinion of his veracity: and yet he is so bold a wretch!--And her inconsideration is so great! But lest I should alarm your fears, I will wait till I have the account he gives you of this dark affair; till when, I congratulate you upon the leave you have obtained to quit the town, and on your setting out for a place so much nearer to Tunbridge. Forgive me, Pamela; but he is an intriguing wretch, and I would not have you to be too secure, lest the disappointment should be worse for you, than what you knew before: but assure yourself, that I am in all cases and events, _your affectionate sister and admirer_, B. DAVERS. LETTER LXXVII _From Mrs. B. to Lady Davers._ MY DEAREST LADY, Mr. B. came back from Bedfordshire to his time. Every thing being in readiness, we set out with my baby, and his nurse. Mrs. Jervis, when every thing in London is settled by her direction, goes to Bedfordshire. We were met by my father and mother in a chaise and pair, which your kind brother had presented to them unknown to me, that they might often take the air together, and go to church in it (which is at some distance) on Sundays. The driver is clothed in a good brown cloth suit, but no livery; for that my parents could not have borne, as Mr. B.'s goodness made him consider. Your ladyship must needs think, how we were all overjoyed at this meeting: for my own part I cannot express how much I was transported when we arrived at the farm-house, to see all I delighted in, upon one happy spot together. Mr. B. is much pleased with the alterations here: and it is a sweet, rural, and convenient place. We were welcomed into these parts by the bells, and by the minister, and people of most note; and were at church together on Sunday. Mr. B. is to set out on Tuesday for Tunbridge, with my papers. A happy issue, attend that affair, I pray God! He has given me the following particulars of it, to the time of my trial, beginning at the masquerade. He says, that at the masquerade, when, pleased with the fair Nun's shape, air and voice, he had followed her to a corner most unobserved, she said in Italian, "Why are my retirements invaded, audacious Spaniard?"--"Because, my dear Nun, I hope you would have it so." "I can no otherwise," returned she, "strike dead thy bold presumption, than to shew thee my scorn and anger thus!"--"And she unmasking surprised me," said Mr. B., "with a face as beautiful, but not so soft as my Pamela's."--"And I," said Mr. B., "to shew I can defy your resentment, will shew you a countenance as intrepid as yours is lovely." And so he drew aside his mask too. He says, he observed his fair Nun to be followed wherever she went, by a mask habited like Testimony in Sir Courtly Nice, whose attention was fixed upon her and him; and he doubted not, that it was Mr. Turner. So he and the fair Nun took different ways, and he joined me and Miss Darnford, and found me engaged as I before related to your ladyship, and his Nun at his elbow unexpected. That afterwards as he was engaged in French with a lady who had the dress of an Indian Princess, and the mask of an Ethiopian, his fair Nun said, in broken Spanish, "Art thou at all complexions?--By St. Ignatius, I believe thou'rt a rover!" "I am trying," replied he in Italian, "whether I can meet with any lady comparable to my lovely Nun." "And what is the result?"--"Not one: no not one."--"I wish you could not help being in earnest," said she; and slid from him. He engaged her next at the sideboard, drinking under her veil a glass of Champaign. "You know, Pamela," said he, "there never was a sweeter mouth in the world than the Countess's except your own." She drew away the glass, as if unobserved by any body, to shew me the lower part of her face. "I cannot say, but I was struck with her charming manner, and an unreservedness of air and behaviour, that I had not before seen so becoming. The place, and the freedom of conversation and deportment allowed there, gave her great advantages in my eye, although her habit required, as I thought, a little more gravity and circumspection: and I could not tell how to resist a secret pride and vanity, which is but too natural to both sexes, when they are taken notice of by persons so worthy of regard. "Naturally fond of every thing that carried the face of an intrigue, I longed to know who this charming Nun was. And next time I engaged her, 'My good sister,' said I, 'how happy should I be, if I might be admitted to a conversation with you at your grate!' "'Answer me,' said she, 'thou bold Spaniard,' (for that was a name she seemed fond of, which gave me to imagine, that boldness was a qualification she was not displeased with. 'Tis not unusual with our vain sex," observed he, "to construe even reproaches to our advantage,") 'is the lady here, whose shackles thou wearest?'--'Do I look like a man shackled, my fairest Nun?'--'No--no! not much like such an one. But I fancy thy wife is either a _Widow_ or a _Quaker_.'--'Neither,' replied I, taking, by equivocation, her question literally. "'And art thou not a married wretch? Answer me quickly!--We are observed.'--'No,' said I.--'Swear to me, thou art not.'--'By St. Ignatius, then;' for, my dear, I was no _wretch_, you know.--'Enough!' said she, and slid away; and the Fanatic would fain have engaged her, but she avoided him as industriously. "Before I was aware, she was at my elbow, and, in Italian, said, 'That fair Quaker, yonder, is the wit of the assemblée; her eyes seem always directed to thy motions; and her person shews some intimacies have passed with somebody; is it with thee?'--'It would be my glory if it was,' said I, 'were her face answerable to her person.'--'Is it not?'--'I long to know,'" replied Mr. B.--"I am glad thou dost not."--"I am glad to hear my fair Nun say that."--"Dost thou," said she, "hate shackles? Or is it, that thy hour is not yet come?" "I wish," replied he, "this be not the hour, the very hour!" pretending (naughty gentleman!--What ways these men have!) to sigh. She went again to the side-board, and put her handkerchief upon it. Mr. B. followed, and observed all her motions. She drank a glass of lemonade, as he of Burgundy; and a person in a domino, supposed to be the King, passing by, took up every one's attention but Mr. B.'s who eyed her handkerchief, not doubting but she laid it there on purpose to forget to take it up. Accordingly she left it there; and slipping by him, he, unobserved, as he believes, put it in his pocket, and at the corner found the cover of a letter--"To the Right Honourable the Countess Dowager of ----" That after this, the fair Nun was so shy, so reserved, and seemed so studiously to avoid him, that he had no opportunity to return her handkerchief; and the Fanatic observing how she shunned him, said, in French, "What, Monsieur, have you done to your Nun?" "I found her to be a very coquette; and told her so; and she is offended." "How could you affront a lady," replied he, "with such a _charming face?_ "By that I had reason to think," said Mr. B., "that he had seen her unmask; and I said, 'It becomes not any character, but that you wear, to pry into the secrets of others, in order to make ill-natured remarks, and perhaps to take ungentlemanlike advantages.'" "No man should make that observation," returned he, "whose views would bear prying into." "I was nettled," said Mr. B., "at this warm retort, and drew aside my mask: 'Nor would any man, who wore not a mask, tell me so!' "He took not the challenge, and slid from me, and I saw him no more that night." "So!" thought I, "another instance this might have been of the glorious consequences of masquerading." O my lady, these masquerades are abominable things! The King, they said, met with a free speaker that night: in truth, I was not very sorry for it; for if monarchs will lay aside their sovereign distinctions, and mingle thus in masquerade with the worst as well as the highest (I cannot say _best_) of their subjects, let 'em take the consequence. Perhaps they might have a chance to hear more truth here than in their palaces--the only good that possibly can accrue from them--that is to say, if they made a good use of it when they heard it. For you see, my monarch, though he told the truth, as it happened, received the hint with more resentment than thankfulness!--So, 'tis too likely did the monarch of us both. And now, my lady, you need not doubt, that so polite a gentleman would find an opportunity to return the Nun her handkerchief!--To be sure he would: for what man of honour would rob a lady of any part of her apparel? And should he, that wanted to steal a heart content himself with a handkerchief?--No no, that was not to be expected. So, what does he do, but resolve, the very next day, after dinner, to pursue this affair: accordingly, the poor Quaker little thinking of the matter, away goes her naughty Spaniard, to find out his Nun at her grate, or in her parlour rather. He asks for the Countess. Is admitted into the outward parlour--her woman comes down; requires his name and business. His name he mentioned not. His business was, to restore into her lady's own hands, something she had dropt the night before.--Was desired to wait. I should have said, that he was dressed very richly--having no design at all to make conquests; no, not he!--O this wicked love of intrigue!--A kind of olive-coloured velvet, and fine brocaded waistcoat. I said, when he took leave of me, "You're a charming Mr. B.," and saluted him, more pressingly than he returned it; but little did I think, when I plaited so smooth his rich laced ruffles, and bosom, where he was going, or what he had in his plotting heart. He went in his own chariot, that he did: so that he had no design to conceal who he was--But intrigue, a new conquest, vanity, pride!--O these men!--They had need talk of ladies!--But it is half our own fault, indeed it is, to encourage their vanity. Well, Madam, he waited till his stateliness was moved to send up again, that he would wait on her ladyship some other time. So down she came, dressed most richly, jewels in her breast, and in her hair, and ears--But with a very reserved and stately air. He approached her--Methinks I see him, dear saucy gentleman. You know, Madam, what a noble manner of address he has. He took the handkerchief from his bosom with an air; and kissing it, presented it to her, saying, "This happy estray, thus restored, begs leave, by me, to acknowledge its lovely owner!" "What mean you, Sir?--Who are you, Sir?--What mean you?" "Your ladyship will excuse me: but I am incapable of meaning any thing but what is honourable."--(_No, to be sure_)--"This, Madam, you left last night, when the domino took up every one's attention but mine, which was much better engaged; and I take the liberty to restore it to you." She turned to the mark; a coronet at one corner, "'Tis true, Sir, I see now it is one of mine: but such a trifle was not worthy of being brought by such a gentleman as you seem to be; nor of my trouble to receive it in person. Your servant, Sir, might have delivered the bagatelle to mine."--"Nothing should be called so that belongs to the Countess of ----"--"She was no Countess, Sir, that _dropt_ that handkerchief, and a gentleman would not attempt to penetrate, _unbecomingly_, through the disguises a lady thinks proper to assume; especially at such a place where every enquiry should begin and end." This, Madam, from a lady, who had unmasked--because _she would not be known_!--Very pretty, indeed!--Oh! these slight cobweb airs of modesty! so easily seen through. Hence such advantages against us are taken by the men. She had looked out of her window, and seen no arms quartered with his own; for you know, my lady, I would never permit any to be procured for me: so, she doubted not, it seems, but he was an unmarried gentleman, as he had intimated to her the night before. He told her it was impossible, after having seen the finest lady in the world, not to wish to see her again; and that he hoped he did not, _unbecomingly_, break through her ladyship's reserves: nor had he made any enquiries, either on the spot, or off it; having had a much better direction by accident. "As how, Sir?" said she, as he told me, with so bewitching an air, between attentive and pleasant, that, bold gentleman, forgetting all manner of distance, so early too! he clasped his arms around her waist, and saluted her, struggling with anger and indignation, he says; but I think little of that! "Whence this insolence? How, now, Sir! Begone!" were her words, and she rung the bell; but he set his back against the door--(I never heard such boldness in my life, Madam!)--till she would forgive him. And, it is plain, she was not so angry as she pretended: for her woman coming, she was calmer;--"Nelthorpe," said she, "fetch my snuff box, with the lavender in it." Her woman went; and then she said, "You told me, Sir, last night, of your intrepidness: I think you are the boldest man I ever met with: but, Sir, surely you ought to know, that you are not now in the Haymarket." I think, truly, Madam, the lady might have saved herself that speech: for, upon my word, they neither of them wore masks--Though they ought to have put on one of blushes--I am sure I do for them, while I am writing. Her irresistible loveliness served for an excuse, that she could not disapprove from a man she disliked not: and his irresistible--may I say, assurance, Madam?--found too ready an excuse. "Well, but, Sir," said I, "pray, when her ladyship was made acquainted that you were a married gentleman, how then?--Pray, did _she_ find it out, or did _you_ tell her?"--"Patience, my dear!"--"Well pray, Sir, go on.--What was next?" "Why, next, I put on a more respectful and tender air: I would have taken her hand indeed, but she would not permit it; and when she saw I would not go till her lavender snuff came down (for so I told her, and her woman was not in haste), she seated herself, and I sat by her, and began to talk about a charming lady I saw the night before, after parting with her ladyship, but not equal by any means to her: and I was confident this would engage her attention; for I never knew the lady who thought herself handsome, that was not taken by this topic. Flattery and admiration, Pamela, are the two principal engines by which our sex make their first approaches to yours; and if you listen to us, we are sure, either by the sap or the mine, to succeed, and blow you up when ever we please, if we do but take care to suit ourselves to your particular foibles; or, to carry on the metaphor, point our batteries to your weak side--for the strongest fortresses, my dear, are weaker in one place than another."--"A fine thing, Sir," said I, "to be so learned a gentleman!"--"I wish, however," thought I, "you had always come honestly by your knowledge." "When the lavender snuff came down, we were engaged in an agreeable disputation, which I had raised on purpose to excite her opposition, she having all the advantage in it; and in order to my giving it up, when she was intent upon it, as a mark of my consideration for her." "I the less wonder, Sir," said I, "at your boldness (pardon the word!) with such a lady, in your first visit, because of her freedoms, when masked, her unmasking, and her handkerchief, and letter cover. To be sure, the lady, when she saw, next day, such a fine gentleman and handsome equipage, had little reason, after her other freedoms, to be so very nice with you as to decline an ensnaring conversation, calculated on purpose to engage her attention, and to lengthen out your visit. But did she not ask you who you were?" "Her servants did of mine. And her woman (for I knew all afterwards, when we were better acquainted), whispered her lady, that I was Mr. B. of Bedfordshire; and had an immense estate, to which they were so kind as to add two or three thousand pounds a year, out of pure good will to me: I thank them." "But pray, dear Sir, what had you in view in all this? Did you intend to carry this matter, at first, as far as ever you could?"--"I had, at first, my dear, no view, but such as pride and vanity suggested to me. I was carried away by inconsideration, and the love of intrigue, without even thinking about the consequences. The lady, I observed, had abundance of fine qualities. I thought I could converse with her, on a very agreeable foot, and her honour I knew, at any time, would preserve me mine, if ever I should find it in danger; and, in my soul, I preferred my Pamela to all the ladies on earth, and questioned not, but that, and your virtue, would be another barrier to my fidelity. "In a word, therefore, pride, vanity, thoughtlessness, were my misguiders, as I said. The Countess's honour and character, and your virtue and merit, my dear, and my obligations to you, were my defences: but I find one should avoid the first appearances of evil. One knows not one's own strength. 'Tis presumptuous to depend upon it, where wit and beauty are in the way on one side, and youth and strong passions on the other." "You certainly, Sir, say right. But be pleased to tell me what her ladyship said when she knew you were married."--"The Countess's woman was in my interest, and let me into some of her lady's secrets, having a great share in her confidence; and particularly acquainted me, how loth her lady was to believe I was married. I had paid her three visits in town, and one to her seat upon the Forest, before she heard that I was. But when she was assured of it, and directed her Nelthorpe to ask me about it, and I readily owned it, she was greatly incensed, though nothing but general civilities, and intimacies not inconsistent with honourable friendship, had passed between us. The consequence was, she forbad my ever seeing her again, and set out with her sister and the Viscount for Tunbridge, where she staid about three weeks. "I thought I had already gone too far, and blamed myself for permitting her so long to believe me single; and here the matter had dropped, in all probability, had not a ball, given by my Lord ----, to which, unknown to each other, we were both, as also the Viscountess, invited, brought us again together. The lady soon withdrew, with her sister, to another apartment; and being resolved upon personal recrimination (which is what a lady, who is resolved to break with a favoured object, should never trust herself with,) sent for me, and reproached me on my conduct, in which her sister joined. "I owned frankly, that gaiety, rather than design, made me give cause, at the masquerade, for her ladyship to think I was not married; for that I had a wife, with a thousand excellencies, who was my pride, and my boast: that I held it very possible for a gentleman and lady to carry on an innocent and honourable friendship, in a _family_ way; and I was sure, when she and her sister saw my spouse, they would not be displeased with her acquaintance; all that I had to reproach myself with, was, that after having, at the masquerade, given reason to think I was not married, I had been both, _officiously_, to say I was, although I never intended to conceal it. In short, I acquitted myself so well with both ladies, that a family intimacy was consented to. I renewed my visits; and we accounted to one another's honour, by entering upon a kind of Platonic system, in which sex was to have no manner of concern. "But, my dear Pamela, I must own myself extremely blameable, because I knew the world and human nature, I will say, better than the lady, who never before had been trusted into it upon her own feet: and who, notwithstanding that wit and vivacity which every one admires in her, gave herself little time for consideration. I ought, therefore, to have more carefully guarded against inconveniencies, which I knew were so likely to arise from such intimacies; and the rather, as I hinted, because the lady had no apprehension at all of any: so that, my dear, if I have no excuse from human frailty, from youth, and the charms of the object, I am entirely destitute of any." "I see, Mr. B.," said I, "there is a great deal to be said for the lady. I wish I could say there was for the gentleman. But such a fine lady had been safe, with all her inconsideration; and so (forgive me. Sir,) would the gentleman, with all his intriguing spirit, had it not been for these vile masquerades. Never, dear Sir, think of going to another."--"Why, my dear, those are least of all to be trusted at these diversions, who are most desirous to go to them.--Of this I am now fully convinced."--"Well, Sir, I long to hear more particulars of this story: for this generous openness, now the affair is over, cannot but be grateful to me, as it shews me you have no reserve, and tends to convince me, that the lady was less blameable than I apprehended: for I love, for the honour of my sex, to find ladies of birth and quality innocent, who have so many opportunities of knowing and practising their duties, above what meaner persons can have." "Well observed, my dear: this is like your generous and deep way of thinking." "But, dear Sir, proceed--Your reconciliation is now effected; a friendship quadripartite is commenced. And the Viscountess and I are to find cement for the erecting of an edifice, that is to be devoted to Platonic love. What, may I ask, came next? And what did you design should come of it?" "The Oxford journey, my dear, followed next; and it was my fault you were not a party in it, both ladies being very desirous of your company: but it was the time you were not going abroad, after your lying-in, so I excused you to them. Yet they both longed to see you: especially as by this time, you may believe, they knew all your story: and besides, whenever you were mentioned, I did justice, as well to your mind, as to your person." "Well, Sir, to be sure this was very kind; and little was I disposed (knowing what I did,) to pass so favourable a construction in your generosity to me." "My question to her ladyship at going away, whether you were not the charmingest girl in the world, which seeing you both together, rich as she was drest, and plain as you, gave me the double pleasure (a pleasure she said afterwards I exulted in,) of deciding in your favour; my readiness to explain to you what we both said, and her not ungenerous answer, I thought entitled me to a better return than a flood of tears; which confirmed me that your past uneasiness was a jealousy I was not willing to allow in you: though I should have been more indulgent to it had I known the grounds you thought you had for it: and for this reason I left you so abruptly as I did." Here, Madam, Mr. B. broke off, referring to another time the conclusion of his narrative. I will here close this letter (though possibly I may not send it, till I send the conclusion of this story in my next,) with the assurance that I am _your ladyship's obliged sister and servant_, P.B. LETTER LXXVIII My dear lady, Now I will proceed with my former subject: and with the greater pleasure, as what follows makes still more in favour of the Countess's character, than what went before, although that set it in a better light than it had once appeared to me in. I began as follows: "Will you be pleased, Sir, to favour me with the continuation of our last subject?"--"I will, my dear."--"You left off, Sir, with acquitting me for breaking out into that flood of tears, which occasioned your abrupt departure. But, dear Sir, will you be pleased, to satisfy me about that affecting information, of your intention and my lady's to live at Tunbridge together?" "'Tis absolute malice and falsehood. Our intimacy had not proceeded so far; and, thoughtless as my sister's letters suppose the lady, she would have spurned at such a proposal, I dare say." "Well, but then, Sir, as to the expression to her uncle, that she had rather have been a certain gentleman's second wife?" "I believe she might, in a passion, say something like it to him: he had been teazing her (from the time that I held an argument in favour of that foolish topic _polygamy_, in his company and his niece's, and in that of her sister and the Viscount,) with cautions against conversing with a man, who, having, as he was pleased to say behind my back, married beneath him, wanted to engage the affections of a lady of birth, in order to recover, by doubling that fault upon her, his lost reputation. "She despised his insinuation enough to answer him, that she thought my arguments in behalf of _polygamy_ were convincing. This set him a raving, and he threw some coarse reflections upon her, which could not be repeated, if one may guess at them, by her being unable to tell me them; and then to vex him more, and to revenge herself, she said something like what was reported: which was handle enough for her uncle; who took care to propagate it with an indiscretion peculiar to himself; for I heard it in three different companies, before I knew any thing of it from herself; and when I did, it was so repeated, as you, my dear, would hardly have censured her for it, the provocation considered." "Well, but then, dear Sir, there is nothing at all amiss, at this rate, in the correspondence between my lady and you?" "Not on her side, I dare say, if her ladyship can be excused to punctilio, and for having a greater esteem for a married man, than he can deserve, or than may be strictly defended to a person of your purity and niceness." "Well, Sir, this is very noble in you. I love to hear the gentlemen generous in points where the honour of our sex is concerned. But pray. Sir, what then was there on _your_ side, in that matter, that made you give me so patient and so kind a hearing?" "Now, my dear, you come to the point: at first it was nothing in me but vanity, pride, and love of intrigue, to try my strength, where I had met with some encouragement, as I thought, at the masquerade; where the lady went farther, too, than she would have done, had she not thought I was a single man. For, by what I have told you, Pamela, you will observe, that she tried to satisfy herself on that head, as soon as she well could. Mrs. Nelthorpe acquainted me afterwards, when better known to each other, that her lady was so partial in my favour, (who can always govern their fancies, my dear?) as to think, so early as at the masquerade, that if every thing answered appearances, and that I were a single man, she, who has a noble and independent fortune, might possibly be induced to make me happy in her choice. "Supposing, then, that I was unmarried, she left a signal for me in her handkerchief. I visited her; had the honour, after the customary first shyness, of being well received; and continued my visits, till, perhaps, she would have been glad I had not been married, but on finding I was, she avoided me, as I have told you, till the accident I mentioned threw us again upon each other: which renewed our intimacy upon terms you would think too inconsiderable on one side, and too designing on the other. "For myself, what can I say? only that you gave me great disgusts (without cause, as I thought,) by your unwonted reception of me, ever in tears and grief; the Countess ever cheerful and lively; and fearing that your temper was entirely changing, I believe I had no bad excuse to try to make myself easy and cheerful abroad, since my home became more irksome to me than ever I believed it could be. Then, as we naturally love those who love us, I had vanity, and some reason for my vanity (indeed all vain men believe they have,) to think the Countess had more than an indifference for me. She was so exasperated by the wrong methods taken with an independent lady of her generous spirit, to break off our acquaintance, that, in revenge, she denied me less than ever opportunities of her company. The pleasure we took in each other's conversation was reciprocal. The world's reports had united us in one common cause: and you, as I said, had made home less delightful to me than it used to be: what might not then have been apprehended from so many circumstances concurring with the lady's beauty and my frailty? "I waited on her to Tunbridge. She took a house there. Where people's tongues will take so much liberty, without any foundation, and where the utmost circumspection is used, what will they not say, where so little of the latter is observed? No wonder, then, that terms were said to be agreed upon between us: from her uncle's story, of polygamy proposed by me, and seemingly agreed to by her, no wonder that all your Thomasine Fuller's information was surmised. Thus stood the matter, when I was determined to give your cause for uneasiness a hearing, and to take my measures according to what should result from that hearing." "From this account, dear Sir," said I, "it will not be so difficult, as I feared, to end this affair even to her _ladyship's_ satisfaction."--"I hope not, my dear."--"But if, now, Sir, the Countess should still be desirous not to break with you; from so charming a lady, who knows what may happen!" "Very true, Pamela; but to make you still easier, I will tell you that her ladyship has a first cousin married to a person going with a public character to several of the Italian courts, and, had it not been for my persuasions, she would have accepted of their earnest invitations, and passed a year or two in Italy, where she once resided for three years together, which makes her so perfect a mistress of Italian. "Now I will let her know, additionally to what I have written to her, the uneasiness I have given you, and, so far as it is proper, what is come to your ears, and your generous account of her, and the charms of her person, of which she will not be a little proud; for she has really noble and generous sentiments, and thinks well (though her sister, in pleasantry, will have it a little enviously,) of you; and when I shall endeavour to persuade her to go, for the sake of her own character, to a place and country of which she was always fond, I am apt to think she will come into it; for she has a greater opinion of my judgment than it deserves: and I know a young lord, who may be easily persuaded to follow her thither, and bring her back his lady, if he can obtain her consent: and what say you, Pamela, to this?" "O, Sir! I believe I shall begin to love the lady dearly, and that is what I never thought I should. I hope this will be brought about. "But I see, give me leave to say, Sir, how dangerously you might both have gone on, under the notion of this Platonic love, till two precious souls had been lost: and this shews one, as well in spirituals as temporals, from what slight beginnings the greatest mischiefs sometimes spring; and how easily at first a breach may be stopped, that, when neglected, the waves of passion will widen till they bear down all before them." "Your observation, my dear, is just," replied Mr. B., "and though, I am confident the lady was more in earnest than myself in the notion of Platonic love, yet I am convinced, and always was, that Platonic love is Platonic nonsense: 'tis the fly buzzing about the blaze, till its wings are scorched; or, to speak still stronger, it is a bait of the devil to catch the unexperienced, and thoughtless: nor ought such notions to be pretended to, till the parties are five or ten years on the other side of their grand climateric: for age, old age, and nothing else, must establish the barriers to Platonic love. But this was my comparative consolation, though a very bad one, that had I swerved, I should not have given the only instance, where persons more scrupulous than I pretended to be, have begun friendships even with spiritual views, and ended them as grossly as I could have done, were the lady to have been as frail as her tempter." Here Mr. B. finished his narrative. He is now set out for Tunbridge with all my papers. I have no doubt in his honour and kind assurances, and hope my next will be a joyful letter; and that I shall inform you in it, that the affair which went so near my heart, is absolutely concluded to my satisfaction, to Mr. B.'s and the Countess's; for if it be so to all three, my happiness, I doubt not, will be founded on a permanent basis. Meantime I am, my dear good lady, _your most affectionate, and obliged sister and servant_, P.B. LETTER LXXIX A new misfortune, my dear lady!--But this is of God Almighty's sending; so I must bear it patiently. My dear baby is taken with the small-pox!--To how many troubles are the happiest of us subjected in this life! One need not multiply them by one's own wilful mismanagements!--I am able to mind nothing else! I had so much joy (as I told your ladyship in the beginning of my last letter but one) to see, on our arrival at the farm-house, my dearest Mr. B., my beloved baby, and my good parents, all upon one happy spot, that I fear I was too proud--Yet I was truly thankful, I am sure!--But I had, notwithstanding too much pride, and too much pleasure, on this happy occasion. I said, in my last, that your dear brother set out on Tuesday morning for Tunbridge with my papers; and I longed to know the result, hoping that every thing would be concluded to the satisfaction of all three: "For," thought I, "if this be so, my happiness must be permanent:" but alas! there is nothing permanent in this life. I feel it by experience now!--I knew it before by theory: but that was not so near and interesting by half. For, with all my pleasures and hopes; in the midst of my dear parents' joy and congratulations on our arrival, and on what had passed so happily since we were last here together, (in the birth of the dear child, and my safety, for which they had been so apprehensive,) the poor baby was taken ill. It was on that very Tuesday his papa set out for Tunbridge; but we knew not it would be the small-pox till Thursday. O Madam! how are all the pleasures I had formed to myself sickened now upon me! for my Billy is very bad. They talk of a kind sort: but alas: they talk at random: for they come not out at all!--I fear the nurse's constitution is too hale and too rich for the dear baby!--Had _I_ been permitted--But hush, all my repining _ifs!_--except one _if_; and that is, _if_ it be got happily over, it will be best he had it so young, and while at the breast!-- Oh! Madam, Madam! the small appearance that there was is gone in again: and my child, my dear baby, will die! The doctors seem to think so. They wanted to send for Mr. B. to keep me from him!--But I forbid it!--For what signifies life, or any thing, if I cannot see my baby, while he is so dangerously ill! My father and mother are, for the first time, quite cruel to me; they have forbid me, and I never was so desirous of disobeying them before, to attend the darling of my heart: and why?--For fear of this poor face!--For fear I should get it myself!--But I am living very low, and have taken proper precautions by bleeding, and the like, to lessen the distemper's fury, if I should have it; and the rest I leave to Providence. And if Mr. B.'s value is confined so much to this poor transitory sightliness, he must not break with his Countess, I think; and if I am ever so deformed in person, my poor intellects, I hope will not be impaired, and I shall, if God spare my Billy, be useful in his first education, and be helpful to dear Miss Goodwin--or to any babies--with all my heart--he may make me an humble nurse too!--How peevish, sinfully so, I doubt, does this accident, and their affectionate contradiction, make one! I have this moment received the following from Mr. B. _Maidstone_. "My dearest love, "I am greatly touched with the dear boy's malady, of which I have this moment heard. I desire you instantly to come to me hither, in the chariot with the bearer, Colbrand. I know what your grief must be: but as you can do the child no good, I beg you'll oblige me. Everything is in a happy train; but I can think only of you, and (for your sake principally, but not a little for _my own_) my boy. I will set out to meet you; for I choose not to come myself, lest you should try to persuade me to permit your tarrying about him; and I should be sorry to deny you any thing. I have taken handsome apartments for you, till the event, which I pray God may be happy, shall better determinate me what to do. I will be ever _your affectionate and faithful_." Maidstone indeed is not so very far off, but one may hear every day, once or twice, by a man and horse; so I will go, to shew my obedience, since Mr. B. is so intent upon it--But I cannot live, if I am not permitted to come back--Oh! let me be enabled, gracious Father! to close this letter more happily than I have begun it! I have been so dreadfully uneasy at Maidstone, that Mr. B. has been so good as to return with me hither; and I find my baby's case not yet quite desperate--I am easier now I see him, in presence of his beloved papa who lets me have all my way, and approves of my preparative method for myself; and he tells me that since I will have it so, he will indulge me in my attendance on the child, and endeavour to imitate my reliance on God--that is his kind expression--and leave the issue to him. And on my telling him, that I feared nothing in the distemper, but the loss of his love, he said, in presence of the doctors, and my father and mother, pressing my hand to his lips--"My dearest life, make yourself easy under this affliction, and apprehend nothing for yourself: I love you more, for your mind than for your face. That and your person will be the same; and were that sweet face to be covered with seams and scars, I will value you the more for the misfortune: and glad I am, that I had your picture so well drawn in town, to satisfy those who have heard of your loveliness, what you were, and hitherto are. For myself, my admiration lies deeper;" and, drawing me to the other end of the room, whisperingly he said, "The last uneasiness between us, I now begin to think, was necessary, because it has turned all my delight in you, more than ever, to the perfections of your mind: and so God preserves to me the life of my Pamela, I care not for my own part, what ravages the distemper makes here," and tapped my cheek.--How generous, how noble, how comforting was this! When I went from my apartment, to go to my child, my dear Mr. B. met me at the nursery door, and led me back again. "You must not go in again, my dearest. They have just been giving the child other things to try to drive out the malady; and some pustules seem to promise on his breast." I made no doubt, my baby was then in extremity; and I would have given the world to have shed a few tears, but I could not. With the most soothing goodness he led me to my desk, and withdrew to attend the dear baby himself--to see his last gaspings, poor little lamb, I make no doubt! In this suspense, my own strange hardness of heart would not give up one tear, for the passage from _that_ to my _eyes_ seemed quite choaked up, which used to be so open and ready on other occasions, affecting ones too. Two days have passed, dreadful days of suspense: and now, blessed be God! who has given me hope that our prayers are heard, the pustules come kindly out, very thick in his breast, and on his face: but of a good sort, they tell me.--They won't let me see him; indeed they won't!--What cruel kindness is this! One must believe all they tell one! But, my dear lady, my spirits are so weak; I have such a violent headache, and have such a strange shivering disorder all running down my back, and I was so hot just now, and am so cold at this present--aguishly inclined--I don't know how! that I must leave off, the post going away, with the assurance, that I am, and will be, to the last hour of my life, _your ladyship's grateful and obliged sister and servant_, P.B. LETTER LXXX _From Mr. B. to Lady Davers._ MY DEAR SISTER, I take very kindly your solicitude for the health of my beloved Pamela. The last line she wrote was to you, for she took to her bed the moment she laid down her pen. I told her your kind message, and wishes for her safety, by my lord's gentleman; and she begged I would write a line to thank you in her name for your affectionate regards to her. She is in a fine way to do well: for with her accustomed prudence, she had begun to prepare herself by a proper regimen, the moment she knew the child's illness was the small-pox. The worst is over with the boy, which keeps up her spirits; and her mother is so excellent a nurse to both, and we are so happy likewise in the care of a skilful physician, Dr. M. (who directs and approves of every thing the good dame does,) that it is a singular providence this malady seized them here; and affords no small comfort to the dear creature herself. When I tell you, that, to all appearance, her charming face will not receive any disfigurement by this cruel enemy to beauty, I am sure you will congratulate me upon a felicity so desirable: but were it to be otherwise, if I were capable of slighting a person, whose principal beauties are much deeper than the skin, I should deserve to be thought the most unworthy and superficial of husbands. Whatever your notions have been, my ever-ready censuring Lady Davers, of your brother, on a certain affair, I do assure you, that I never did, and never can, love any woman as I love my Pamela. It is indeed impossible I can ever love her better than I do; and her outward beauties are far from being indifferent to me; yet, if I know myself, I am sure I have justice enough to love her _equally_, and generosity enough to be _more tender_ of her, were she to suffer by this distemper. But, as her humility, and her affection to me, would induce her to think herself under greater obligation to me, for such my tenderness to her, were she to lose any the _least_ valuable of her perfections, I rejoice that she will have no reason for mortification on that score. My respects to Lord Davers, and your noble neighbours. I am, _your affectionate brother, and humble servant_. LETTER LXXXI _From Lady Davers, in answer to the preceding_. MY DEAR BROTHER, I do most heartily congratulate you on the recovery of Master Billy, and the good way my sister is in. I am the more rejoiced, as her sweet face is not like to suffer by the malady; for, be the beauties of the mind what they will, those of the person are no small recommendation, with some folks, I am sure; and I began to be afraid, that when it was hardly possible for _both conjoined_ to keep a roving mind constant, that _one only_ would not be sufficient. This news gives me more pleasure, because I am well informed, that a certain gay lady was pleased to give herself airs upon learning of my sister's illness, as, That she would not be sorry for it; for now she should look upon herself as the prettiest woman in England.--She meant only, I suppose, as to _outward_ prettiness, brother! You give me the name of a _ready censurer_. I own, I think myself to be not a little interested in all that regards my brother, and his honour. But when some people are not readier to _censure_, than others to _trespass_, I know not whether they can with justice be styled censorious. But however that be, the rod seems to have been held up, as a warning--and that the blow, in the irreparable deprivation, is not given, is a mercy, which I hope will be deserved; though you never can those very signal ones you receive at the Divine hands, beyond any man I know. For even (if I shall not be deemed censorious again) your very vices have been turned to your felicity, as if God would try the nobleness of the heart he has given you, by overcoming you (in answer to my sister's constant prayers, as well as mine) by mercies rather than by judgments. I might give instances of the truth of this observation, in almost all the actions and attempts of your past life; and take care (if you _are_ displeased, I _will_ speak it), take care, thou bold wretch, that if this method be ungratefully slighted, the uplifted arm fall not down with double weight on thy devoted head! I must always love and honour my brother, but cannot help speaking my mind: which, after all, is the natural result of that very love and honour, and which obliges me to style myself _your truly affectionate sister_, B. Davers. LETTER LXXXII _From Mrs. B. to Lady Davers_. MY DEAREST LADY, My first letter, and my first devoirs, after those of thankfulness to that gracious God, who has so happily conducted me through two such heavy trials, as my child's and my own illness, must be directed to you, with all due acknowledgment of your generous and affectionate concern for me. We are now preparing for our journey to Bedfordshire; and there, to my great satisfaction, I am to be favoured with the care of Miss Goodwin. After tarrying about a month there, Mr. B. will make a tour with me through several counties (taking the Hall in the way) for about a fortnight, and shew me what is remarkable, every where as we pass; for this, he thinks, will better contribute to my health, than any other method. The distemper has left upon me a kind of weariness and listlessness; and he proposes to be out with me till the Bath season begins; and by the aid of those healing and balsamic waters, he hopes, I shall be quite established. Afterwards to return to Bedfordshire for a little while; then to London; and then to Kent; and, if nothing hinders, has a great mind to carry me over to Paris. Thus most kindly does he amuse and divert me with his agreeable proposals. But I have made one amendment to them; and that is, that I must not be denied to pay my respects to your ladyship, at your seat, and to my good Lady Countess in the same neighbourhood, and this will be far from being the least of my pleasures. I have had congratulations without number upon my recovery; but one, among the rest, I did not expect; from the Countess Dowager (could you think it, Madam?) who sent me by her gentleman the following letter from Tunbridge. "MADAM, "I hope, among the congratulations of your numerous admirers, on your happy recovery, my very sincere ones will not be unacceptable. I have no other motive for making you my compliments on this occasion, on so slender an acquaintance, than the pleasure it gives me, that the public, as well as your private friends, have not been deprived of a lady whose example, in every duty of life, is of so much concern to both.--May you, Madam, long rejoice in an uninterrupted state of happiness, answerable to your merits, and to your own wishes, are those of _your most obedient humble servant_." To this kind letter I returned the following: "MADAM, "I am under the highest obligation to your generous favour, in your kind compliments of congratulation on my recovery. There is something so noble and so condescending in the honour you have done me, on so slender an acquaintance, that it bespeaks the exalted mind and character of a lady, who, in the principles of generosity, and in true nobleness of nature, has no example. May God Almighty bless you, my dear lady, with all the good you wish me, and with increase of honour and glory, both here and hereafter, prays, and will always pray, _your ladyship's most obliged and obedient servant_, P.B." This leads me to mention, what my illness would not permit me to do before, that Mr. B. met with such a reception and audience from the Countess, when he attended her, in all he had to offer and propose to her, and in her patient hearing of what he thought fit to read her, from your ladyship's letters and mine, that he said, "Don't be jealous, my dear Pamela; but I must admire her as long as I live." He gave me the particulars, so much to her ladyship's honour, that I told him, he should not only be welcome to admire her ladyship, but that I would admire her too. They parted very good friends, and with great professions of esteem for each other.--And as Mr. B. had undertaken to inspect into some exceptionable accounts and managements of her ladyship's bailiff, one of her servants brought a letter for him on Monday last, wholly written on that subject. But she was so considerate, as to send it unsealed, in a cover directed to me. When I opened it, I was frightened to see it begin to Mr. B. and I hastened to find him--"Dear Sir--Here's some mistake--You see the direction is to Mrs. B.--'Tis very plain--But, upon my word, I have not read it."--"Don't be uneasy, my love.--I know what the subject must be; but I dare swear there is nothing, nor will there ever be, but what you or any body may see." He read it, and giving it to me, said, "Answer yourself the postscript, my dear." That was--"If, Sir, the trouble I give you, is likely to subject you or your lady to uneasiness or apprehensions, I beg you will not be concerned in it. I will then set about the matter myself; for my uncle I will not trouble; yet women enter into these particulars with as little advantage to themselves as inclination." I told him, I was entirely easy and unapprehensive; and, after all his goodness to me, should be so, if he saw the Countess every day. "That's kindly said, my dear; but I will not trust myself to see her every day, or at all, for the present. But I shall be obliged to correspond with her for a month or so, on this occasion; unless you prohibit it; and it shall be in your power to do so." I said, with my whole heart, he might; and I should be quite easy in both their honours. "Yet I will not," said he, "unless you see our letters: for I know she will always, now she has begun, send in a cover to you, what she will write to me, unsealed; and whether I am at home or abroad, I shall take it unkindly, if you do not read them." He went in, and wrote an answer, which he sent by the messenger; but would make me, whether I would or not, read it, and seal it up with his seal. But all this needed not to me now, who think so much better of the lady than I did before; and am so well satisfied in his own honour and generous affection for me; for you saw, Madam, in what I wrote before, that he always loved me, though he was angry at times, at my change of temper, as he feared, not knowing that I was apprised of what had passed between him and the Countess. I really am better pleased with his correspondence, than I should have been, had it not been carried on; because the servants, on both sides, will see, by my deportment on the occasion (and I will officiously, with a smiling countenance, throw myself in their observation), that it is quite innocent; and this may help to silence the mouths of those who have so freely censured their conduct. Indeed, Madam, I think I have received no small good myself by that affair, which once lay so heavy upon me: for I don't believe I shall be ever jealous again; indeed I don't think I shall. And won't that be an ugly foible overcome? I see what may be done, in cases not favourable to our wishes, by the aid of proper reflection; and that the bee is not the only creature that may make honey out of the bitter flowers as well as the sweet. My most grateful respects and thanks to my good Lord Davers; to the Earl, and his excellent Countess; and most particularly to Lady Betty (with whose kind compliments your ladyship acquaints me), and to Mr. H. for all your united congratulations on my recovery. What obligations do I lie under to such noble and generous well-wishers!--I can make no return but by my prayers, that God, by his goodness, will supply all my defects. And these will always attend you, from, my dearest lady, _your ever obliged sister, and humble servant_, P.B. Mr. H. is just arrived. He says, he comes a special messenger, to make a report how my face has come off. He makes me many compliments upon it. How kind your ladyship is, to enter so favourably into the minutest concerns, which you think, may any way affect my future happiness in your dear brother's opinion!--I want to pour out all my joy and my thankfulness to God, before you, and the good Countess of C----! For I am a happy, yea, a blessed creature! Mr. B.'s boy, your ladyship's boy, and my boy, is charmingly well; quite strong, and very forward, for his months; and his papa is delighted with him more and more. LETTER LXXXIII MY DEAR MISS DARNFORD, I hope you are happy and well. You kindly say you can't be so, till you hear of my perfect recovery. And this, blessed be God! you have heard already from Mr. B. As to your intimation of the fair Nun, 'tis all happily over. Blessed be God for that too! And I have a better and more endearing husband than ever. Did you think that could be? My Billy too improves daily, and my dear parents seem to have their youth renewed like the eagle's. How many blessings have I to be thankful for! We are about to turn travellers, to the northern counties. I think quite to the borders: and afterwards to the western, to Bath, Bristol, and I know not whither myself: but among the rest, to Lincolnshire, that you may be sure of. Then how happy shall I be in my dear Miss Darnford! I long to hear whether poor Mrs. Jewkes is better or worse for the advice of the doctor, whom I ordered to attend her from Stamford, and in what frame her mind is. Do vouchsafe her a visit in my name; tell her, if she be low spirited, what God hath done for me, as to _my_ recovery, and comfort her all you can; and bid her spare neither expence nor attendance, nor any thing her heart can wish for; nor the company of any relations or friends she may desire to be with her. If she is in her _last stage_, poor soul! how noble will it be in you to give her comfort and consolation in her dying hours! Although we can merit nothing at the hand of God, yet I have a notion, that we cannot deserve more of one another, and in some sense, for that reason, of him, than in our charities on so trying an exigence! When the poor soul stands shivering, as it were, on the verge of death, and has nothing strong, but its fears and doubts; then a little balm poured into the wounds of the mind, a little comforting advice to rely on God's mercies, from a good person, how consolatory must it be! And how, like morning mists before the sun, must all diffidences and gloomy doubts, be chased away by it! But, my dear, the great occasion of my writing to you just now, is by Lady Davers's desire, on a quite different subject. She knows how we love one another. And she has sent me the following lines by her kinsman, who came to Kent, purposely to enquire how my face fared in the small-pox; and accompanied us hither, [_i.e._ to Bedfordshire,] and sets out to-morrow for Lord Davers's. "MY DEAR PAMELA, "Jackey will tell you the reason of his journey, my curiosity on your own account; and I send this letter by him, but he knows not the contents. My good Lord Davers wants to have his nephew married, and settled in the world: and his noble father leaves the whole matter to my lord, as to the person, settlements, &c. Now I, as well as he, think so highly of the prudence, the person, and family of your Miss Darnford, that we shall be obliged to you, to sound the young lady on this score. "I know Mr. H. would wish for no greater happiness. But if she is engaged, or cannot love my nephew, I don't care, nor would my lord, that such a proposal should be received with undue slight. His birth, and the title and estate he is heir to, are advantages that require a lady's consideration. He has not so much wit as Miss, but enough for a lord, whose friends are born before him, as the phrase is; is very good-humoured, no tool, no sot, no debauchee: and, let me tell you, this is not to be met with every day in a young man of quality. "As to settlements, fortunes, &c. I fancy there would be no great difficulties. The business is, if Miss Darnford could love him well enough for a husband? _That_ we leave you to sound the young lady; and if she thinks she can, we will directly begin a treaty with Sir Simon. I am, my dearest Pamela, _your ever affectionate sister_, B. Davers." Now, my dear friend, as my lady has so well stated the case, I beg you to enable me to return an answer. I will not say one word _pro_ or _con_. till I know your mind--Only, that I think he is good-humoured and might be easily persuaded to any thing a lady should think reasonable. I must tell you another piece of news in the matrimonial way. Mr. Williams has been here to congratulate us on our multiplied blessings; and he acquainted Mr. B. that an overture has been made him by his new patron, of a kinswoman of his lordship's, a person of virtue and merit, and a fortune of three thousand pounds, to make him amends, as the earl tell him, for quitting a better living to oblige him; and that he is in great hope of obtaining the lady's consent, which is all that is wanting. Mr. B. is much pleased with so good a prospect in Mr. Williams's favour, and was in the lady's company formerly at a ball, at Gloucester; he says, she is prudent and deserving; and offers to make a journey on purpose to forward it, if he can be of service to him. I suppose you know that all is adjusted, according to the scheme I formerly acquainted you with, between Mr. Adams and that gentleman; and both are settled in their respective livings. But I ought to have told you, that Mr. Williams, upon mature deliberation, declined the stipulated eighty pounds _per annum_ from Mr. Adams, as he thought it would have a simoniacal appearance. But now my hand's in, let me tell you of a third matrimonial proposition, which gives me more puzzle and dislike a great deal. And that is, Mr. Adams has, with great reluctance, and after abundance of bashful apologies, asked me, if I have any objection to his making his addresses to Polly Barlow? which, however, he told me, he had not mentioned to her, nor to any body living, because he would first know whether I should take it amiss, as her service was so immediately about my person. This unexpected motion much perplexed me. Mr. Adams is a worthy man. He has now a very good living; yet just entered upon it; and, I think, according to his accustomed prudence in other respects, had better have turned himself about first. But that is not the point with me neither. I have a great regard to the function. I think it is as necessary, in order to preserve the respect due to the clergy, that their wives should be nearly, if not quite as unblemished, and as circumspect, as themselves; and this for the gentleman's own sake, as well as in the eye of the world: for how shall he pursue his studies with comfort to himself, if made uneasy at home! or how shall he expect his female parishioners will regard his _public_ preaching, if he cannot have a due influence over the _private_ conduct of his wife? I can't say, excepting in the instance of Mr. H. but Polly is a good sort of body enough so far as I know; but that is such a blot in the poor girl's escutcheon, a thing not _accidental_, nor _surprised_ into, not owing to _inattention_, but to cool _premeditation_, that, I think, I could wish Mr. Adams a wife more unexceptionable. 'Tis true, Mr. Adams knows not this, but _that_ is one of my difficulties. If I acquaint him with it, I shall hurt the poor girl irreparably, and deprive her of a husband, to whom she may possibly make a good wife--For she is not very meanly descended--much better than myself, as the world would say were a judgment to be made from my father's low estate, when I was exalted--I never, my dear, shall be ashamed of these retrospections! She is genteel, has a very innocent look, a good face, is neat in her person, and not addicted to any excess that I know of. But _still_, that one _premeditated_ fault, is so sad a one, though she might make a good wife for any middling man of business, yet she wants, methinks, that discretion, that purity, which I would always have in the wife of a good clergyman. Then, she has not applied her thoughts to that sort of economy, which the wife of a country clergyman ought to know something of; and has such a turn to dress and appearance, that I can see, if indulged, she would not be one that would help to remove the scandal which some severe remarkers are apt to throw upon the wives of _parsons_, as they call them. The maiden, I believe, likes Mr. Adams not a little. She is very courteous to every body, but most to him of any body, and never has missed being present at our Sunday's duties; and five or six times, Mrs. Jervis tells me, she has found her desirous to have Mr. Adams expound this text, and that difficulty; and the good man is taken with her piety, which, and her reformation, I hope, is sincere; but she is very sly, very subtle, as I have found in several instances, as foolish as she was in the affair I hint at. "So," sometimes I say to myself, "the girl may love Mr. Adams."--"Ay," but then I answer, "so she did Mr. H. and on his own very bad terms too."--In short--but I won't be too censorious neither. So I'll say no more, than that I was perplexed; and yet should be very glad to have Polly well married; for, since _that_ time, I have always had some diffidences about her--Because, you know, Miss--her fault was so enormous, and, as I have said, so premeditated. I wanted you to advise with.--But this was the method I took.--I appointed Mr. Adams to drink a dish of tea with me. Polly attended, as usual; for I can't say I love men attendants in these womanly offices. A tea-kettle in a man's hand, that would, if there was no better employment for him, be fitter to hold a plough, or handle a flail, or a scythe, has such a look with it!--This is like my low breeding, some would say, perhaps,--but I cannot call things polite, that I think unseemly; and, moreover. Lady Davers keeps me in countenance in this my notion; and who doubts her politeness? Well, but Polly attended, as I said; and there were strange simperings, and bowing, and curt'sying, between them; the honest gentleman seeming not to know how to let his mistress wait upon him; while she behaved with as much respect and officiousness, as if she could not do too much for him. "Very well," thought I, "I have such an opinion of your veracity, Mr. Adams, that I dare say you have not mentioned the matter to Polly; but between her officiousness, and your mutual simperings and complaisance, I see you have found a language between you, that is full as significant as plain English words. Polly," thought I, "sees no difficulty in _this_ text; nor need you, Mr. Adams, have much trouble to make her understand you, when you come to expound upon _this_ subject." I was forced, in short, to put on a statelier and more reserved appearance than usual, to make them avoid acts of complaisance for one another, that might not be proper to be shewn before me, for one who sat as my companion, to my servant. When she withdrew, the modest gentleman hemmed, and looked on one side, and turned to the right and left, as if his seat was uneasy to him, and, I saw, knew not how to speak; so I began in mere compassion to him, and said--"Mr. Adams, I have been thinking of what you mentioned to me, as to Polly Barlow." "Hem! hem!" said he; and pulled out his handkerchief, and wiped his mouth--"Very well. Madam; I hope no offence, Madam!" "No, Sir, none at all. But I am at a loss how to distinguish in this case; whether it may not be from a motive of too humble gratitude, that you don't think yourself above matching with Polly, as you may suppose her a favourite of mine; or whether it be your value for her person and qualities, that makes her more agreeable in your eyes, than any other person would be." "Madam--Madam," said the bashful gentleman, hesitatingly--"I do--I must needs say--I can't but own--that--Mrs. Mary--is a person-whom I think very agreeable; and no less modest and virtuous." "You know, Sir, your own circumstances. To be sure you have a very pretty house, and a good living, to carry a wife to. And a gentleman of your prudence and discretion wants not any advice; but you have reaped no benefits by your living. It has been an expence to you rather, which you will not presently get up: do you propose an early marriage, Sir? Or were it not better to suspend your intentions of that sort for a year or two more?"--"Madam, if your ladyship choose not to part with--"--"Nay, Mr. Adams," interrupted I, "I say not any thing for my own sake in this point: that is out of the question with me. I can very willingly part with Polly, were it to-morrow, for her good and yours."--"Madam, I humbly beg pardon;--but--but--delays may breed dangers."--"Oh I very well," thought I; "if the artful girl has not let him know, by some means or other, that she has another humble servant." And so, Miss, it has proved--For, dismissing my gentleman, with assuring him, that I had no objection at all to the matter, or to parting with Polly, as soon as it suited with their conveniency--I sounded her, and asked, if she thought Mr. Adams had any affection for her?--She said he was a very good gentleman. "I know it, Polly; and are you not of opinion he loves you a little?"--"Dear Ma'am--love me--I don't know what such a gentleman as Mr. Adams should see in me, to love me!"--"Oh!" thought I, "does the doubt lie on _that_ side then?--I see 'tis not of _thine_." "Well, but, Polly, if you have _another_ sweetheart, you should do the fair thing; it would be wrong, if you encourage any body else, if you thought of Mr. Adams."--"Indeed, Ma'am, I had a letter sent me--a letter that I received--from--from a young man in Bedford; but I never answered it." "Oh!" thought I, "then thou wouldst not encourage _two at once_;" and this was as plain a declaration as I wanted, that she had thoughts of Mr. Adams. "But how came Mr. Adams, Polly, to know of this letter?"--"How came he to know of it, Ma'am!"--repeated she--half surprised--"Why, I don't know, I can't tell how it was--but I dropped it near his desk--pulling out my handkerchief, I believe, Ma'am, and he brought it, and gave it me again."--"Well," thought I, "thou'rt an intriguing slut, I doubt, Polly."--"_Delays may breed dangers_," quoth the poor gentleman!--"Ah! girl, girl!" thought I, but did not say so, "thou deservest to have thy plot spoiled, that thou dost--But if thy forwardness should expose thee afterwards to evils which thou mayest avoid if thy schemes take place, I should very much blame myself. And I see he loves thee--So let the matter take its course; I will trouble myself no more about it. I only wish, that thou wilt make Mr. Adams as good a wife as he deserves." And so I dismissed her, telling her, that whoever thought of being a clergyman's wife, should resolve to be as good as himself; to set an example to all her sex in the parish, and shew how much his doctrines had weight with her; should be humble, circumspect, gentle in her temper and manners, frugal, not proud, nor vying in dress with the ladies of the laity; should resolve to sweeten his labour, and to be obliging in her deportment to poor as well as rich, that her husband get no discredit through her means, which would weaken his influence upon his auditors; and that she must be most of all obliging to him, and study his temper, that his mind might be more disengaged, in order to pursue his studies with the better effect. And so much for _your_ humble servant; and for Mr. Williams's and Mr. Adams's matrimonial prospect;--and don't think me so disrespectful, that I have mentioned my Polly's affair in the same letter with yours. For in high and low (I forget the Latin phrase--I have not had a lesson a long, long while, from my dear tutor) love is in all the same!--But whether you'll like Mr. H. as well as Polly does Mr. Adams, that's the question. But, leaving that to your own decision, I conclude with one observation; that, although I thought our's was a house of as little intriguing as any body's, since the dear master of it has left off that practice, yet I cannot see, that any family can be clear of some of it long together, where there are men and women worth plotting for, as husbands and wives. My best wishes and respects attend all your worthy neighbours. I hope ere long, to assure them, severally (to wit, Sir Simon, my lady, Mrs. Jones, Mr. Peters, and his lady and niece, whose kind congratulations make me very proud, and very thankful) how much I am obliged to them; and particularly, my dear, how much I am _your ever affectionate and faithful friend and servant_, P. B, LETTER LXXXIV _From Miss Darnford, in answer to the preceding._ MY DEAR MRS. B., I have been several times (in company with Mr. Peters) to see Mrs. Jewkes. The poor woman is very bad, and cannot live many days. We comfort her all we can; but she often accuses herself of her past behaviour to so excellent a lady; and with blessings upon blessings, heaped upon you, and her master, and your charming little boy, is continually declaring how much your goodness to her aggravates her former faults to her own conscience. She has a sister-in-law and her niece with her, and has settled all her affairs, and thinks she is not long for this world.--Her distemper is an inward decay, all at once as it were, from a constitution that seemed like one of iron; and she is a mere skeleton: you would not know her, I dare say. I will see her every day; and she has given me up all her keys, and accounts, to give to Mr. Longman, who is daily expected, and I hope will be here soon; for her sister-in-law, she says herself, is a woman of _this world_, as _she_ has been. Mr. Peters calling upon me to go with him to visit her, I will break off here. Mrs. Jewkes is much as she was; but your faithful steward is come. I am glad of it--and so is she--Nevertheless I will go every day, and do all the good I can for the poor woman, according to your charitable desires. I thank you for your communication of Lady Davers's letter, I am much obliged to my lord, and her ladyship; and should have been proud of an alliance with that noble family, but with all Mr. H.'s good qualities, as my lady paints them out, and his other advantages, I could not, for the world, make him my husband. I'll tell you one of my objections, in confidence, however, (for you are only to _sound_ me, you know:) and I would not have it mentioned that I have taken any thought about the matter, because a stronger reason may be given, such a one as my lord and lady will both allow; which I will communicate to you by and bye.--My objection arises even from what you intimate, of Mr. H.'s good humour, and his persuadableness, if I may so call it. Now, were I of a boisterous temper, and high spirit, such an one as required great patience in a husband to bear with me, then Mr. H.'s good humour might have been a consideration with me. But when I have (I pride myself in the thought) a temper not wholly unlike your own, and such an one as would not want to contend for superiority with a husband, it is no recommendation to me, that Mr. H. is a good-humoured gentleman, and will bear with faults I design not to be guilty of. But, my dear Mrs. B., my husband must be a man of sense, and give me reason to think he has a superior judgment to my own, or I shall be unhappy. He will otherwise do wrong-headed things: I shall be forced to oppose him in them: he will be tenacious and obstinate, be taught to talk of prerogative, and to call himself a _man_, without knowing how to behave as one, and I to despise him, of course; so be deemed a bad wife, when, I hope, I have qualities that would make me a tolerable good one, with a man of sense for my husband. Now you must not think I would dispense with real good-humour in a man. No, I make it one of my _indispensables_ in a husband. A good-natured man will put the best constructions on what happens; but he must have sense to _distinguish_ the best. He will be kind to little, unwilful, undesigned failings: but he must have judgment to distinguish what _are_ or are _not so_. But Mr. H.'s good-humour is softness, as I may call it; and my husband must be such an one, in short, as I need not be ashamed to be seen with in company; one who, being my head, must not be beneath all the gentlemen he may happen to fall in with, and who, every time he is adjusting his mouth for speech, will give me pain at my heart, and blushes in my face, even before he speaks. I could not bear, therefore, that every one we encountered should be prepared, whenever he offered to open his lips, by their contemptuous smiles, to expect some weak and silly things from him; and when he _had_ spoken, that he should, with a booby grin, seem pleased that he had not disappointed them. The only recommendatory point in Mr. H. is, that he dresses exceedingly smart, and is no contemptible figure of a man. But, dear Madam, you know, that's so much the worse, _when_ the man's talent is not taciturnity, except before his aunt, or before Mr. B. or you; _when_ he is not conscious of internal defect, and values himself upon outward appearance. As to his attempts upon your Polly, though I don't like him the better for it, yet it is a fault so wickedly common among men, that when a woman resolves never to marry, till a quite virtuous man addresses her, it is, in other words, resolving to die single; so that I make not this the _chief_ objection; and yet, I would abate in my expectations of half a dozen other good qualities, rather than that one of virtue in a husband--But when I reflect upon the figure Mr. H. made in that affair, I cannot bear him; and, if I may judge of other coxcombs by him, what wretches are these smart, well-dressing querpo fellows, many of whom you and I have seen admiring themselves at the plays and operas! This is one of my infallible rules, and I know it is yours too; that he who is taken up with the admiration of his own person, will never admire a wife's. His delights are centred in himself, and he will not wish to get out of that exceeding narrow circle; and, in my opinion, should keep no company but that of taylors, wig-puffers, and milliners. But I will run on no further upon this subject; but will tell you a reason, which you _may_ give to Lady Davers, why her kind intentions to me cannot be answered; and which she'll take better than what I _have said_, were she to know it, as I hope you won't let her: and this is, my papa has had a proposal made to him from a gentleman you have seen, and have thought polite. It is from Sir W.G. of this county, who is one of your great admirers, and Mr. B.'s too; and that, you must suppose, makes me have never the worse opinion of him, or of his understanding; although it requires no great sagacity or penetration to see how much you adorn our sex, and human nature too. Every thing was adjusted between my papa and mamma, and Sir William, on condition we approved of each other, before I came down; which I knew not, till I had seen him here four times; and then my papa surprised me into half an approbation of him: and this, it seems, was one of the reasons why I was so hurried down from you. I can't say, but I like the man as well as most I have seen; he is a man of sense and sobriety, to give him his due, in very easy circumstances, and much respected by all who know him; which is no bad earnest in a marriage prospect. But, hitherto, he seems to like me better than I do him. I don't know how it is; but I often observe, that when any thing is in our power, we are not half so much taken with it, as we should be, perhaps, if we were kept in suspense! Why should this be?--But this I am convinced of, there is no comparison between Sir William and Mr. Murray. Now I have named this brother-in-law of mine; what do you think?--Why, that good couple have had their house on fire three times already. Once it was put out by Mr. Murray's mother, who lives near them; and twice Sir Simon has been forced to carry water to extinguish it; for, truly, Mrs. Murray would go home again to her papa; she would not live with such a surly wretch: and it was with all his heart; a fair riddance! for there was no bearing the house with such an ill-natured wife:--her sister Polly was worth a thousand of her!--I am heartily sorry for their unhappiness. But could she think every body must bear with her, and her fretful ways?--They'll jangle on, I reckon, till they are better used to one another; and when he sees she can't help it, why he'll bear with her, as husbands generally do with ill-tempered wives; he'll try to make himself happy abroad, and leave her to quarrel with her maids, instead of him; for she must have somebody to vent her spleen upon--poor Nancy!--I am glad to hear of Mr. Williams's good fortune. As Mr. Adams knows not Polly's fault, and it was prevented in time, they may be happy enough. She is a _sly_ girl. I always thought her so: something so innocent, and yet so artful in her very looks: she is an odd compound. But these worthy and piously turned young gentlemen, who have but just quitted the college, are mere novices, as to the world: indeed they are _above_ it, while _in_ it; they therefore give themselves little trouble to study it, and so, depending on the goodness of their own hearts, are more liable to be imposed upon than people of half their understanding. I think, since he seems to love her, you do right not to hinder the girl's fortune. But I wish she may take your advice, in her behaviour to _him_, at least: for as to her carriage to her neighbours, I doubt she'll be one of the heads of the parish, presently, in her own estimation. 'Tis pity, methinks, any worthy man of the cloth should have a wife, who, by her bad example, should pull down, as fast as he, by a good one, can build up. This is not the case of Mrs. Peters, however; whose example I wish was more generally followed by gentlewomen, who are made so by marrying good clergymen, if they were not so before. Don't be surprised, if you should hear that poor Jewkes is given over!--She made a very exemplary--Full of blessings--And more easy and resigned, than I apprehended she would be. I know you'll shed a tear for the poor woman:--I can't help it myself. But you will be pleased that she had so much time given her, and made so good use of it. Mr. Peters has been every thing that one would wish one of his function to be, in his attendance and advice to the poor woman. Mr. Longman will take proper care of every thing. So, I will only add, that I am, with the sincerest respect, in hopes to see you soon (for I have a multitude of things to talk to you about), dear Mrs. B., _your ever faithful and affectionate_ POLLY DARNFORD. LETTER LXXXV _From Mrs. B. to Lady Davers._ MY DEAR LADY DAVERS, I understand from Miss Darnford, that before she went down from us, her papa had encouraged a proposal made by Sir W.G. whom you saw, when your ladyship was a kind visitor in Bedfordshire. We all agreed, if you remember, that he was a polite and sensible gentleman, and I find it is countenanced on all hands. Poor Mrs. Jewkes, Madam, as Miss informs me, has paid her last debt. I hope, through mercy, she is happy!--Poor, poor woman! But why say I so!--Since, in _that_ case, she will be richer than an earthly monarch! Your ladyship was once mentioning a sister of Mrs. Worden's whom you wished to recommend to some worthy family. Shall I beg of you. Madam, to oblige Mr. B.'s in this particular? I am sure she must have merit if your ladyship thinks well of her; and your commands in this, as well as in every other particular in my power, shall have their due weight with _your ladyship's obliged sister and humble servant_, P.B. Just now, dear Madam, Mr. B. tells me I shall have Miss Goodwill brought me hither to-morrow. LETTER LXXXVI _From Lady Davers to Mrs. B. in answer to the preceding._ MY DEAR PAMELA, I am glad Miss Darnford is likely to be so happy in a husband, as Sir W.G. will certainly make her. I was afraid that my proposal would not do with her, had she not had so good a tender. I want _too_, to have the foolish fellow married--for several reasons; one of which is, he is continually teasing us to permit him to go up to town, and reside there for some months, in order that he may _see the world_, as he calls it. But we are convinced he would _feel_ it, as well as _see_ it, if we give way to his request: for in understanding, dress, and inconsiderate vanity, he is so exactly cut out and sized for a town fop, coxcomb, or pretty fellow, that he will undoubtedly fall into all the vices of those people; and, perhaps, having such expectations as he has, will be made the property of rakes and sharpers. He complains that we use him like a child in a go-cart, or a baby with leading-strings, and that he must not be trusted out of our sight. 'Tis a sad thing, that these _bodies_ will grow up to the stature of men, when the _minds_ improve not at all with them, but are still those of boys and children. Yet, he would certainly make a fond husband: for he has no very bad qualities. But is such a Narcissus!--But this between ourselves, for his uncle is wrapt up in the fellow--And why? Because he is good-humoured, that's all. He has vexed me lately, which makes me write so angrily about him--But 'tis not worth troubling you with the particulars. I hope Mrs. Jewkes is happy, as you say!--Poor woman! she seemed to promise for a longer life! But what shall we say? Your compliment to me, about my Beck's sister, is a very kind one. Mrs. Oldham is a sober, grave widow, a little aforehand, in the world, but not much; has lived well; understands house-hold management thoroughly; is diligent; and has a turn to serious things, which will make you like her the better. I'll order Beck and her to wait on you, and she will satisfy you in every thing as to what you may, or may not expect of her. You can't think how kindly I take this motion from you. You forget nothing that can oblige your friends. Little did I think you would remember me of (what I had forgotten in a manner) my favourable opinion and wishes for her expressed so long ago.--But you are what you are--a dear obliging creature. Beck is all joy and gratitude upon it, and her sister had rather serve you than the princess. You need be under no difficulties about terms: she would serve you for nothing, if you would accept of her service. I am glad, because it pleases you so much, that Miss Goodwin will be soon put into your care. It will be happy for the child, and I hope she will be so dutiful as to give you no pain for your generous goodness to her. Her mamma has sent me a present of some choice products of that climate, with acknowledgments of my kindness to Miss. I will send part of it to you by your new servant; for so I presume to call her already. What a naughty sister are you, however, to be so far advanced again as to be obliged to shorten your intended excursions, and yet not to send me word of it yourself? Don't you know how much I interest myself in every thing that makes for my brother's happiness and your's? more especially in so material a point as is the increase of a family that it is my boast to be sprung from. Yet I must find this out by accident, and by other hands!--Is not this very slighting!--But never do so again, and I'll forgive you now because of the joy it gives me; who am _your truly affectionate and obliged sister_, B. DAVERS. I thank you for your book upon the plays you saw. Inclosed is a list of some others, which I desire you to read, and to oblige me with your remarks upon them at your leisure; though you may not, perhaps, have seen them by the time you will favour me with your observations. LETTER LXXXVII _From Mrs. B. to Lady Davers_. MY DEAR LADY DAVERS, I have a valuable present made me by the same lady; and therefore hope you will not take it amiss, that, with abundance of thanks, I return your's by Mrs. Worden, whose sister I much approve of, and thank your ladyship for your kind recommendation of so worthy a person. We begin with so much good liking to one another, that I doubt not we shall be very happy together. A moving letter, much more valuable to me than the handsome present, was put into my hands, at the same time with that; of which the following is a copy: _From Mrs. Wrightson (formerly Miss Sally Godfrey) to Mrs. B._ "HAPPY, DESERVEDLY HAPPY, DEAR LADY, "Permit these lines to kiss your hands from one, who, though she is a stranger to your person, is not so to your character: _that_ has reached us here, in this remote part of the world, where you have as many admirers as have heard of you. But I more particularly am bound to be so, by an obligation which I can never discharge, but by my daily prayers for you, and the blessings I continually implore upon you and yours. "I can write my whole mind _to_ you, though I cannot, from the most deplorable infelicity, receive _from_ you the wished-for favour of a few lines in return, written with the same unreservedness: so unhappy am I, from the effects of an inconsideration and weakness on one hand, and temptation on the other, which you, at a tender age, most nobly, for your own honour, and that of your sex, have escaped: whilst I--but let my tears in these blots speak the rest--as my heart bleeds, and has constantly bled ever since, at the grievous remembrance--but believe, however, dear Madam, that 'tis shame and sorrow, and not pride and impenitence, that make me both to speak out, to so much purity of life and manners, my own odious weakness. "Nevertheless, I ought, and I _will_ accuse myself by name. Imagine then, illustrious lady, truly illustrious for virtues, infinitely superior to all the advantages of birth and fortune!--Imagine, I say, that in this letter, you see before you the _once_ guilty, and therefore, I doubt, _always_ guilty, but _ever penitent_, Sarah Godfrey; the unhappy, though fond and tender mother of the poor infant, to whom your generous goodness has, I hear, extended itself, so as to make you desirous of taking her under your worthy protection: God for ever bless you for it! prays an indulgent mother, who admires at an awful distance, that virtue in you, which she could not practise herself. "And will you, dearest lady, take under your own immediate protection, the poor unguilty infant? will you love her, for the sake of her suffering mamma, whom you know not; for the sake of the gentleman, now so dear to you, and so worthy of you, as I hear, with pleasure, he is? And will you, by the best example in the world, give me a moral assurance, that she will never sink into the fault, the weakness, the crime (I ought not to scruple to call it so) of her poor inconsiderate-But you are her mamma _now_: I will not think of a _guilty_ one therefore. What a joy is it to me, in the midst of my heavy reflections on my past misconduct, that my beloved Sally can boast a _virtuous_ and _innocent mamma_, who has withstood the snares and temptations, that have been so fatal--elsewhere!--and whose example, and instructions, next to God's grace, will be the strongest fences to her honour!--Once more I say, and on my knees I write it, God for ever bless you here, and augment your joys hereafter, for your generous goodness to my poor, and, till now, _motherless_ infant. "I hope she, by her duty and obligingness, will do all in her little power to make you amends, and never give you cause to repent of this your _unexampled_ kindness to her and to _me_. She cannot, I hope (except her mother's crime has had an influence upon her, too much like that of an original stain), be of a sordid, or an ungrateful nature. And, O my poor Sally! if you _are_, and if ever you fail in your duty to your new mamma, to whose care and authority I transfer my _whole_ right in you, remember that you have no more a mamma in me, nor can you be entitled to my blessing, or my prayers, which I make now, on that _only_ condition, your implicit obedience to all your new mamma's commands and directions. "You may have the curiosity, Madam, to wish to know how I live: for no doubt you have heard all my sad, sad story!--Know, then, that I am as happy, as a poor creature can be, who has once so deplorably, so inexcusably fallen. I have a worthy gentleman for my husband, who married me as a widow, whose only child by my former was the care of her papa's friends, particularly of good Lacy Davers and her brother. Poor unhappy I! to be under such a sad necessity to disguise the truth!--Mr. Wrightson (whose name I am unworthily honoured by) has often entreated me to send for the poor child, and to let her be joined as his--killing thought, that it cannot be!--with two children I have by him!--Judge, my good lady, how that very generosity, which, had I been guiltless, would have added to my joys, must wound me deeper than even ungenerous or unkind usage from him could do! and how heavy that crime must lie upon me, which turns my very pleasures to misery, and fixes all the joy I _can_ know, in repentance for my past misdeeds!--How happy are YOU, Madam, on the contrary; YOU, who have nothing of this sort to pall, nothing to mingle with your felicities! who, blessed in an honour untainted, and a conscience that cannot reproach you, are enabled to enjoy every well deserved comfort, as it offers itself; and can _improve_ it too, by reflection on _your_ past conduct! While _mine_, alas! like a winter frost, nips in the bud every rising satisfaction. "My husband is rich as well as generous, and very tender of me--Happy, if I could think _myself_ as deserving as _he_ thinks me!--My principal comfort, as I hinted, is in my penitence for my past faults; and that I have a merciful God for my judge, who knows that penitence to be sincere! "You may guess, Madam, from what I have said, in what light I _must_ appear here; and if you would favour me with a line or two, in answer to the letter you have now in your hand, it will be one of the greatest pleasures I_ can_ receive: a pleasure next to that which I _have_ received in knowing, that the gentleman you love best, has had the grace to repent of all his evils; has early seen his errors; and has thereby, I hope, freed_ two_ persons from being, one day, mutual accusers of each other; for now I please myself to think, that the crimes of both may be washed away in the blood of that Saviour God, whom both have so grievously offended! "May that God, who has not suffered me to be abandoned entirely to my own shame, as I deserved, continue to shower down upon you those blessings, which a virtue like yours may expect from his mercy! May you long be happy in the possession of all you wish! and late, very late (for the good of thousands, I wish this!) may you receive the reward of your piety, your generosity, and your filial, your social, and conjugal virtues! are the prayers of _your most unworthy admirer, and obliged humble servant_, "SARAH WRIGHTSON. "Mr. Wrightson begs your acceptance of a small present, part of which can have no value, but what its excelling qualities, for what it is, will give it at so great a distance as that dear England, which I once left with so much shame and regret; but with a laudable purpose, _however_, because I would not incur still _greater_ shame, and of consequence give cause for still _greater_ regret!" To this letter, my dear Lady Davers, I have written the following answer, which Mr. B. will take care to have conveyed to her. "DEAREST MADAM, "I embrace with great pleasure the opportunity you have so kindly given me, of writing to a lady whose person though I have not the honour to know, yet whose character, and noble qualities, I truly revere. "I am infinitely obliged to you. Madam, for the precious trust you have reposed in me, and the right you make over to me, of your maternal interest in a child, on whom I set my heart, the moment I saw her. "Lady Davers, whose love and tenderness for Miss, as well for her mamma's sake, as your late worthy spouse's, had, from her kind opinion of me, consented to grant me this favour: and I was, by Mr. B.'s leave, in actual possession of my pretty ward about a week before your kind letter came to my hands. "As I had been long very solicitous for this favour, judge how welcome your kind concurrence was: and the rather, as, had I known, that a letter from you was on the way to me, I should have feared you would insist upon depriving the surviving friends of her dear papa, of the pleasure they take in the dear child. Indeed, Madam, I believe we should one and all have joined to disobey you, had _that_ been the case; and it is a great satisfaction to us, that we are not under so hard a necessity, as to dispute with a tender mamma the possession of her own child. "Assure yourself, worthiest Madam, of a care and tenderness in me to the dear child truly maternal, and answerable, as much as in my power, to the trust you repose in me. The little boy, that God has given me, shall not be more dear to me than my sweet Miss Goodwin shall be; and my care, by God's grace, shall extend to her _future_ as well as to her _present_ prospects, that she may be worthy of that piety, and _truly_ religious excellence, which I admire in your character. "We all rejoice, dear Madam, in the account you give of your present happiness. It was impossible that God Almighty should desert a lady so exemplarily deserving; and he certainly conducted you in your resolutions to abandon every thing that you loved in England, after the loss of your dear spouse, because it seems to have been his intention that you should reward the merit of Mr. Wrightson, and meet with your own reward in so doing. "Miss is very fond of my little Billy: she is a charming child, is easy and genteel in her shape, and very pretty; she dances finely, has a sweet air, and is improving every day in music; works with her needle, and reads admirably for her years; and takes a delight in both, which gives me no small pleasure. But she is not very forward in her penmanship, as you will see by what follows: the inditing too is her own; but in that, and the writing, she took a good deal of time, on a separate paper. "DEAREST DEAR MAMMA, "Your Sally is full of joy, to have any commands from her honoured mamma. I promise to follow all your directions. Indeed, and upon my word, I will. You please me mightily in giving me so dear a new mamma here. Now I know indeed I have a mamma, and I will love and obey her, as if she was you your own self. Indeed I will. You must always bless me, because I will be always good. I hope you will believe me, because I am above telling fibs. I am, my honoured mamma on the other side of the water, and ever will be, as if you was here, _your dutiful daughter_, "SALLY GOODWIN." "Miss (permit me, dear Madam, to subjoin) is a very good tempered child, easy to be persuaded, and I hope loves me dearly; and I will endeavour to make her love me better and better; for on that love will depend the regard which, I hope, she will pay to all I shall say and do for her good. "Repeating my acknowledgements for the kind trust you repose in me, and with thanks for the valuable present you have sent me, we all here join in respects to worthy Mr. Wrightson, and in wishing you. Madam, a continuance and increase of worldly felicity; and I particularly beg leave to assure you, that I am, and ever will be, with the highest respect and gratitude, though personally unknown, dearest Madam, _the affectionate admirer of your piety, and your obliged humble servant_, "P.B." Your ladyship will see how I was circumscribed and limited; otherwise I would have said (what I have mentioned more than once), how I admire and honour her for her penitence, and for that noble resolution, which enabled her to do what thousands could not have had the heart to do, abandon her country, her relations, friends, baby, and all that was dear to her, as well as the seducer, whom she too well loved, and hazard the sea, the dangers of pirates, and possibly of other wicked attempters of the mischievous sex, in a world she knew nothing of, among strangers; and all to avoid repeating a sin she had been unhappily drawn into; and for which she still abhors herself. Must not such a lady as this, dear Madam, have as much merit as many even of those, who, having not had her temptations, have not fallen? This, at least, one may aver, that next to not committing an error, is the resolution to retrieve it all that one may, to repent of it, and studiously to avoid the repetition. But who, besides this excellent Mrs. Wrightson, having so fallen, and being still so ardently solicited and pursued, (and flattered, perhaps, by fond hopes, that her spoiler would one day do her all the justice he _could_--for who can do complete justice to a woman he has robbed of her honour?)--could resolve as she resolved, and act as she acted? Miss Goodwin is a sweet child; but, permit me to say, has a little of her papa's spirit; hasty, yet generous and acknowledging when she is convinced of her fault; a little haughtier and prouder than I wish her to be; but in every thing else deserves the character I give of her to her mamma. She is very fond of fine clothes, is a little too lively to the servants.--Told me once, when I took notice that softness and mildness of speech became a young lady, that they were _but_ servants! and she could say no more than, "Pray," and "I desire," and "I wish you'd be so kind," to her uncle or to me. I told her, that good servants deserved any civil distinctions; and that so long as they were ready to oblige in every thing, by a kind word, it would be very wrong to give them imperative ones, which could serve for no other end but to convince observers of the haughtiness of one's own temper; and looked, as if one would question their compliance with our wills, unless we would exact it with an high hand; which might cast a slur upon the command we gave, as if we thought it was hardly so reasonable as otherwise to obtain their observation of it. "Besides, my dear," said I, "you don't consider, that if you speak as haughtily and commandingly to them on common, as on extraordinary occasions, you weaken your own authority, if even you should be permitted to have any, and they'll regard you no more in the one case than in the other." She takes great notice of what I say, and when her little proud heart is subdued by reasonings she cannot answer, she will sit as if she were studying what to say, to come off as flying as she can, and as the case requires, I let her go off easily, or push the little dear to her last refuge, and make her quit her post, and yield up her spirit a captive to Reason and Discretion: two excellent commanders, with whom, I tell her, I must bring her to be intimately acquainted. Yet, after all, till I can be sure that I can inspire her with the love of virtue, for its _own_ sake, I will rather try to conduct her spirit to proper ends, than endeavour totally to subdue it; being sensible that our passions are given us for excellent ends, and that they may, by a proper direction, be made subservient to the noblest purposes. I tell her sometimes, there may be a decent pride in humility, and that it is very possible for a young lady to behave with so much _true_ dignity, as shall command respect by the turn of her eye, sooner than by asperity of speech; that she may depend upon it, the person, who is always finding faults, frequently causes them; and that it is no glory to be better born than servants, if she is not better behaved too. Besides, I tell her humility is a grace that shines in a _high_ condition, but cannot equally in a _low_ one; because that is already too much humbled, perhaps: and that, though there is a censure lies against being _poor and proud_, yet I would rather forgive pride in a poor body, than in a rich: for in the rich it is insult and arrogance, proceeding from their high condition; but in the poor it may be a defensative against dishonesty, and may shew a natural bravery of mind, perhaps, if properly directed, and manifested on right occasions, that the frowns of fortune cannot depress. She says she hears every day things from me, which her governess never taught her. That may very well be, I tell her, because her governess has _many_ young ladies to take care of: I but _one_; and that I want to make her wise and prudent betimes, that she may be an example to other Misses; and that governesses and mammas shall say to their Misses, "When will you be like Miss Goodwin? Do you ever hear Miss Goodwin say a naughty word? Would Miss Goodwin, think you, have done so or so?" She threw her arms about my neck, on one such occasion as this; "Oh," said she, "what a charming mamma have I got! I will be in every thing as like you, as ever I can!--and then you will love me, and so will my uncle, and so will every body else." Mr. B. whom now-and-then, she says, she loves as well as if he was her own papa, sees with pleasure how we go on. But she tells me, I must not have any daughter but her, and is very jealous on the occasion about which your ladyship so kindly reproaches me. There is a pride, you know, Madam, in some of our sex, that serves to useful purposes, is a good defence against improper matches, and mean actions; and is not wholly to be subdued, for that reason; for, though it is not _virtue_, yet, if it can be virtue's _substitute_, in high, rash, and inconsiderate minds, it; may turn to good account. So I will not quite discourage my dear pupil neither, till I see what discretion, and riper years, may add to her distinguishing faculty. For, as some have no notion of pride, separate from imperiousness and arrogance, so others know no difference between humility and meanness. There is a golden mean in every thing; and if it please God to spare us both, I will endeavour to point her passions, and such even of those foibles, which seem too deeply rooted to be soon eradicated, to useful purposes; choosing to imitate physicians, who, in certain chronical illnesses, as I have read in Lord Bacon, rather proceed by palliatives, than by harsh extirpatives, which, through the resistance given to them by the constitution, may create such ferments in it, as may destroy that health it was their intention to establish. But whither am I running?--Your ladyship, I hope, will excuse this parading freedom of my pen: for though these notions are well enough with regard to Miss Goodwin, they must be very impertinent to a lady, who can so much better instruct Miss's tutoress than that vain tutoress can her pupil. And, therefore, with my humblest respects to my good Lord Davers, and your noble neighbours, and to Mr. H. I hasten to conclude myself _your ladyship's obliged sister, and obedient servant_, P.B. Your Billy, Madam, is a charming dear!--I long to have you see him. He sends you a kiss upon this paper. You'll see it stained, just here. The charmer has cut two teeth, and is about more: so you'll excuse the dear, pretty, slabbering boy. Miss Goodwin is ready to eat him with love: and Mr. B. is fonder and fonder of us all: and then your ladyship, and my good Lord Davers love us too. O, Madam, what a blessed creature am I! Miss Goodwin begs I'll send her duty to her _noble_ uncle and aunt; that's her just distinction always, when she speaks of you both. She asked me, pretty dear, just now, If I think there is such a happy girl in the world as she is? I tell her, God always blesses good Misses, and makes them happier and happier. LETTER LXXXVIII MY DEAR LADY DAVERS, I have three marriages to acquaint you with, in one letter. In the first place, Sir W.G. has sent, by the particular desire of my dear friend, that he was made one of the happiest men in England, on the 18th past; and so I have no longer my Miss Darnford to boast of. I have a very good opinion of the gentleman; but if he be but half so good a husband as she will make a wife, they will be exceedingly happy in one another. Mr. Williams's marriage to a kinswoman of his noble patron (as you have heard was in treaty) is the next; and there is great reason to believe, from the character of both, that they will likewise do credit to the state. The third is Mr. Adams and Polly Barlow; and I wish them, for both their sakes, as happy as either of the former. They are set out to his living, highly pleased with one another; and I hope will have reason to continue so to be. As to the first, I did not indeed think the affair would have been so soon concluded; and Miss kept it off so long, as I understood, that her papa was angry with her: and, indeed, as the gentleman's family, circumstances, and character, were such, that there could lie no objection against him, I think it would have been wrong to have delayed it. I should have written to your ladyship before; but have been favoured with Mr. B.'s company into Kent, on a visit to my good mother, who was indisposed. We tarried there a week, and left both my dear parents, to my thankful satisfaction, in as good health as ever they were in their lives. Mrs. Judy Swynford, or Miss Swynford (as she refuses not being called, now and then), has been with us for this week past; and she expects her brother, Sir Jacob, to fetch her away in about a week hence. It does not become me to write the least word that may appear disrespectful of any person related to your ladyship and Mr. B. Otherwise I should say, that the B----s and the S----s are directly the opposites of one another. But yet, as she never saw your ladyship but once, you will forgive me to mention a word or two about her, because she is a character that is in a manner new to me. She is a maiden lady, as you know, and though she will not part with the green leaf from her hand, one sees by the grey-goose down on her brows and her head, that she cannot be less than fifty-five. But so much pains does she take, by powder, to have never a dark hair in her head, because she has one half of them white, that I am sorry to see, what is a subject for reverence, should be deemed, by the good lady, matter of concealment. She is often seemingly reproaching herself, that she is an _old maid_, and an _old woman_; but it is very discernible, that she expects a compliment, that she is _not so_, every time she is so free with herself: and if nobody makes her one, she will say something of that sort in her own behalf. She takes particular care, that of all the public transactions which happen to be talked of, her memory will never carry her back above thirty years! and then it is--"About thirty years ago; when I was a girl," or "when I was in hanging sleeves;" and so she makes herself, for twenty years of her life, a very useless and insignificant person. If her teeth, which, for her age, are very good, though not over white (and which, by her care of them, she seems to look upon as the last remains of her better days), would but fail, it might help her to a conviction, that would set her ten years forwarder at least. But, poor lady, she is so _young_, in spite of her wrinkles, that I am really concerned for her affectation; because it exposes her to the remarks and ridicule of the gentlemen, and gives one pain for her. Surely, these ladies don't act prudently at all; since, for every year Mrs. Judy would take from her age, her censurers add two to it; and, behind her back, make her going on towards seventy; whereas, if she would lay claim to her _reverentials_, as I may say, and not try to conceal her age, she would have many compliments for looking so well at her years.--And many a young body would hope to be the better for her advice and experience, who now are afraid of affronting her, if they suppose she has lived much longer in the world than themselves. Then she looks back to the years she owns, when more flippant ladies, at the laughing time of her life, delight to be frolic: she tries to sing too, although, if ever she had a voice, she has outlived it; and her songs are of so antique a date, that they would betray her; only, as she says, they were learnt her by her grandmother, who was a fine lady at the Restoration. She will join in a dance; and though her limbs move not so pliantly as might be expected of a lady no older than she would be thought, and whose dancing-days are not entirely over, yet that was owing to a fall from her horse some years ago, which, she doubts, she shall never recover, though she finds she grows better and better, _every year_. Thus she loses the respect, the reverence, she might receive, were it not for this miserable affectation; takes pains, by aping youth, to make herself unworthy of her years, and is content to be thought less discreet than she might otherwise be deemed, for fear she should be imagined older if she appeared wiser. What a sad thing is this, Madam!--What a mistaken conduct! We pray to live to old age; and it is promised as a blessing, and as a reward for the performance of certain duties; and yet, when we come to it, we had rather be thought as foolish as youth, than to be deemed wise, and in possession of it. And so we shew how little we deserve what we have been so long coveting; and yet covet on: for what? Why, to be more and more ashamed, and more and more unworthy of that we covet! How fantastic a character is this!-Well may irreverent, unthinking youth despise, instead of revere, the hoary head which the wearer is so much ashamed of. The lady boasts a relationship to you, and Mr. B. and, I think, I am very bold. But my reverence for years, and the disgust I have to see anybody behave unworthy of them, makes me take the greater liberty: which, however, I shall wish I had not taken, if it meets not with that allowance, which I have always had from your ladyship in what I write. God knows whether ever I may enjoy the blessing I so much revere in others. For now my heavy time approaches. But I was so apprehensive before, and so troublesome to my best friends, with my vapourish fears, that now (with a perfect resignation to the Divine Will) I will only add, that I am _your ladyship's most obliged sister and servant_, P.B. My dear Billy, and Miss Goodwin, improve every day, and are all I can desire or expect them to be. Could Miss's poor mamma be here with a wish, and back again, how much would she be delighted with one of our afternoon conferences; our Sunday employments especially!--And let me add, that I am very happy in another young gentleman of the dean's recommending, instead of Mr. Adams. LETTER LXXXIX MY DEAREST LADY, I am once more, blessed be God for all his mercies to me! enabled, on my upsitting, to thank you, and my noble lord, for all your kind solicitudes for my welfare. Billy every day improves. Miss is all I wish her to be, and my second dear boy continues to be as lovely and as fine a baby as your ladyship was pleased to think him; and their papa, the best of husbands! I am glad to hear Lady Betty is likely to be so happy. Mr. B. says, her noble admirer is as worthy a gentleman as any in the peerage; and I beg of you to congratulate the dear lady, and her noble parents, in my name, if I should be at a distance, when the nuptials are celebrated. I have had the honour of a visit from my lady, the Countess Dowager, on occasion of her leaving the kingdom for a year or two, for which space she designs to reside in Italy, principally at Naples or Florence; a design she took up some time ago, but which it seems she could not conveniently put into execution till now. Mr. B. was abroad when her ladyship came, and I expected him not till the next day. She sent her gentleman, the preceding evening, to let me know that business had brought her as far as Wooburn; and if it would not be unacceptable, she would pay her respects to me at breakfast, the next morning, being speedily to leave England. I returned, that I should be very proud of that honour. And about ten her ladyship came. She was exceedingly fond of my two boys, the little man, and the pretty baby, as she called them; and I had very different emotions from the expression of her love to Billy, and her visit to me, from what I had once before. She was sorry, she said, Mr. B. was abroad; though her business was principally with me. "For, Mrs. B.," said she, "I come to tell you all that passed between Mr. B. and myself, that you may not think worse of either of us, than we deserve; and I could not leave England till I had waited on you for this purpose; and yet, perhaps, from the distance of time, you'll think it needless now. And, indeed, I should have waited on you before, to have cleared up my character with you, had I thought I should have been so long kept on this side of the water."--I said, I was very sorry I had ever been uneasy, when I had two persons of so much honour--"Nay," said she, interrupting me, "you have no need to apologize; things looked bad enough, as they were presented to you, to justify greater uneasiness than you expressed." She asked me, who that pretty genteel Miss was?--I said, a relation of Lord Davers, who was entrusted lately to my care. "Then, Miss," said her ladyship, and kissed her, "you are very happy." Believing the Countess was desirous of being alone with me, I said, "My dear Miss Goodwin, won't you go to your little nursery, my love?" for so she calls my last blessing--"You'd be sorry the baby should cry for you." For she was so taken with the charming lady, that she was loth to leave us--But, on my saying this, withdrew. When we were alone, the Countess began her story, with a sweet confusion, which added to her loveliness. She said she would be brief, because she should exact all my attention, and not suffer me to interrupt her till she had done. She began with acknowledging, that she thought, when she first saw Mr. B. at the masquerade, that he was the finest gentleman she had ever seen; that the allowed freedoms of the place had made her take liberties in following him, and engaging him wherever he went. She blamed him very freely for passing for a single man; for that, she said, since she had so splendid a fortune of her own, was all she was solicitous about; having never, as she confessed, seen a man she could like so well; her former marriage having been in some sort forced upon her, at an age when she knew not how to distinguish; and that she was very loth to believe him married, even when she had no reason to doubt it. "Yet this I must say," said she, "I never heard a man, when he owned he was married, express himself with more affectionate regard and fondness than he did of you; which made me long to see you; for I had a great opinion of those personal advantages which every one flattered me with; and was very unwilling to yield the palm of beauty to you. "I believe you will censure me, Mrs. B., for permitting his visits after I knew he was married. To be sure, that was a thoughtless, and a faulty part of my conduct. But the world's saucy censures, and my friends' indiscreet interposals, incensed me; and, knowing the uprightness of my own heart, I was resolved to disgrace both, when I found they could not think worse of me than they did. "I am naturally of a high spirit, impatient of contradiction, always gave myself freedoms, for which, satisfied with my own innocence, I thought myself above being accountable to any body--And then Mr. B. has such noble sentiments, a courage and fearlessness, which I saw on more occasions than one, that all ladies who know the weakness of their own sex, and how much they want the protection of the brave, are taken with. Then his personal address was so peculiarly distinguishing, that having an opinion of his honour, I was embarrassed greatly how to deny myself his conversation; although, you'll pardon me, Mrs. B., I began to be afraid that my reputation might suffer in the world's opinion for the indulgence. "Then, when I had resolved, as I did several times, to see him no more, some unforeseen accident threw him in my way again, at one entertainment or other; for I love balls and concerts, and public diversions, perhaps, better than I ought; and then I had all my resolves to begin again. Yet this I can truly say, whatever his views were, I never heard from him the least indecent expression, nor saw in his behaviour to me much to apprehend; saving, I began to fear, that by his insinuating address, and noble manner, I should be too much in his power, and too little in my own, if I went on so little doubting, and so little alarmed, if ever he should avow dishonourable designs. "I had often lamented, that our sex were prohibited, by the designs of the other upon their honour, and by the world's censures, from conversing with the same ease and freedom with gentlemen, as with one another. And when once I asked myself, to what this conversation might tend at last? and where the pleasure each seemed to take in the other's, might possibly end? I resolved to break it off; and told him my resolution next time I saw him. But he stopped my mouth with a romantic notion, as I since think it, (though a sorry plea will have weight in favour of a proposal, to which one has no aversion) of Platonic love; and we had an intercourse by letters, to the number of six or eight, I believe, on that and other subjects. "Yet all this time, I was the less apprehensive, because he always spoke so tenderly, and even with delight, whenever he mentioned his lady; and I could not find, that you were at all alarmed at our acquaintance: for I never scrupled to send my letters, by my own livery, to your house, sealed with my own seal. At last, indeed, he began to tell me, that from the sweetest and evenest temper in the world, you seemed to be leaning towards melancholy, were always in tears, or shewed you had been weeping, when he came home; and that you did not make his return to you so agreeable as he used to find it. "I asked if it were not owing to some alteration in his own temper? If you might not be uneasy at our acquaintance, and at his frequent absence from you, and the like? He answered, No; that you were above disguises, were of a noble and frank nature, and would have hinted it to him, if you had. This, however, when I began to think seriously of the matter, gave me but little satisfaction; and I was more and more convinced, that my honour required it of me, to break off this intimacy. "And although I permitted Mr. B. to go with me to Tunbridge, when I went to take a house there, yet I was uneasy, as he saw. And, indeed, so was he, though he tarried a day or two longer than he designed, on account of a little excursion my sister and her lord, and he and I, made into Sussex, to see an estate I thought of purchasing; for he was so good as to look into my affairs, and has put them upon an admirable establishment. "His uneasiness, I found, was upon your account, and he sent you a letter to excuse himself for not waiting on you on Saturday, and to say, he would dine with you on Monday. And I remember when I said, 'Mr. B., you seem to be chagrined at something; you are more thoughtful than usual: 'his answer was, 'Madam, you are right, Mrs. B. and I have had a little misunderstanding. She is so solemn, and so melancholy of late, I fear it will be no difficult matter to put her out of her right mind: and I love her so well, that then I should hardly keep my own.' "'Is there no reason, think you,' said I, 'to imagine that your acquaintance with me gives her uneasiness? You know, Mr. B., how that villain T.' (a man," said she, "whose insolent address I rejected with the contempt it deserved) 'has slandered us. How know you, but he has found a way to your wife's ear, as he has done to my uncle's, and to all my friends'? And if so, it is best for us both to discontinue a friendship, that may be attended with disagreeable consequences.' "He said, he should find it out on his return. 'And will you,' said I, 'ingenuously acquaint me with the issue of your inquiries? for,' added I, 'I never beheld a countenance, in so young a lady, that seemed to mean more than Mrs. B.'s, when I saw her in town; and notwithstanding her prudence I could see a reserve and thoughtfulness in it, that, if it was not natural to it, must indicate too much.' "He wrote to me, in a very moving letter, the issue of your conference, and referred to some papers of your's, that he would shew me, as soon as he could procure them, they being of your own hands; and let me know that T. was the accuser, as I had suspected. "In brief, Madam, when you went down into Kent, he read to me some part of your account to Lady Davers, of your informant and information; your apprehensions; your prudence; your affection for him; the reason of your melancholy; and, to all appearance, reason enough you had, especially from the letter of Thomasine Fuller, which was one of T.'s vile forgeries: for though we had often, for argument's sake, talked of polygamy (he arguing for it, I against it), yet had not Mr. B. dared, nor was he inclined, I verily believe, to propose any such thing to me: no, Madam, I was not so much abandoned to a sense of honour, as to give reason for any one, but my impertinent and foolish uncle, to impute such a folly to me; and he had so behaved to me, that I cared not what _he_ thought. "Then, what he read to me, here and there, as he pleased, gave me reason to admire you for your generous opinion of one you had so much seeming cause to be afraid of: he told me his apprehensions, from your uncommon manner, that your mind was in some degree affected, and your strange proposal of parting with a husband every one knows you so dearly love: and we agreed to forbear seeing each other, and all manner of correspondence, except by letter, for one month, till some of my affairs were settled, which had been in great disorder, and were in his kind management then; and I had not one relation, whom I cared to trouble with them, because of their treatment of me on Mr. B.'s account. And this, I told him, should not be neither, but through your hands, and with your consent. "And thus, Madam," said her ladyship, "have I told you the naked truth of the whole affair. I have seen Mr. B. very seldom since: and when I have, it has been either at a horse-race, in the open field, or at some public diversion, by accident, where only distant civilities have passed between us. "I respect him greatly; you must allow me to say that. Except in the article of permitting me to believe, for some time, that he was a single gentleman, a fault he cannot be excused for, and which made me heartily quarrel with him, when I first knew it, he has behaved to me with so much generosity and honour, that I could have wished I had been of his sex, since he had a lady so much more deserving than myself; and then, had he had the same esteem for me, there never would have been a more perfect friendship. I am now going," continued she, "to embark for France, and shall pass a year or two in Italy; and then I shall, I hope, return as solid, as grave, as circumspect, though not so wise, as Mrs. B." Thus the Countess concluded her narrative: I said, I was greatly obliged to her for the honour of this visit, and the kind and considerate occasion of it: but that Mr. B. had made me entirely happy in every particular, and had done her ladyship the justice she so well deserved, having taken upon himself the blame of passing as a single man at his first acquaintance with her. I added, that I could hope her ladyship might be prevented, by some happy man, from leaving a kingdom, to which she was so great an ornament, as well by her birth, her quality and fortune, as by her perfections of person and mind. She said, she had not been the happiest of her sex in her former marriage: although nobody, her youth considered, thought her a bad wife; and her lord's goodness to her, at his death, had demonstrated his own favourable opinion of her by deeds, as he had done by words upon all occasions: but that she was yet young; a little too gay and unsettled: and had her head turned towards France and Italy, having passed some time in those countries, which she thought of with pleasure, though then only twelve or thirteen: that for this reason, and having been on a late occasion still more unsettled (looking down with blushes, which often overspread her face, as she talked), she had refused some offers, not despicable: that indeed Lord C. threatened to follow her to Italy, in hopes of meeting better success there, than he had met with here: but if he did, though she would make no resolutions, she might be too much offended with him, to give him reason to boast of his journey; and this the rather, as she believed he had once entertained no very honourable notions of her friendship for Mr. B. She wished to see Mr. B. and to take leave of him, but not out of my company, she was pleased to say.--"Your ladyship's consideration for me," replied I, "lays me under high obligation; but indeed, Madam, there is no occasion for it, from any diffidences I have in your's or Mr. B.'s honour. And if you will give me the pleasure of knowing when it will be most acceptable, I will beg of Mr. B. to oblige me with his company to return this favour, the first visit I make abroad." "You are very kind, Mrs. B.," said she: "but I think to go to Tunbridge for a fortnight, when I have disposed of every thing for my embarkation, and so set out from thence. And if you should then be both in Kent, I should be glad to take you at your word." To be sure, I said, Mr. B. at least, would attend her ladyship there, if any thing should happen to deprive me of that honour. "You are very obliging," said she, "I take great concern to myself, for having caused you a moment's uneasiness formerly: but I must now try to be circumspect, in order to retrieve my character, which has been so basely traduced by that presumptuous fellow Turner, who hoped, I suppose, by that means, to bring me down to his level." Her ladyship would not be prevailed upon to stay dinner; and, saying she would be at Wooburn all the next day, took a very tender leave of me, wishing me all manner of happiness, as I did her. Mr. B. came home in the evening, and next morning rode to Wooburn, to pay his respects to the Countess, and came back in the evening. Thus happily, and to the satisfaction of all three, as I hope, ended this perplexing affair. Mr. B. asks me how I relish Mr. Locke's _Treatise on Education_? which he put into my hands some time since, as I told your ladyship. I answered, Very well; and I thought it an excellent piece in the main. "I'll tell you," said he, "what you shall do. You have not shewed me any thing you have written for a good while. I could wish you to fill up your leisure-time with your observations on that treatise, that I may know what you can object to it; for you say _in the main_, which shews, that you do not entirely approve of every part of it." "But will not that be presumptuous, Sir?" "I admire Mr. Locke," replied he; "and I admire my Pamela. I have no doubt of his excellencies, but I want to know the sentiments of a young mother, as well as of a learned gentleman, upon the subject of education; because I have heard several ladies censure some part of his regimen, when I am convinced, that the fault lies in their own over-great fondness for their children." "As to myself, Sir, who, in the early part of my life, have not been brought up too tenderly, you will hardly meet with any objection to the part which I imagine you have heard most objected to by ladies who have been more indulgently treated in their first stage. But there are a few other things that want clearing up to my understanding; but, which, however, may be the fault of that." "Then, my dear," said he, "suppose me at a distance from you, cannot you give me your remarks in the same manner, as if you were writing to Lady Davers, or to Miss Darnford, that was?" "Yes, Sir, depending on your kind favour to me, I believe I could." "Do then; and the less restraint you write with, the more I shall be pleased with it. But I confine you not to time or place. We will make our excursions as I once proposed; and do you write to me now-and-then upon the subject; for the places and remarkables you will see, will be new only to yourself; nor will either of those ladies expect from you an itinerary, or a particular description of countries, which are better described by authors who have made it their business to treat upon those subjects. By this means, you will be usefully employed in your own way, which may turn to good account to us both, and to the dear children, which it may please God to bestow upon us." "You don't expect, Sir, any thing regular, or digested from me." "I don't, my dear. Let your fancy and your judgment be both employed, and I require no method; for I know, in your easy, natural way, that would be a confinement, which would cramp your genius, and give what you write a stiff, formal air, that I might expect in a pedagogue, but not in my Pamela." "Well, but, Sir, although I may write nothing to the purpose, yet if Lady Davers desires it, you will allow me to transmit what I shall write to her, when you have perused it yourself? For your good sister is so indulgent to my scribble, she will expect to be always hearing from me; and this way I shall oblige her ladyship while I obey her brother." "With all my heart," he was pleased to say. So, my lady, I shall now-and-then pay my respects to you in the writing way, though I must address myself, it seems, to my dearest Mr. B.; and I hope to be received on these my own terms, since they are your brother's also, and, at the same time, such as will convince you, how much I wish to approve myself, to the best of my poor ability, _your ladyship's most obliged sister, and humble servant_, P.B. LETTER XC My dearest Mr. B., I have been considering of your commands, in relation to Mr. Locke's book, and since you are pleased to give me time to acquit myself of the task, I shall beg to include in a little book my humble sentiments, as I did to Lady Davers, in that I shewed you in relation to the plays I had seen. And since you confine me not to time or place, I may be three or four years in completing it, because I shall reserve some subjects to my further experience in children's ways and tempers, and in order to benefit myself by the good instructions I shall receive from your delightful conversation, in that compass of time, if God spare us to one another: and then it will, moreover, be still worthier of the perusal of the most honoured and best beloved of all my correspondents, much honoured and beloved as they all are. I must needs say, my dear Mr. B., that this is a subject to which I was always particularly attentive; and among the charities your bountiful heart permits me to dispense to the poor and indigent, I have had always a watchful eye upon the children of such, and endeavoured, by questions put to them, as well as to their parents, to inform myself of their little ways and tempers, and how nature delights to work in different minds, and how it might be pointed to their good, according to their respective capacities; and I have for this purpose erected, with your approbation, a little school of seven or eight children, among which is four in the earliest stages, when they can but just speak, and call for what they want and love: and I am not a little pleased to observe, when I visit them in their school time that principles of goodness and virtue may be instilled into their little hearts much earlier than is usually imagined. And why should it not be so? for may not the child, that can tell its wants, and make known its inclination, be easily made sensible of _yours_, and what you expect from it, provided you take a proper method? For, sometimes, signs and tokens (and even looks), uniformly practised, will do as well as words; as we see in such of the young of the brute creation as we are disposed to domesticate, and to teach to practise those little tricks, of which the aptness or docility of their natures makes them capable. But yet, dearest Sir, I know not enough of the next stage, the _maturer_ part of life, to touch upon that as I wish to do: and yet there is a natural connection and progression from the one to the other: and I would not be thought a vain creature, who believes herself equal to _every_ subject, because she is indulged with the good opinion of her friends, in a _few_, which are supposed to be within her own capacity. For, I humbly conceive, that it is no small point of wisdom to know, and not to mistake, one's own talents: and for this reason, permit me, Sir, to suspend, till I am better qualified for it, even my own proposal of beginning my little book; and, in the mean time, to touch upon a few places of the admirable author, that seem to me to warrant another way of thinking, than that which he prescribes. But, dear Sir, let me premise, that all that your dear babies can demand of my attention for some time to come, is their health; and God has blessed them with such sound limbs, and, to all appearances, good constitutions, that I have very little to do, but to pray for them every time I pray for their dear papa; and that is hourly; and yet not so often as you confer upon me benefits and favours, and new obligations, even to the prevention of all my wishes, were I to sit down and study for what must be the next. As to this point of _health_, Mr. Locke gives these plain and easy to be observed rules. He prescribes first, _plenty of open air_. That this is right, the infant will inform one, who, though it cannot speak, will make signs to be carried abroad, and is never so well pleased, as when enjoying the open and free air; for which reason I conclude, that this is one of those natural pointings, as I may say, that are implanted in every creature, teaching it to choose its good, and to avoid its evil. _Sleep_ is the next, which he enjoins to be indulged to its utmost extent: an admirable rule, as I humbly conceive; since sound sleep is one of the greatest nourishers of nature, both to the once young and to the _twice_ young, if I may use the phrase. And I the rather approve of this rule, because it keeps the nurse unemployed, who otherwise may be doing it the greatest mischief, by cramming and stuffing its little bowels, till ready to burst. And, if I am right, what an inconsiderate and foolish, as well as pernicious practice it is, for a nurse to _waken_ the child from its nourishing sleep, for fear it should suffer by hunger, and instantly pop the breast into its pretty mouth, or provoke it to feed, when it has no inclination to either, and for want of digestion, must have its nutriment turned to repletion, and bad humours! Excuse me, dear Sir, these lesser particulars. Mr. Locke begins with them; and surely they may be allowed in a young _mamma_, writing (however it be to a gentleman of genius and learning) to a _papa_, on a subject, that in its lowest beginnings ought not to be unattended to by either. I will therefore pursue my excellent author without farther apology, since you have put his work into my hands. The next thing, then, which he prescribes, is _plain diet_. This speaks for itself, for the baby can have no corrupt taste to gratify: all is pure, as out of the hand of Nature; and what is not plain and natural, must vitiate and offend. Then, _no wine_, or _strong drink_. Equally just; and for the same reasons. _Little_ or _no physic_. Undoubtedly right. For the _use_ of physic, without necessity, or by way of _precaution_, as some call it, begets the _necessity_ of physic; and the very _word_ supposes _distemper_ or _disorder_; and where there is none, would a parent beget one; or, by frequent use, render the salutary force of medicine ineffectual, when it was wanted? Next, he forbids _too warm_ and _too strait clothing_. This is just as I wish it. How often has my heart ached, when I have seen poor babies rolled and swathed, ten or a dozen times round; then blanket upon blanket, mantle upon that; its little neck pinned down to one posture; its head, more than it frequently needs, triple-crowned like a young pope, with covering upon covering; its legs and arms, as if to prevent that kindly stretching, which we rather ought to promote, when it is in health, and which is only aiming at growth and enlargement, the former bundled up, the latter pinned down; and how the poor thing lies on the nurse's lap, a miserable little pinioned captive, goggling and staring with its eyes, the only organ it has at liberty, as if supplicating for freedom to its fettered limbs! Nor has it any comfort at all, till with a sigh or two, like a dying deer, it drops asleep; and happy then will it be till the officious nurse's care shall awaken it for its undesired food, as if resolved to try its constitution, and willing to see how many difficulties it could overcome. Then he advises, that the head and feet should be kept cold; and the latter often used to cold water, and exposed to wet, in order to lay the foundation, as he says, of an healthy and hardy constitution. Now, Sir, what a pleasure it is to your Pamela, that her notions, and her practice too, fall in so exactly with this learned gentleman's advice that, excepting one article, which is, that your Billy has not yet been accustomed to be _wet-shod_, every other particular has been observed! And don't you see what a charming, charming baby he is?--Nay, and so is your little Davers, for his age--pretty soul! Perhaps some, were they to see this, would not be so ready, as I know _you_ will be, to excuse me; and would be apt to say, "What nursery impertinences are these to trouble a man with!"--But with all their wisdom, they would be mistaken; for if a child has not good health, (and are not these rules the moral foundation, as I may say, of that blessing?) its animal organs will play but poorly in a weak or crazy case. These, therefore, are necessary rules to be observed for the first two or three years: for then the little buds of their minds will begin to open, and their watchful mamma will be employed like a skilful gardener, in assisting and encouraging the charming flower through its several hopeful stages to perfection, when it shall become one of the principal ornaments of that delicate garden, your honoured family. Pardon me, Sir, if in the above paragraph I am too figurative. I begin to be afraid I am out of my sphere, writing to your dear self, on these important subjects. But be that as it may, I will here put an end to this my first letter (on the earliest part of my subject), rejoicing in the opportunity you have given me of producing a fresh instance of that duty and affection, wherewith I am, and shall ever be, my dearest Mr. B., _your grateful, happy_, P.B. LETTER XCI I will now, my dearest, my best beloved correspondent of all, begin, since the tender age of my dear babies will not permit me to have an eye yet to their _better_ part, to tell you what are the little matters to which I am not quite so well reconciled in Mr. Locke: and this I shall be better enabled to do, by my observations upon the temper and natural bent of my dear Miss Goodwin, as well as by those which my visits to the bigger children of my little school, and those at the cottages adjacent, have enabled me to make; for human nature, Sir, you are not to be told, is human nature, whether in the high-born, or in the low. This excellent author (Section 52), having justly disallowed of slavish and corporal punishments in the education of those we would have to be wise, good, and ingenuous men, adds, "On the other side, to flatter children by rewards of things that are pleasant to them, is as carefully to be avoided. He that will give his son apples, or sugar-plums, or what else of this kind he is most delighted with, to make him learn his book, does but authorize his love of pleasure, and cockers up that dangerous propensity, which he ought, by all means, to subdue and stifle in him. You can never hope to teach him to master it, whilst you compound for the check you give his inclination in one place, by the satisfaction you propose to it in another. To make a good, a wise, and a virtuous man, 'tis fit he should learn to cross his appetite, and deny his inclination to riches, finery, or pleasing his palate, &c." This, Sir, is well said; but is it not a little too philosophical and abstracted, not only for the generality of children, but for the age he supposes them to be of, if one may guess by the apples and the sugar-plums proposed for the rewards of their well-doing?--Would not this require that memory or reflection in children, which, in another place, is called the concomitant of prudence and age, and not of childhood? It is undoubtedly very right, to check an unreasonable appetite, and that at its first appearance. But if so small and so reasonable an inducement will prevail, surely, Sir, it might be complied with. A generous mind takes delight to win over others by good usage and mildness, rather than by severity; and it must be a great pain to such an one, to be always inculcating, on his children or pupils, the doctrine of self-denial, by methods quite grievous to his own nature. What I would then humbly propose, is, that the encouragements offered to youth, should, indeed, be innocent ones, as the gentleman enjoins, and not such as would lead to luxury, either of food or apparel; but I humbly think it necessary, that rewards, proper rewards, should be proposed as incentives to laudable actions: for is it not by this method that the whole world is influenced and governed? Does not God himself, by rewards and punishments, make it our interest, as well as our duty, to obey him? And can we propose ourselves, for the government of our children, a better example than that of the Creator? This fine author seems to think he had been a little of the strictest, and liable to some exception. "I say not this," proceeds he, (Section 53) "that I would have children kept from the conveniences or pleasures of life, that are not injurious to their health or virtue. On the contrary, I would have their lives made as pleasant and as agreeable to them as may be, in a plentiful enjoyment of whatsoever might innocently delight them."-And yet he immediately subjoins a very hard and difficult proviso to this indulgence.--"Provided," says he, "it be with this caution, that they have those enjoyments only as the consequences of the state of esteem and acceptation they are in with their parents and governors." I doubt, my dear Mr. B., this is expecting such a distinction and discretion in children, as they seldom have in their tender years, and requiring capacities not commonly to be met with; so that it is not prescribing to the _generality_, as this excellent author intended. 'Tis, I humbly conceive, next to impossible that their tender minds should distinguish beyond facts; they covet this or that play-thing, and the parent, or governor, takes advantage of its desires, and annexes to the indulgence such or such a task or duty, as a condition; and shews himself pleased with its compliance with it: so the child wins its plaything, and receives the commendation so necessary to lead on young minds to laudable pursuits. But shall it not be suffered to enjoy the innocent reward of its compliance, unless it can give satisfaction, that its greatest delight is not in having the thing coveted, but in performing the task, or obeying the injunctions imposed upon it as a condition of its being obliged? I doubt, Sir, this is a little too strict, and not to be expected from children. A servant, full-grown, would not be able to shew, that, on condition he complied with such and such terms (which, it is to be supposed by the offer, he would not have complied with, but for that inducement), he should have such and such a reward; I say, he would hardly be able to shew, that he preferred the pleasure of performing the requisite conditions to the stipulated reward. Nor is it necessary he should: for he is not the less a good servant, or a virtuous man, if he own the conditions painful, and the reward necessary to his low state in the world, and that otherwise he would not undergo any service at all.--Why then should this be exacted from a child? Let, therefore, innocent rewards be proposed, and let us be contented to lead on the ductile minds of children to a love of their duty, by obliging them with such: we may tell them what we expect in this case; but we ought not, I humbly conceive, to be too rigorous in exacting it; for, after all, the inducement will naturally be the uppermost consideration with the child: not, as I hinted, had it been offered to it, if the parent himself had not thought so. And, therefore, we can only let the child know his duty in this respect, and that he _ought_ to give a preference to that; and then rest ourselves contented, although we should discern, that the reward is the chief incentive, of it. For this, from whatever motive inculcated, may beget a habit in the child of doing it: and then, as it improves in years, one may hope, that reason will take place, and enable him, from the most solid and durable motives, to give a preference to the duty. Upon the whole, then, can we insist upon it, that the child should so nicely distinguish away its little _innate_ passions, as if we expected it to be born a philosopher? Self-denial is, indeed, a most excellent doctrine to be inculcated into children, and it must be done _early_: but we must not be too severe in our exacting it; for a duty too rigidly insisted upon, will make it odious. This Mr. Locke, too, observes in another place, on the head of too great severity; which he illustrates by a familiar comparison: "Offensive circumstances," says he, "ordinarily infect innocent things which they are joined with. And the very sight of a cup, wherein any one uses to take nauseous physic, turns his stomach; so that nothing will relish well out of it, though the cup be never so clean and well-shaped, and of the richest materials." Permit me to add, that Mr. Locke writes still more rigorously on the subject of rewards; which I quote, to shew I have not misunderstood him: "But these enjoyments," says he, "should _never_ be offered or bestowed on children, as the rewards of this or that particular performance that they shew an aversion to, or to which they would not have applied themselves without that temptation." If, dear Sir, the minds of children can be led on by innocent inducements to the performance of a duty, of which they are capable, what I have humbly offered, is enough, I presume, to convince one, that it _may_ be done. But if ever a particular study be proposed to be mastered, or a bias to be overcome (that is not an _indispensable_ requisite to his future life of morals) to which the child shews an aversion, I would not, methinks, have him be too much tempted or compelled to conquer or subdue it, especially if it appear to be a _natural_ or rivetted aversion. For, permit me to observe, that the education and studies of children ought, as much as possible, to be suited to their capacities and inclination, and, by these means, we may expect to have always _useful_ and often _great_ men, in different professions; for that genius which does not prompt to the prosecution of one study, may shine in another no less necessary part of science. But, if the promise of innocent rewards _would_ conquer this aversion, yet they should not be applied with this view; for the best consequences that can be hoped for, will be tolerable skill in one thing, instead of most excellent in another. Nevertheless, I must repeat, that if, as the child grows up, and is capable of so much reason, that, from the love of the _inducement_, one can raise his mind to the love of the _duty_, it should be done by all means. But, my dear Mr. B., I am afraid that _that_ parent or tutor will meet with but little success, who, in a child's tender years, shall refuse to comply with its foibles, till he sees it value its duty, and the pleasure of obeying his commands, beyond the little enjoyment on which his heart is fixed. For, as I humbly conceive, that mind which can be brought to prefer its duty to its appetites, will want little of the perfection of the wisest philosophers. Besides, Sir, permit to me say, that I am afraid this perpetual opposition between the passions of the child and the duty to be enforced, especially when it sees how other children are indulged (for if this regimen could be observed by _any_, it would be impossible it should become _general_, while the fond and the inconsiderate parents are so large a part of mankind), will cow and dispirit a child, and will, perhaps produce, a necessity of making use of severity, to subdue him to this temper of self-denial; for if the child refuses, the parent must insist; and what will be the consequence? must it not introduce a harsher discipline than this gentleman allows of?--and which, I presume to say, did never yet do good to any but to slavish and base spirits, if to them; a discipline which Mr. Locke every where justly condemns. See here, dear Sir, a specimen of the presumption of your girl: "What will she come to in time!" you will perhaps say, "Her next step will be to arraign myself." No, no, dear Sir, don't think so: for my duty, my love, and my reverence, shall be your guards, and defend you from every thing saucy in me, but the bold approaches of my gratitude, winch shall always testify for me, how much I am _your obliged and dutiful servant_, P.B. LETTER XCII MY DEAREST MR. B., I will continue my subject, although I have not had an opportunity to know whether you approve of my notions or not by reason of the excursions you have been pleased to allow me to make in your beloved company to the sea-ports of this kingdom, and to the more noted inland towns of Essex, Kent, Sussex, Hampshire, and Dorsetshire, which have given me infinite delight and pleasure, and enlarged my notions of the wealth and power of the kingdom, in which God's goodness has given you so considerable a stake. My next topic will be upon a _home_ education, which Mr. Locke prefers, for several weighty reasons, to a _school_ one, provided such a tutor can be procured, as he makes next to an impossibility to procure. The gentleman has set forth the inconveniencies of both, and was himself so discouraged, on a review of them, that he was ready, as he says, to throw up his pen. My chief cares, dear Sir, on this head, are three: 1st, The difficulty which, as I said, Mr. Locke makes almost insuperable, to find a qualified tutor. 2ndly, The necessity there is, according to Mr. Locke, of keeping the youth out of the company of the meaner servants, who may set him bad examples. And, 3rdly, Those still greater difficulties which will arise from the example of his parents, if they are not very discreet and circumspect. As to the qualifications of the tutor, Mr. Locke supposes, that he is to be so learned, so discreet, so wise, in short, so _perfect_ a man, that I doubt, and so does Mr. Locke, such an one can hardly be met with for this _humble_ and _slavish_ employment. I presume, Sir, to call it so, because of the too little regard that is generally paid to these useful men in the families of the great, where they are frequently put upon a foot with the uppermost servants, and the rather, if they happen to be men of modesty. "I would," says he, "from children's first beginning to talk, have some discreet, sober, nay, _wise_ person about them, whose care it should be to fashion them right, and to keep them from all ill; especially the infection of bad company. I think this province requires great sobriety, temperance, tenderness, diligence, and discretion; qualities hardly to be found united in persons that are to be had for ordinary salaries, nor easily to be found any where." If this, Sir, be the case, does not this excellent author recommend a scheme that is rendered in a manner impracticable from this difficulty? As to these qualities being more rarely to be met with in persons that are to be had for _ordinary salaries_, I cannot help being of opinion (although, with Mr. Locke, I think no expence should be spared, if that _would_ do) that there is as good a chance for finding a proper person among the needy scholars (if not of a low and sordid turn of mind) as among the more affluent: because the narrow circumstances of the former (which probably became a spur to his own improvement) will, it is likely, at first setting out in the world, make him be glad to embrace such an offer in a family which has interest enough to prefer him, and will quicken his diligence to make him _deserve_ preferment; and if such an one wanted any of that requisite politeness, which some would naturally expect from scholars of better fortune, might not that be supplied to the youth by the conversation of parents, relations, and visitors, in conjunction with those other helps which young men of family and large expectations constantly have, and which few learned tutors can give him? I say not this to countenance the wretched niggardliness (which this gentleman justly censures) of those who grudge a handsome consideration to so necessary and painful a labour as that of a tutor, which, where a deserving man can be met with, cannot be too genteelly rewarded, nor himself too respectfully treated. I only beg to deliver my opinion, that a low condition is as likely as any other, with a mind not ungenerous, to produce a man who has these good qualities, as well for the reasons I have hinted at, as for others which might be mentioned. But Mr. Locke thus proceeds: "To form a young gentleman as he should be, 'tis fit his governor should be well bred, understand the ways of carriage, and measures of civility, in all the variety of _persons_, _times_, and _places_ and keep his pupil, as far as his age requires, constantly to the observation of them. This is an art not to be learnt or taught by books.--Nothing can give it but good company and observation joined together." And in another place says, "Besides being well-bred, the tutor should know the world well; the ways, the humours, the follies, the cheats, the faults of the age he has fallen into, and particularly of the country he lives in: these he should be able to shew to his pupil, as he finds him capable; teach him skill in men and their manners; pull off the mask which their several callings and pretences cover them with; and make his pupil discern what lies at the bottom, under such appearances, that he may not, as unexperienced young men are apt to do, if they are unwarned, take one thing for another, judge by the outside, and give himself up to show, and the insinuations of a fair carriage, or an obliging application; teach him to guess at, and beware of, the designs of men he hath to do with, neither with too much suspicion, nor too much confidence." This, dear Sir, is excellently said: 'tis noble _theory_; and if the tutor be a man void of resentment and caprice, and will not be governed by partial considerations, in his own judgment of persons and things, all will be well: but if otherwise, may he not take advantage of the confidence placed in him, to the injury of some worthy person, and by degrees monopolize the young gentleman to himself, and govern his passions as absolutely, as I have heard some first ministers have done those of their prince, equally to his own personal disreputation, and to the disadvantage of his people? But all this, and much more, according to Mr. Locke, is the duty of a tutor: and on the finding out such an one, depends his scheme of a home education. No wonder, then, that he himself says, "When I consider the scruples and cautions I here lay in your way, methinks it looks as if I advised you to something which I would have offered at, but in effect not done," &c.--Permit me, dear Sir, in this place to express my fear that it is hardly possible for any one, with talents inferior to those of Mr. Locke himself, to come up to the rules he has laid down upon this subject; and 'tis to be questioned, whether even _he_, with all that vast stock of natural reason and solid sense, for which, as you tell me, Sir, he was so famous, had attained to these perfections, at his first setting out into life. Now, therefore, dear Sir, you can't imagine how these difficulties perplex me, as to my knowing how to judge which is best, a _home_ or a _school_ education. For hear what this excellent author justly observes on the latter, among other things, no less to the purpose: "I am sure, he who is able to be at the charge of a tutor at home, may there give his son a more genteel carriage, more manly thoughts, and a sense of what is worthy and becoming, with a greater proficiency in learning, into the bargain, and ripen him up sooner into a man, than any school can do. Not that I blame the schoolmaster in this," says he, "or think it to be laid to his charge. The difference is great between two or three pupils in the same house, and three or four score boys lodged up and down; for, let the master's industry and skill be never so great, it is impossible he should have fifty or an hundred scholars under his eye any longer than they are in the school together." But then, Sir, if there be such a difficulty as Mr. Locke says, to meet with a proper tutor for the home education, which he thus prefers, what a perplexing thing is this. But still, according to this gentleman, another difficulty attends a home education; and that is, what I hinted at before, in my second article, the necessity of keeping the youth out of the company of the meaner servants, who may set him bad examples. For thus he says, "Here is another great inconvenience, which children receive from the ill examples which they meet with from the meaner servants. They are _wholly_, if possible, to be kept from such conversation: for the contagion of these ill precedents, both in civility and virtue, horribly infects children, as often as they come within the reach of it. They frequently learn from unbred or debauched servants, such language, untowardly tricks and vices, as otherwise they would be ignorant of all their lives. 'Tis a hard matter wholly to prevent this mischief," continues he; "you will have very good luck, if you never have a clownish or vicious servant, and if from them your children never get any infection." Then, Sir, my third point (which I mentioned in the beginning of this letter) makes a still stronger objection, as it may happen, against a home education; to wit, the example of the parents themselves, if they be not very circumspect and discreet. All these difficulties being put together, let me, dear Sir, humbly propose it, as a matter for your consideration and determination, whether there be not a middle way to be found out in a school education, that may remedy some of these inconveniencies? For suppose you cannot get a tutor so qualified as Mr. Locke thinks he ought to be, for your Billy as he grows up. Suppose there is danger from your meaner servants; or we his parents should not be able to lay ourselves under the requisite restraints, in order to form his mind by our own examples, which I hope, by God's grace, however, will not be the case--Cannot some master be found, who shall be so well rewarded for his care of a _few_ young gentlemen, as to make it worth his while to be contented with those _few?_--suppose from five to eight at most; whose morals and breeding he may attend to, as well as to their learning? The farther this master lives from the young gentleman's friends, the better it may be. We will hope, that he is a man of a mild disposition, but strict in his discipline, and who shall make it a rule not to give correction for small faults, or till every other method has been tried; who carries such a just dignity in his manner, without the appearance of tyranny, that his looks may be of greater force than the blows of others; and who will rather endeavour to shame than terrify, a youth out of his faults. Then, suppose this gentleman was to allot a particular portion of time for the _more learned_ studies; and before the youth was tired with _them_, suppose another portion was allotted for the _writing_ and _arithmetic_; and then to relieve his mind from both, suppose the _dancing-master_ should take his part; and innocent exercises of mere diversion, to fill up the rest, at his own choice, in which, diverted by such a rotation of employments (all thus rendered delightful by their successive variety), he would hardly wish to pass much time. For the dancing of itself, with the dancing-master's instruction, if a well-bred man, will answer both parts, that of breeding and that of exercise: and thus different studies at once be mastered. Moreover, the emulation which will be inspired, where there are several young gentlemen, will be of inconceivable use both to tutor and pupil, in lessening the trouble of the one, and advancing the learning of the other, which cannot be expected where there is but a single youth to be taken care of. Such a master will know it to be his interest, as well as duty, to have a watchful eye over the conduct and behaviour of his servants. His assistants, in the different branches of science and education, will be persons of approved prudence, for whom he will think himself answerable, since his own _reputation_, as well as _livelihood_, will depend upon their behaviour. The youths will have young gentlemen for their companions, all under the influence of the same precepts and directions; and if some chosen period were fixed, as a reward for some excellence, where, at a little desk, raised a step or two above the other seats, the excelling youth should be set to read, under the master's direction, a little portion from the best translations of the Greek and Roman historians, and even from the best English authors; this might, in a very engaging manner, initiate them into the knowledge of the history of past times, and of their own country, and give them a curiosity to pass some of their vacant hours in the same laudable pursuit: for, dear Sir, I must still insist that rewards, and innocent gratifications, as also little honours and distinctions, must needs be very attractive to the minds of youth. For, is not the pretty ride, and dairy house breakfasting, by which Miss Goodwin's governess distinguishes the little ladies who excel in their allotted tasks, a fine encouragement to their ductile minds?--Yes, it is, to be sure!--And I have often thought of it with pleasure, and partaken of the delight with which I have supposed their pretty hearts must be filled with on that occasion. And why may not such little triumphs be, in proportion, as incentives, to children, to make them try to master laudable tasks; as the Roman triumphs, of different kinds, and their mural and civic crowns, all which I have heard you speak of, were to their heroes and warriors of old? For Mr. Dryden well observes, that-- "Men are but children of a larger growth; Our appetites are apt to change as theirs, And full as craving too, and full as vain." Permit me. Sir, to transcribe four or five lines more, for the beauty of the thought: "And yet the soul, shut up in her dark room, Viewing so clear abroad, at home sees nothing: But like a mole in earth, busy and blind, Works all her folly up, and casts it outward To the world's open view--" Improving the thought: methinks I can see the dear little Miss, who has, in some eminent task, borne away the palm, make her public entry, as I may call it, after her dairy breakfast and pretty airing, into the governess's court-yard, through a row of her school-fellows, drawn out on each side to admire her; her governess and assistants receiving her at the porch, their little capitol, and lifting her out with applauses and encomiums, with a _Thus shall it be done to the Miss, whom her governess delighteth to honour!_ I see not why the dear Miss in this case, as she moves through her admiring school-fellows, may not have her little heart beat with as much delight, be as gloriously elated, proportionably, as that of the greatest hero in his triumphal car, who has returned from exploits, perhaps, much less laudable. But how I ramble!--Yet surely, Sir, you don't expect method or connection from your girl. The education of our sex will not permit that, where it is best. We are forced to struggle for knowledge, like the poor feeble infant in the month, who is pinned and fettered down upon the nurse's lap; and who, if its little arms happen, by chance, to escape its nurse's observation, and offer but to expand themselves, are immediately taken into custody, and pinioned down to their passive behaviour. So, when a poor girl, in spite of her narrow education, breaks out into notice, her genius is immediately tamed by trifling employments, lest, perhaps, she should become the envy of one sex, and the equal of the other. But you. Sir, act more nobly with your Pamela; for you throw in her way all opportunities of improvement; and she has only to regret, that she cannot make a better use of them, and, of consequence, render herself more worthy of your generous indulgence. I know not how, Sir, to recover my thread; and so must break off with that delight which I always take when I come near the bottom of my letters to your dear self; because then I can boast of the honour which I have in being _your ever dutiful_, P.B. LETTER XCIII Well, but, my dear Mr. B., you will perhaps think, from my last rambling letter, that I am most inclined to a _school_ education for your Billy, and some years hence, if it should please God to spare him to us. Yet I cannot say that I am; I only lay several things together in my usual indigested way, to take your opinion upon, which, as it ought, will be always decisive with me. And indeed I am so thoroughly convinced by Mr. Locke's reasons, where the behaviour of servants can be so well answered for, as that of yours can be, and where the example of the parents will be, as I hope, rather edifying than otherwise, that without being swayed, as I think, by maternal fondness, in this case, I must needs give a preference to the home education; and the little scheme I presumed to form in my last, was only on a supposition, that those necessary points could not be so well secured. In my observations on this head, I shall take the liberty, in one or two particulars, a little to differ from an author, that I admire exceedingly; and that is the present design of my writing these letters; for I shall hereafter, if God spare my life, in my little book (when you have kindly decided upon the points in which I presume to differ) shew you, Sir, my great reverence and esteem for him; and can then let you know all my sentiments on this important subject, and that more undoubtedly, as I shall be more improved by years and your conversation; especially, Sir, if I have the honour and happiness of a foreign tour with you, of which you give me hope; so much are you pleased with the delight I take in these improving excursions, which you have now favoured me with, at different times, through more than half the kingdom. Well then, Sir, I will proceed to consider a little more particularly the subject of a home education, with an eye to those difficulties, of which Mr. Locke takes notice, as I mentioned in my last. As to the first, that of finding a qualified tutor; we must not expect so much perfection, I doubt, as he lays down as necessary. What, therefore, I humbly conceive is best to be done, will be to avoid choosing a man of bigoted and narrow principles; who yet shall not be tainted with sceptical or heterodox notions, nor a mere scholar or pedant; who has travelled, and yet preserved his moral character untainted; and whose behaviour and carriage is easy, unaffected, unformal, and genteel, as well acquiredly as naturally so, if possible; who shall not be dogmatical, positive, overbearing, on one hand; nor too yielding, suppliant, fawning, on the other; who shall study the child's natural bent, in order to direct his studies to the point he is most likely to excel in; and to preserve the respect due to his own character from every one, he must not be a busy body in the family, a whisperer, a tale-bearer, but of a benevolent turn of mind, ready to compose differences; who shall avoid, of all things, that foppishness of dress and appearance, which distinguishes the _petit-maitres_, and French ushers (that I have seen at some boarding schools), for coxcombs rather than guides of education: for, as I have heard you, my best tutor, often observe, the peculiarities of habit, where a person aims at something fantastic, or out of character, are an undoubted sign of a wrong head; for such a one is so kind as always to hang out on his sign what sort of furniture he has in his shop, to save you the trouble of asking questions about him; so that one may as easily know by his outward appearance what he _is_, as one can know a widow by her weeds. Such a person as I have thus negatively described, may be found without very much difficulty, perhaps, because some of these requisites are personal, and others are such as are obvious at first sight, to a common penetration; or, where not so, may be found out, by inquiry into his general character and behaviour: and to the care of such a one, dear Sir, let me suppose your Billy is committed: and so we acquit ourselves of the first difficulty, as well as we can, that of the tutor; who, to become more perfect, may form himself, as to what he wants, by Mr. Locke's excellent rules on that head. But before I quit this subject, I beg to remind you of your opinion upon it, in a conversation with Sir George Stuart, and his nephew, in London; in which you seemed to prefer a Scottish gentleman for a tutor, to those of your own nation, and still more than to those of France? Don't you remember it, dear Sir? And how much those gentlemen were pleased with your facetious freedom with their country, and said, you made them amends for that, in your preference to their learned and travelled youth? If you have forgot it, I will here transcribe it from my _records_, as I call my book of memorandums; for every time I am pleased with a conversation, and have leisure, before it quits my memory, I enter it down in as near the very words as I can; and now you have made me your correspondent, I shall sometimes, perhaps, give you back some valuables from your own treasure.--Miss Darnford, and Mr. Turner, and Mr. Fanshaw, were present, I well remember. These were your words: "Since the union of the two kingdoms, we have many persons of condition, who have taken their tutors for their sons from Scotland; which practice, to speak impartially, has been attended with some advantageous circumstances, that should not be overlooked. For, Sir George, it must be confessed that, notwithstanding your narrow and stiff manner of education in Scotland, a spirit of manly learning, a kind of poetic liberty, as I may call it, has begun to exert itself in that part of the island. The blustering north--forgive me, gentlemen--seems to have hardened the foreheads of her hungry sons; and the keenness with which they set out for preferment in the kindlier south, has taught them to know a good deal of the world betimes. Through the easy terms on which learning is generally attained there, as it is earlier inculcated, so it may, probably, take deeper root: and since 'tis hardly possible--forgive me, dear Sirs--they can go to a worse country on this side Greenland, than some of the northern parts of Scotland; so their education, with a view to travel, and to better themselves by settlements in other countries, may, perhaps, be so many reasons to take greater pains to qualify themselves for this employment, and may make them succeed better in it; especially when they have been able to shake off the fetters which are rivetted upon them under the narrow influence of a too tyrannical kirk discipline, which you, Sir George, have just now so freely censured. "To these considerations, when we add the necessity, which these remote tutors lie under, of behaving well; first, because they seldom wish to return to their own country; and next, because _that_ cannot prefer them, if it would; and thirdly, because it would not, if it could, if the gentleman be of an enlarged genius, and generous way of thinking; I say, when we add to the premises these considerations, they all make a kind of security for their good behaviour: while those of our own country have often friends or acquaintances on whose favour they are apt to depend, and for that reason give less attention to the duties requisite for this important office. "Besides, as their kind friend �olus, who is accustomed to spread and strengthen the bold muscles of the strong-featured Scot, has generally blown away that inauspicious bashfulness, which hangs a much longer time, commonly, on the faces of the southern students; such a one (if he fall not too egregiously into the contrary extreme, so as to become insufferable) may still be the more eligible person for a tutor, as he may teach a young gentleman, betimes, that necessary presence of mind, which those who are confined to a private education sometimes want. "But, after all, if a gentleman of this nation be chosen for this employment, it may be necessary that he should be one who has had as genteel and free an education himself, as his country will afford; and the native roughness of his climate filed off by travel and conversation; who has made, at least, the tour of France and Italy, and has a taste for the politeness of the former nation: but from the boisterousness of a North Britain, and the fantastic politeness of a Frenchman, if happily blended, such a mixture may result, as will furnish out a more complete tutor, than either of the two nations, singly, may be able to produce. But it ought to be remembered that this person must have conquered his native brogue, as I may call it, and be a master of the English pronunciation; otherwise his conversation will be disagreeable to an English ear. "And permit me to add, that, as an acquaintance with the Muses contributes not a little to soften the manners, and give a graceful and delicate turn to the imagination, and a kind of polish to severer studies, it would not be amiss that he should have a taste of poetry, although perhaps it were not to be wished he had such strong inclinations that way, as to make that lively and delectable amusement his predominant passion: for we see very few poets, whose warm imaginations do not run away with their judgments. And yet, in order to learn the dead languages in their purity, it will be necessary to inculcate both the love and the study of the ancient poets, which cannot fail of giving the youth a taste for poetry, in general." Permit me, dear Sir, to ask you, whether you advanced this for argument sake, as sometimes you love to amuse and entertain your friends in an uncommon way? For I should imagine, that our two universities, which you have shewn me, and for which I have ever since had a greater reverence than I had before, are capable of furnishing as good tutors as any nation in the world: for here the young gentlemen seem to me to live both in the _world_ and in the _university_; and we saw several gentlemen who had not only fine parts, but polite behaviour, and deep learning, as you assured me; some of whom you entertained, and were entertained by, in so elegant a manner, that no travelled gentleman, if I may be allowed to judge, could excel them! And besides, my dear Mr. B., I know who is reckoned one of the politest and best-bred gentlemen in England by every body, and learned as well as polite, and yet had his education in one of those celebrated seats of learning. I wish your Billy may never fall short of the gentleman I mean, in all these acquirements; and he will be a very happy creature, I am sure. But how I wander again from my subject. I have no other way to recover myself, when I thus ramble, but by returning to that one delightful point of reflection, that I have the honour to be, dearest Sir, _your ever dutiful and obliged_, P.B. LETTER XCIV DEAREST SIR, I now resume my subject. I had gone through the article of the tutor, as well as I could; and will now observe upon what Mr. Locke says, That children are wholly, if possible, to be kept from the conversation of the meaner servants; whom he supposes to be, as too frequently they are, _unbred_ and _debauched_, to use his own words. Now, Sir, I think it is very difficult to keep children from the conversation of servants at all times. The care of personal attendance, especially in the child's early age, must fall upon servants of one denomination or other, who, little or much, must be conversant with the inferior servants, and so be liable to be tainted by their conversation; and it will be difficult in this case to prevent the taint being communicated to the child. Wherefore it will be a _surer_, as well as a more _laudable_ method, to insist upon the regular behaviour of the whole family, than to expect the child, and its immediate attendant or tutor, should be the only good ones in it. Nor is this so difficult to effect, as may be imagined. Your family affords an eminent instance of it: the good have been confirmed, the remiss have been reformed, the passionate have been tamed; and there is not a family in the kingdom, I will venture to say, to the honour of every individual in it, more uniform, more regular, and freer from evil, and more regardful of what they say and do, than yours. And you will allow, that though always honest, yet they were not always so laudable, so exemplarily virtuous, as of late: which I mention only to shew the practicableness of a reformation, even where bad habits have taken place--For your Pamela, Sir, arrogates not to herself the honour of this change: 'tis owing to the Divine grace shining upon hearts naturally good; for else an example so easy, so plain, so simple, from so young a mistress, who moreover had been exalted from their own station, could not have been attended with such happy effects. You see, dear Sir, what a master and mistress's example could do, with a poor soul so far gone as Mrs. Jewkes. And I dare be confident, that if, on the hiring of a new servant, sobriety of manners and a virtuous conversation were insisted upon, and a general inoffensiveness in words as well as actions was required from them, as indispensable conditions of their service: and that a breach of that kind would be no more passed over, than a wilful fraud, or an act of dishonesty; and if, added to these requisites, their principals take care to support these injunctions by their own example; I say, then, I dare be confident, that if such a service did not _find_ them good, it would _make_ them so. And why should we not think this a very practicable scheme, considering the servants we take are at years of discretion, and have the strong ties of _interest_ superadded to the obligations we require of them? and which, they must needs know (let 'em have what bad habits they will) are right for _themselves_ to discharge, as well as for _us_ to exact. We all know of how much force the example of superiors is to inferiors. It is too justly said, that the courts of princes abound with the most profligate of men, insomuch that a man cannot well have a more significantly bad title, than that of COURTIER: yet even among these, one shall see the force of _example_, as I have heard you, Sir, frequently observe: for, let but the land be blest with a pious and religious prince, who makes it a rule with him to countenance and promote men of virtue and probity; and to put the case still stronger, let such a one even succeed to the most libertine reign, wherein the manners of the people are wholly depraved: yet a wonderful change will be immediately effected. The flagitious livers will be chased away, or reformed; or at least will think it their duty, or their _interest_, which is a stronger tie with such, to _appear_ reformed; and not a man will seek for the favour or countenance of his prince, but by laudable pretences, or by worthy actions. In the reign of King Richard III, as I have read, deformity of body was the fashion, and the nobility and gentry of the court thought it an indispensable requisite of a graceful form to pad for themselves a round shoulder, because the king was crooked. And can we think human nature so absurdly wicked, that it would not much rather have tried to imitate a personal perfection, than a deformity so shocking in its appearance, in people who were naturally straight? 'Tis melancholy to reflect, that of all professions of men, the mariners, who most behold the wonders of Almighty power displayed in the great deep (a sight that has struck me with awe and reverence only from a coast prospect), and who every moment, while at sea, have but one frail plank betwixt themselves and inevitable destruction, are yet, generally speaking, said to be the most abandoned invokers and blasphemers of the name of that God, whose mercies they every moment unthankfully, although so visibly, experience. Yet, as I once heard at your table, Sir, on a particular occasion, we have now a commander in the British navy, who, to his honour, has shewn the force of an excellent example supporting the best precepts: for, on board of his ship, not an oath or curse was to be heard; while volleys of both (issued from impious mouths in the same squadron, out of his knowledge) seemed to fill the sails of other ships with guilty breath, calling aloud for that perdition to overtake them, which perhaps his worthy injunctions and example, in his own, might be of weight to suspend. If such then, dear Sir, be the force of a good example, what have parents to do, who would bring up a child at home under their own eye, according to Mr. Locke's advice, but, first, to have a strict regard to _their_ conduct! This will not want its due influence on the servants; especially if a proper enquiry be first made into their characters, and a watchful eye had over them, to keep them up to those characters afterwards. And when they know they must forfeit the favour of a worthy master, and their places too (which may be thought to be the best of places, because an _uniform_ character must make all around it easy and happy), they will readily observe such rules and directions, as shall be prescribed to them--Rules and directions, which their own consciences will tell them are _right_ to be prescribed; and even right for them to follow, were they not insisted upon by their superiors: and this conviction must go a great way towards their _thorough_ reformation: for a person wholly convinced is half reformed. And thus the hazard a child will run of being corrupted by conversing with the servants, will be removed, and all Mr. Locke's other rules be better enforced. I have the boldness, Sir, to make another objection; and that is, to the distance which Mr. Locke prescribes to be kept between children and servants: for may not this be a means to fill the minds of the former with a contempt of those below them, and an arrogance that is not warranted by any rank or condition, to their inferiors of the same species? I have before transcribed what Mr. Locke has enjoined in relation to this distance, where he says, that the children are by all means to be kept _wholly_ from the conversation of the meaner servants. But how much better advice does the same author give for the behaviour of children to servants in the following words which, I humbly think, are not so entirely consistent with the former, as might be expected from so admirable an author. "Another way," says he (Section 111), "to instil sentiments of humanity, and to keep them lively in young folks, will be, to accustom them to civility in their language and deportment towards their inferiors, and meaner sort of people, particularly servants. It is not unusual to observe the children in gentlemen's families treat the servants of the house with domineering words, names of contempt, and an imperious carriage, as if they were of another race, or species beneath them. Whether ill example, the advantage of fortune or their natural vanity, inspire this haughtiness, it should be prevented or weeded out; and a gentle, courteous, affable carriage towards the lower ranks of men placed in the room of it. No part of their superiority will be hereby lost, but the distinction increased, and their authority strengthened, when love in inferiors is joined to outward respect, and the esteem of the person has a share in their submission: and domestics will pay a more ready and cheerful service, when they find themselves not spurned, because fortune has laid them below the level of others at their master's feet." These, dear Sir, are certainly the sentiments of a generous and enlarged spirit: but I hope, I may observe, that the great distance Mr. Locke before enjoins to be kept between children and servants, is not very consistent with the above-cited paragraph: for if we would prevent this undue contempt of inferiors in the temper of children, the best way, as I humbly presume to think, is not to make it so unpardonable a fault for them, especially in their early years, to be in their company. For can one make the children shun the servants without rendering them odious or contemptible to them, and representing them to the child in such disadvantageous light, as must needs make the servants vile in their eyes, and themselves lofty and exalted in their own? and thereby cause them to treat them with "domineering words, and an imperious carriage, as if they were of another race or species beneath them; and so," as Mr. Locke says, "nurse up their natural pride into an habitual contempt of those beneath them; and then," as he adds, "where will that probably end, but in oppression and cruelty?" But this matter, dear Sir, I presume to think, will all be happily accommodated and reconciled, when the servants' good behaviour is secured by the example and injunctions of the principals. Upon the whole, then, of what Mr. Locke has enjoined, and what I have taken the liberty to suggest on this head, it shall be my endeavour, in that early part of your dear Billy's education, which you will intrust to me, to inculcate betimes in his mind the principles of universal benevolence and kindness to others, especially to inferiors. Nor shall I fear, that the little dear will be wanting to himself in assuming, as he grows up, an air of superiority and distance of behaviour equal to his condition, or that he will descend too low for his station. For, Sir, there is a pride and self-love natural to human minds, that will seldom be kept so low, as to make them humbler than they ought to be. I have observed, before now, instances of this, in some of the families we visit, between the young Masters or Misses, and those children of lower degree, who have been brought to play with them, or divert them. On the Masters' and Misses' side I have always seen, they lead the play and prescribe the laws of it, be the diversion what it will; while, on the other hand, their lower-rank play-fellows have generally given into their little humours, though ever so contrary to their own; and the difference of dress and appearance, and the notion they have of the more eminent condition of their play-fellows' parents, have begot in them a kind of awe and respect, that perhaps more than sufficiently secures the superiority of the one, and the subordination of the other. The advantage of this universal benevolence to a young gentleman, as he grows up, will be, as I humbly conceive, so to diffuse itself over his mind, as to influence all his actions, and give a grace to every thing he does or says, and make him admired and respected from the best and most durable motives; and will be of greater advantage to him for his attaining a handsome address and behaviour (for it will make him conscious that he _merits_ the distinction he will meet with, and encourage him still _more_ to merit it), than the best rules that can be given him for that purpose. I will therefore teach the little dear courteousness and affability, from the properest motives I am able to think of; and will instruct him in only one piece of pride, that of being above doing a mean or low action. I will caution him not to behave in a lordly or insolent manner, even to the lowest servants. I will tell him that that superiority is the most commendable, and will be the best maintained, which is owing to humanity and kindness, and grounded on the perfections of the _mind_, rather than on the _accidental_ advantage of _fortune_ and _condition_: that if his conduct be such as it ought to be, there will be no occasion to tell a servant, that he will be observed and respected: that _humility_, as I once told my Miss Goodwin, is a charming grace, and most conspicuously charming in persons of distinction; for that the poor, who are humbled by their condition, cannot glory in it, as the rich may; and that it makes the lower ranks of people love and admire the high-born, who can so condescend: whereas _pride_, in such, is meanness and insult, as it owes its boast and its being to accidental advantages; which, at the same time, are seldom of _his_ procuring, who can be so mean as to be proud: that even I would sooner forget pride in a low degree than in a high; for it may be a security in the first against doing a base thing: but in the rich, it is a base thing itself, and an impolitic one too; for the more distinction a proud mind grasps at, the less it will have; and every poor despised person can whisper such a one in the ear, when surrounded with, and adorned by, all his glittering splendours, that he _was_ born, and _must_ die, in the _same manner_ with those whom he despises. Thus will the doctrine of benevolence and affability, implanted early in the mind of a young gentleman, and duly cultivated as he grows up, inspire him with the requisite conduct to command respect from _proper_ motives; and while it will make the servants observe a decorum towards him, it will oblige them to have a guard upon their words and actions in presence of one, whose manner of education and training-up would be so great a reproach to them, if they were grossly faulty: so thus, I conceive, a mutual benefit will flow to the manners of each; and _his_ good behaviour will render him, in some measure, an instructive monitor to the whole family. But permit me, Sir, to enlarge on the hint I have already given, in relation to the example of parents, in case a preference be given to the home education. For if this point cannot be secured, I should always imagine it were best to put the child to such a school, as I formerly mentioned. But yet the subject might be spared by me in this case, as I write with a view only to your family; though you will remember, that while I follow Mr. Locke, whose work is public, I must be considered as directing myself to the generality of the world: for, Sir, I have the pleasure to say, that your conduct in your family is unexceptionable; and the pride to think that mine is no disgrace to it. No one hears a word from your mouth unbecoming the character of a polite gentleman; and I shall always be very regardful of what falls from mine. Your temper, Sir, is equal and kind to all your servants, and they love you, as well as awfully respect you: and well does your beautiful and considerate mind, deserve it of them all: and they, seeing I am watchful over my own conduct, so as not to behave unworthy of your kind example, regard me as much as I could wish they should; for well do they know, that their beloved master will have it so, and greatly honours and esteems me himself. Your table-talk is such as persons of the strictest principles may hear, and join in: your guests, and your friends are, generally speaking, persons of the genteelest life, and of the best manners. So that Mr. Locke would have advised _you_, of all gentlemen, had he been living, and known you, to give your children a home education, and assign these, and still stronger reasons for it. But were we to speak to the generality of parents, I fear this would be an almost insuperable objection to a home education. For (I am sorry to say it) when one turns one's eyes to the bad precedents given by the heads of some families, it is hardly to be wondered at, that there is so little virtue and religion among men. For can those parents be surprised at the ungraciousness of their _children_, who hardly ever shew them, that their _own_ actions are governed by reasonable or moral motives? Can the gluttonous father expect a self-denying son? With how ill a grace must a man who will often be disguised in liquor, preach sobriety? a passionate man, patience? an irreligious man, piety? How will a parent, whose hands are seldom without cards, or dice in them, be observed in lessons against the pernicious vice of gaming? Can the profuse father, who is squandering away the fortunes of his children, expect to be regarded in a lesson of frugality? 'Tis impossible he should, except it were that the youth, seeing how pernicious his father's example is, should have the grace to make a proper use of it, and look upon it as a sea-mark, as it were, to enable him to shun the dangerous rocks, on which he sees his father splitting. And even in this _best_ case, let it be considered, how much shame and disgrace his thoughtless parent ought to take to himself, who can admonish his child by nothing but the _odiousness_ of his own vice; and how little it is owing to him, that his guilt is not _doubled_, by his son's treading in his steps! Let such an unhappy parent duly weigh this, and think how likely he is to be, by his bad example, the cause of his child's perdition, as well as his own, and stand unshocked and unamended, if he can! It is then of no avail to wish for discreet servants, if the conduct of the parents is faulty. If the fountain-head be polluted, how shall the under-currents run clear? That master and mistress, who would exact from their servants a behaviour which they themselves don't practice, will be but ill observed. And that child, who discovers excesses and errors in his parents, will be found to be less profited by their good precepts, than prejudiced by bad examples. Excessive fondness this hour; violent passions and perhaps execrations, the next; unguarded jests, and admiration of fashionable vanities, rash censures, are perhaps the best, that the child sees in, or hears from those, who are most concerned to inculcate good precepts into his mind. And where it is so, a home education must not surely be chosen. Having thus, as well as my slender abilities will permit, presumed to deliver my opinion upon three great points, _viz_. the qualifications of a tutor; the necessity of having an eye to the morals of servants; and the example of parents (all which, being taken care of, will give a preference, as I imagine, to a home education); permit me, dear Sir, to speak a little further to a point, that I have already touched upon. It is that of _emulation_; which I humbly conceive to be of great efficacy to lead children on in their duties and studies. And how, dear Sir, shall this advantage be procured for a young master, who has no school-fellows and who has no example to follow, but that of his tutor, whom he cannot, from the disparity of years, and other circumstances, without pain (because of this disparity), think of emulating? And this, I conceive, is a very great advantage to such a school education, as I mentioned in my former letter, where there are no more scholars taken in, than the master can with ease and pleasure instruct. But one way, in my humble opinion, is left to answer this objection, and still preserve the reason for the preference which Mr. Locke gives to a home education; and that is, what I formerly hinted, to take into your family the child of some honest neighbour of but middling circumstances, and like age of your own, but who should give apparent indications of his natural promptitude, ingenuous temper, obliging behaviour and good manners; and to let him go hand-in-hand with yours in his several studies and lessons under the same tutor. The child would be sensible of the benefit, as well as of the distinction, he received, and consequently of what was expected from him, and would double his diligence, and exert all his good qualities, which would inspire the young gentleman with the wished-for emulation, and, as I imagine, would be so promotive of his learning, that it would greatly compensate the tutor for his pains with the additional scholar; for the young gentleman would be ashamed to be outdone by one of like years and stature with himself. And little rewards might be proposed to the greatest proficient, in order to heighten the emulation. Then, Sir, the _generosity_ of such a method, to a gentleman of your fortune, and beneficent mind, would be its own reward, were there no other benefit to be received from it. Moreover, such an ingenious youth might, by his good morals and industry, hereafter be of service, in some place of trust in the family; or it would be easy for a gentleman of your interest in the world, if such a thing offered not, to provide for the youth in the navy, in some of the public offices, or among your private friends. If he proved faulty in his morals, his dismission would be in your own power, and would be punishment enough. But, if on the other hand, he proved a sober and hopeful youth, he would make an excellent companion for your Billy in riper years; as he would be, in a manner, a corroborator of his morals; for, as his circumstances would not support him in any extravagance, so they would be a check upon his inclination; and this being seconded by the hopes of future preferment from your favour and interest, which he could not expect but upon the terms of his perseverance in virtue, he would find himself under a necessity of setting such an example, as might be of great benefit to his companion, who should be watched, as he grew up, that he did not (if his ample fortune became dangerous to his virtue) contribute out of his affluence to draw the other after him into extravagance. And to this end, as I humbly conceive, the noble doctrine of _independence_ should be early instilled into both their minds, and upon all occasions, inculcated and inforced; which would be an inducement for the one to endeavour to _improve_ his fortune by his honest industry, lest he never be enabled to rise out of a state of dependence; and to the other, to _keep,_ if not to _improve,_ his own, lest he ever fall into such a servile state, and thereby lose the glorious power of conferring happiness on the deserving, one of the highest pleasures that a generous mind can know; a pleasure, Sir, which you have oftener experienced than thousands of gentlemen: and which may you still continue to experience for a long and happy succession of years, is the prayer of one, the most obliged of all others in her own person, as well as in the persons of her dearest relations, and who owes to this glorious beneficence the honour she boasts, of being _your ever affectionate and grateful_ P.B. LETTER XCV But now, my dear Mr. B., if you will indulge me in a letter or two more, preparative to my little book, I will take the liberty to touch upon one or two other places, wherein I differ from this learned gentleman. But first, permit me to observe, that if parents are, above all things, to avoid giving bad examples to their children, they will be no less careful to shun the practice of such fond fathers and mothers, as are wont to indulge their children in bad habits, and give them their head, at a time when, like wax, their tender minds may be moulded into what shape they please. This is a point that, if it please God, I will carefully attend to, because it is the foundation on which the superstructure of the whole future man is to be erected. For, according as he is indulged or checked in his childish follies, a ground is laid for his future happiness or misery; and if once they are suffered to become habitual to him, it cannot but be expected, that they will grow up with him, and that they will hardly ever be eradicated. "Try it," says Mr. Locke, speaking to this very point, "in a dog, or a horse, or any other creature, and see whether the ill and resty tricks they have learned when young, are easily to be mended, when they are knit; and yet none of these creatures are half so wilful and proud, or half so desirous to be masters of themselves, as men." And this brings me, dear Sir, to the head of _punishments_, in which, as well as in the article of _rewards_, which I have touched upon, I have a little objection to what Mr. Locke advances. But permit me, however, to premise, that I am exceedingly pleased with the method laid down by this excellent writer, rather to shame the child out of his fault, than beat him; which latter serves generally for nothing but to harden his mind. _Obstinacy_, and telling a _lie_, and committing a _wilful_ fault, and then persisting in it, are, I agree with this gentleman, the only causes for which the child should be punished with stripes: and I admire the reasons he gives against a too rigorous and severe treatment of children. But I will give Mr. Locke's words, to which I have some objection. "It may be doubted," says he, "concerning whipping, when, as the _last_ remedy, it comes to be necessary, at _what time_, and by whom, it should be done; whether presently, upon the committing the fault, whilst it is yet fresh and hot. I think it should not be done presently," adds he, "lest passion mingle with it; and so, though it exceed the just proportion, yet it lose of its due weight. For even children discern whenever we do things in a passion." I must beg leave, dear Sir, to differ from Mr. Locke in this point; for I think it ought rather to be a rule with parents, who shall chastise their children, to conquer what would be extreme in _their own_ passion on this occasion (for those who cannot do it, are very unfit to be the punishers of the wayward passions of their children), than to _defer_ the punishment, especially if the child knows its fault has reached its parent's ear. It is otherwise, methinks, giving the child, if of an obstinate disposition, so much more time to harden its mind, and bid defiance to its punishment. Just now, dear Sir, your Billy is brought into my presence, all smiling, crowing to come to me, and full of heart-cheering promises; and the subject I am upon goes to my heart. Surely I can never beat your Billy!--Dear little life of my life! how can I think thou canst ever deserve it, or that I can ever inflict it?--No, my baby, that shall be thy papa's task, if ever thou art so heinously naughty; and whatever _he_ does, must be right. Pardon my foolish fondness, dear Sir!--I will proceed. If, then, the fault be so atrocious as to deserve whipping, and the parent be resolved on this exemplary punishment, the child ought not, as I imagine, to come into one's presence without meeting with it: or else, a fondness too natural to be resisted, will probably get the upper hand of one's resentment, and how shall one be able to whip the dear creature one had ceased to be angry with? Then after he has once seen one without meeting his punishment, will he not be inclined to hope for connivance at his fault, unless it should be repeated? And may he not be apt (for children's resentments are strong) to impute to cruelty a correction (when he thought the fault had been forgotten) that should always appear to be inflicted with reluctance, and through motives of love? If, from anger at his fault, one should go _above the due proportion_, (I am sure I might be trusted for this!) let it take its course!--How barbarously, methinks, I speak!--He ought to _feel_ the lash, first, because he _deserves_ it, poor little soul? Next, because it is _proposed_ to be exemplary. And, lastly, because it is not intended to be _often_ used: and the very passion or displeasure one expresses (if it be not enormous) will shew one is in earnest, and create in him a necessary awe, and fear to offend again. The _end_ of the correction is to shew him the difference between right and wrong. And as it is proper to take him at his first offer of a full submission and repentance (and not before), and instantly dispassionate one's self, and shew him the difference by acts of pardon and kindness (which will let him see that one punishes him out of necessity rather than choice), so one would not be afraid to make him smart so sufficiently, that he should not soon forget the severity of the discipline, nor the disgrace of it. There's a cruel mamma for you, Mr. B.! What my _practice_ may be, I cannot tell; but this _theory_, I presume to think, is right. As to the _act_ itself, I much approve Mr. Locke's advice, to do it by pauses, mingling stripes and expostulations together, to shame and terrify the more; and the rather, as the parent, by this slow manner of inflicting the punishment, will less need to be afraid of giving too violent a correction; for those pauses will afford _him_, as well as the _child_, opportunities for consideration and reflection. But as to the _person_, by whom the discipline should be performed, I humbly conceive, that this excellent author is here also to be objected to. "If you have a discreet servant," says he, "capable of it, and has the place of governing your child (for if you have a tutor, there is no doubt), I think it is best the smart should come immediately from another's hand, though by the parent's order, who should see it done, whereby the parent's authority will be preserved, and the child's aversion for the pain it suffers, rather be turned on the person that immediately inflicts it. For I would have a father seldom strike a child, but upon very urgent necessity, and as the last remedy." 'Tis in such an urgent case that we are supposing that it should be done at all. If there be not a reason strong enough for the father's whipping the child himself, there cannot be one for his ordering another to do it, and standing by to see it done. But I humbly think, that if there be a necessity, no one can be so fit as the father himself to do it. The child cannot dispute his authority to punish, from whom he receives and expects all the good things of his life: he cannot question _his_ love to him, and after the smart is over, and his obedience secured, must believe that so tender, so indulgent a father could have no other end in whipping him, but his good. Against _him_, he knows he has no remedy, but must passively submit; and when he is convinced he _must_, he will in time conclude that he _ought_. But to have this severe office performed by a servant, though at the father's command, and that professedly, that the aversion of the child for the pain it suffers should be turned on the person who immediately inflicts it, is, I humbly think, the _reverse_ of what ought to be done. And _more_ so, if this servant has any direction of the child's education; and still much _more_ so, if it be his tutor, though Mr. Locke says, there is no doubt, if there be a tutor, that it should be done by him. For, dear Sir, is there no doubt, that the tutor should lay himself open to the aversion of the child, whose manners he is to form? Is not the best method a tutor can take, in order to enforce the lessons he would inculcate, to try to attract the love and attention of his pupil by the most winning ways he can possibly think of? And yet is _he_, this very tutor _out of all doubt_, to be the instrument of doing an harsh and disgraceful thing, and that in the last resort, when all other methods are found ineffectual; and that too, because he ought to incur the child's resentment and aversion, rather than the father? No, surely, Sir, it is not reasonable it should be so: quite contrary, in my humble notion, there can be no doubt, but that it should be _otherwise_. It should, methinks, be enough for a tutor, in case of a fault in the child, to threaten to complain to his father; but yet not to make such a complaint, without the child obstinately persists in his error, which, too, should be of a nature to merit such an appeal: and this might highly contribute to preserve the parent's authority; who, on this occasion, should never fail of extorting a promise of amendment, or of instantly punishing him with his own hands. And, to soften the distaste he might conceive in resentment of too rigid complainings, it might not be amiss, that his interposition in the child's favour, were the fault not too flagrant, should be permitted to save him once or twice from the impending discipline. 'Tis certain that the passions, if I may so call them, of affection and aversion, are very early discoverable in children; insomuch that they will, even before they can speak, afford us marks for the detection of an hypocritical appearance of love to it before the parents' faces. For the fondness or averseness of the child to some servants, will at any time let one know, whether their love to the baby is uniform and the same, when one is absent, as present. In one case the child will reject with sullenness all the little sycophancies made to it in one's sight; while on the other, its fondness of the person, who generally obliges it, is an infallible rule to judge of such an one's sincerity behind one's back. This little observation shews the strength of a child's resentments, and its sagacity, at the earliest age, in discovering who obliges, and who disobliges it: and hence one may infer, how improper a person _he_ is, whom we would have a child to love and respect, or by whose precepts we would have it directed, to be the punisher of its faults, or to do any harsh or disagreeable office to it. For my own part, I beg to declare, that if the parent were not to inflict the punishment himself, I think it much better it should be given him, in the parent's presence, by the servant of the lowest consideration in the family, and whose manners and example one would be the least willing of any other he should follow. Just as the common executioner, who is the lowest and most flagitious officer of the commonwealth, and who frequently deserves, as much as the criminal, the punishment he is chosen to inflict, is pitched upon to perform, as a mark of greater ignominy, sentences intended as examples to deter others from the commission of heinous crimes. The Almighty took this method when he was disposed to correct severely his chosen people; for, in that case, he generally did it by the hands of the most profligate nations around them, as we read in many places of the Old Testament. But the following rule I admire in Mr. Locke: "When," says he (for any misdemeanour), "the father or mother looks sour on the child, every one else should put on the same coldness to him, and nobody give him countenance till forgiveness is asked, and a reformation of his fault has set him right again, and restored him to his former credit. If this were constantly observed," adds he, "I guess there would be little need of blows or chiding: their own ease or satisfaction would quickly teach children to court commendation, and avoid doing that which they found every body condemned, and they were sure to suffer for, without being chid or beaten. This would teach them modesty and shame, and they would quickly come to have a natural abhorrence for that which they found made them slighted and neglected by every body." This affords me a pretty hint; for if ever your charming Billy shall be naughty, I will proclaim throughout your worthy family, that the little dear is in disgrace! And one shall shun him, another decline answering him, a third say, "No, master, I cannot obey you, till your mamma is pleased with you"; a fourth, "Who shall mind what little masters bid them do, when they won't mind what their mammas say to them?" And when the dear little soul finds this, he will come in my way, (and I see, pardon me, my dear Mr. B., he has some of his papa's spirit, already, indeed he has!) and I will direct myself with double kindness to your beloved Davers, and to my Miss Goodwin, and not notice the dear creature, if I can help it, till I can see his _papa_ (forgive my boldness) banished from his little sullen brow, and all his _mamma_ rise to his eyes. And when his musical tongue shall be unlocked to own his fault, and promise amendment--O then! how shall I clasp him to my bosom! and tears of joy, I know, will meet his tears of penitence! How these flights, dear Sir, please a body!-What delights have those mammas (which some fashionable dear ladies are quite unacquainted with) who can make their babies, and their first educations, their entertainment and diversion! To watch the dawnings of reason in them, to direct their little passions, as they shew themselves, to this or that particular point of benefit or use; and to prepare the sweet virgin soil of their minds to receive the seeds of virtue and goodness so early, that, as they grow up, one need only now a little pruning, and now a little water, to make them the ornaments and delights of the garden of this life! And then their pretty ways, their fond and grateful endearments, some new beauty every day rising to observation--O my dearest Mr. B., whose enjoyments and pleasures are so great, as those of such mothers as can bend their minds two or three hours every day to the duties of the nursery? I have a few other things to observe upon Mr. Locke's treatise, which, when I have done, I shall read, admire, and improve by the rest, as my years and experience advance; of which, in my proposed little book, I shall give you better proofs than I am able to do at present; raw, crude, and indigested as the notions of so young a mamma must needs be. But these shall be the subjects of another letter; for now I am come to the pride and the pleasure I always have, when I subscribe myself, dearest Sir, _your ever dutiful and grateful_ P.B. LETTER XCVI DEAR SIR, Mr. Locke gives a great many very pretty instructions relating to the play-games of children: but I humbly presume to object to what he says in one or two places. He would not indulge them in any playthings, but what they make themselves, or endeavour to make. "A smooth pebble, a piece of paper, the mother's bunch of keys, or any thing they cannot hurt themselves with," he rightly says, "serve as much to divert little children, as those more chargeable and curious toys from the shops, which are presently put out of order, and broken." These playthings may certainly do for little ones: but methinks, to a person of easy circumstances, since the making these toys employs the industrious poor, the buying them for the child might be complied with, though they _were_ easily broken; and especially as they are of all prices, and some less costly, and more durable than others. "Tops, gigs, battledores," Mr. Locke observes, "which are to be used with labour, should indeed be procured them--not for variety, but exercise; but if they had a top, the scourge-stick and leather strap should be left to their own making and fitting." But I may presume to say, that whatever be the good Mr. Locke proposes by this, it cannot be equal to the mischief children may do themselves in making these playthings! For must they not have implements to work with? and is not a knife, or other edged tool, without which it is impossible they can make or shape a scourge-stick, or _any_ of their playthings, a fine instrument in a child's hands! This advice is the reverse of the caution warranted from all antiquity, _That it is dangerous to meddle with edged tools!_ and I am afraid, the tutor must often act the surgeon, and follow the indulgence with a styptic and plaister; and the young gentleman's hands might be so often bound up as to be one way to cure him of his earnest desire to play; but I can hardly imagine any other good that it can do him; for I doubt the excellent consequences proposed by our author from this doctrine, such as to teach the child moderation in his desires, application, industry, thought, contrivance, and good husbandry, qualities that, as he says, will be useful to him when he is a man, are too remote to be ingrafted upon such beginnings; although it must be confessed, that, as Mr. Locke wisely observes, good habits and industry cannot be too early inculcated. But then, Sir, may I ask, Are not the very plays and sports, to which children accustom themselves, whether they make their own playthings or not, equivalent to the work or labour of grown persons! Yes, Sir, I will venture to say, they are, and more than equivalent to the exercises and labour of many. Mr. Locke advises, that the child's playthings should be as few as possible, which I entirely approve: that they should be in his tutor's power, who is to give him but one at once. But since it is the nature of the human mind to court most what is prohibited, and to set light by what is in its own power; I am half doubtful (only that Mr. Locke says it, and it may not be so very important as other points, in which I have ventured to differ from that gentleman), whether the child's absolute possession of his own playthings in some little repository, of which he may be permitted to keep the key, especially if he makes no bad use of the privilege, would not make him more indifferent to them: while the contrary conduct might possibly enhance his value of them. And if, when he had done with any plaything, he were obliged to put it into its allotted place, and were accustomed to keep account of the number and places of them severally; this would teach him order, and at the same time instruct him to keep a proper account of them, and to avoid being a squanderer or waster: and if he should omit to put his playthings in their places, or be careless of them, the taking them away for a time, or threatening to give them to others, would make him the more heedful. Mr. Locke says, that he has known a child so distracted with the number and variety of his playthings, that he tired his maid every day to look them over: and was so accustomed to abundance, that he never thought he had enough, but was always asking, "What more? What new thing shall I have?"--"A good introduction," adds he, ironically, "to moderate desires, and the ready way to make a contented happy man." All that I shall offer to this, is, that few _men_ are so philosophical as one would wish them to be, much less _children_. But, no doubt, this variety engaged the child's activity; which, of the two might be turned to better purposes than sloth or indolence; and if the maid was tired, it might be, because she was not so much _alive_ as the child; and perhaps this part of the grievance might not be so great, because if she was his attendant, 'tis probable she had nothing else to do. However, in the main, as Mr. Locke says, it is no matter how few playthings the child is indulged with; but yet I can hardly persuade myself, that plenty of them can have such bad consequences as he apprehends; and the rather, because they will excite his attention, and promote his industry and activity. His enquiry after new things, let him have few or many, is to be expected as a consequence to those natural desires which are implanted in him, and will every day increase: but this may be observed, that as he grows in years, he will be above some playthings, and so the number of the old ones will be always reducible, perhaps in a greater proportion, than the new ones will increase. On the head of good-breeding, he observes, that, "there are two sorts of ill-breeding; the one a sheepish bashfulness, and the other a misbecoming negligence and disrespect in our carriage; both which," says he, "are avoided by duly observing this one rule, not to think meanly of ourselves, and not to think meanly of others." I think, as Mr. Locke explains this rule, it is an excellent one. But I would beg to observe upon it, that however discommendable a bashful temper is, in some instances, where it must be deemed a weakness of the mind, yet, in my humble opinion, it is generally the mark of an ingenuous one, and is always to be preferred to an undistinguishing and hardy confidence, which, as it seems to me, is the genuine production of invincible ignorance. What is faulty in it, which he calls _sheepishness_, should indeed be shaken off as soon as possible, because it is an enemy to merit in its advancement in the world: but, Sir, were I to choose a companion for your Billy, as he grows up, I should not think the worse of the youth, who, not having had the opportunities of knowing men, or seeing the world, had this defect. On the contrary, I should be apt to look upon it as an outward fence or inclosure to his virtue, which might keep off the lighter attacks of immorality, the _Hussars_ of vice, as I may say, who are not able to carry on a formal siege against his morals; and I should expect such a one to be docile, humane, good-humoured, diffident of himself, and therefore most likely to improve as well in mind as behaviour: while a hardened mind, that never doubts itself, must be a stranger to its own infirmities, and suspecting none, is impetuous, over-bearing, incorrigible; and, if rich, a tyrant; if not, possibly an invader of other men's properties; or at least, such a one as allows itself to walk so near the borders of injustice, that where _self_ is concerned, it hardly ever does right things. Mr. Locke proposes (Section 148) a very pretty method to cheat children, as it were, into learning: but then he adds, "There may be dice and playthings, with the letters on them, to teach children the alphabet by playing." And (Section 151) "I know a person of great quality, who, by pasting on the six vowels (for in our language _y_ is one) on the six sides of a dice, and the remaining eighteen consonants on the sides of three other dice, has made this a play for his children, that _he_ shall win, who at one cast throws most words on these four dice; whereby his eldest son, yet in coats, has _played_ himself _into spelling_ with great eagerness, and without once having been chid for it, or forced to it." But I had rather your Billy should be a twelvemonth backwarder for want of this method, than forwarded by it. For what may not be feared from so early inculcating the use of dice and gaming, upon the minds of children? Let Mr. Locke himself speak to this in his Section 208, and I wish I could reconcile the two passages in this excellent author. "As to cards and dice," says he, "I think the safest and best way is, never to learn any play upon them, and so to be incapacitated for these dangerous temptations, and encroaching wasters of useful time." And, he might have added, of the noblest estates and fortunes; while sharpers and scoundrels have been lifted into distinction upon their ruins. Yet, in § 153, Mr. Locke proceeds to give directions in relation to the dice he recommends. But after all, if some innocent plays were fixed upon to cheat children into reading, that, as he says, should look as little like a task as possible, it must needs be of use for that purpose. But let every gentleman, who has a fortune to lose, and who, if he games, is on a foot with the vilest company, who generally have nothing at all to risque, tremble at the thoughts of teaching his son, though for the most laudable purposes, the early use of dice and gaming. But how much I am charmed with a hint in Mr. Locke, which makes your Pamela hope, she may be of greater use to your children, even as they _grow up_, than she could ever have flattered herself to be. 'Tis a charming paragraph; I must not skip one word of it. Thus it begins, and I will observe upon it as I go along. § 177: "But under whose care soever a child is put to be taught, during the tender and flexible years of his life, this is certain, it should be one who thinks Latin and language the least part of education." How agreeable is this to my notions; which I durst not have avowed, but after so excellent a scholar! For I have long had the thought, that much time is wasted to little purpose in the attaining of Latin. Mr. H., I think, says he was ten years in endeavouring to learn it, and, as far as I can find, knows nothing at all of the matter neither!--Indeed he lays that to the wicked picture in his grammar, which he took for granted (as he has often said, as well as once written) was put there to teach boys to rob orchards, instead of improving their minds in learning, or common honesty. But (for this is too light an instance for the subject) Mr. Locke proceeds--"One who knowing how much virtue and a well-tempered soul is to be preferred to any sort of _learning or language_," [_What a noble writer is this!_] "makes it his chief business to form the mind of his scholars, and give that a right disposition:" [_Ay, there, dear Sir, is the thing!_] "which, if once got, though all the rest should be neglected," [_charmingly observed!_] "would, in _due time_," [_without wicked dice, I hope!_] "produce all the rest; and which, if it be not got and settled, so to keep out ill and vicious habits, _languages_ and _sciences_, and all the other accomplishments of education, will be to no purpose, but to make the worse or more dangerous man." [_Now comes the place I am so much delighted with!_] "And indeed, whatever stir there is made about getting of Latin, as the great and difficult business, his mother" [_thank you, dear Sir, for putting this excellent author into my hands!_] "may teach it him herself, if she will but spend two or three hours in a day with him," [_If she will! Never fear, but I will, with the highest pleasure in the world!_] "and make him read the Evangelists in Latin to her." [_How I long to be five or six years older, as well as my dearest babies, that I may enter upon this charming scheme!_] "For she need but buy a Latin Testament, and having got somebody to mark the last syllable but one, where it is long, in words above two syllables (which is enough to regulate her pronunciation and accenting the words), read daily in the Gospels, and then let her avoid understanding them in Latin, if she can." Why, dear Sir, you have taught me almost all this already; and you, my beloved tutor, have told me often, I read and pronounce Latin more than tolerably, though I don't understand it: but this method will teach _me_, as well as your dear _children_--But thus the good gentleman proceeds--"And when she understands the Evangelists in Latin, let her in the same manner read Aesop's Fables, and so proceed on to Eutropius, Justin, and such other books. I do not mention this," adds Mr. Locke, "as an imagination of what I fancy _may_ do, but as of a thing I have known done, and the Latin tongue got with ease this way." He then mentions other advantages, which the child may receive from his mother's instruction, which I will try more and more to qualify myself for: particularly, after he has intimated, that "at the same time that the child is learning French and Latin, he may be entered also in arithmetic, geography, chronology, history, and geometry too; for if," says he, "these be taught him in French or Latin, when he begins once to understand either of these tongues, he will get a knowledge of these sciences, and the language to boot." He then proceeds: "Geography, I think, should be begun with: for the learning of the figure of the globe, the situation and boundaries of the four parts of the world, and that of particular kingdoms and countries, being only an exercise of the eyes and memory, a child with pleasure will learn and retain them. And this is so certain, that I now live in a house with a child, whom his MOTHER has so well instructed this way in geography," [_But_ _had she not, do you think, dear Sir, some of this good gentleman's kind assistance?_] "that he knew the limits of the four parts of the world; would readily point, being asked, to any country upon the globe, or any county in the map of England; knew all the great rivers, promontories, streights, and bays in the world, and could find the longitude and latitude of any place, before he was six years old." There's for you, dear Sir!--See what a mother can do if she pleases! I remember, Sir, formerly, in that sweet chariot conference, at the dawning of my hopes, when all my dangers were happily over (a conference I shall always think of with pleasure), that you asked me, how I would bestow my time, supposing the neighbouring ladies would be above being seen in my company; when I should have no visits to receive or return; no parties of pleasure to join in; no card-tables to employ my winter evenings? I then, Sir, transported with my opening prospects, prattled to you, how well I would try to pass my time, in the family management and accounts, in visits now and then to the indigent and worthy poor; in music sometimes; in reading, in writing, in my superior duties--And I hope I have not behaved quite unworthily of my promise. But I also remember, what once you said on a certain occasion, which _now_, since the fair prospect is no longer distant, and that I have been so long your happy wife, I may repeat without those blushes which then covered my face; thus then, with a _modest_ grace, and with that _virtuous_ endearment that is so _beautiful_ in _your_ sex, as well as in _ours_, whether in the character of lover or husband, maiden or wife, you were pleased to say--"And I hope, my Pamela, to have superadded to all these, such an employment as--" in short, Sir, I am now blessed with, and writing of; no less than the useful part I may be able to take in the first education of your beloved babies! And now I must add, that this pleasing hope sets me above all other diversions: I wish for no parties of pleasure but with you, my dearest Mr. B., and these are parties that will improve me, and make me more capable of the other, and more worthy of your conversation, and of the time you pass (beyond what I could ever have promised to my utmost wishes) in such poor company as mine, for no other reason but because I love to be instructed, and take my lessons well, as you are pleased to say; and indeed I must be a sad dunce, if I did not, from so skilful and so beloved a master. I want no card-table amusements; for I hope, in a few years (and a proud hope it is), to be able to teach your dear little ones the first rudiments, as Mr. Locke points the way, of Latin, of French, and of geography, and arithmetic. O, my dear Mr. B., by your help and countenance, what may I not be able to teach them, and how may I prepare the way for a tutor's instructions, and give him up minds half cultivated to his hands!--And all this time improve myself too, not only in science, but in nature, by tracing in the little babes what all mankind are, and have been, from infancy to riper years, and watching the sweet dawnings of reason, and delighting in every bright emanation of that ray of divinity, lent to the human mind, for great and happy purposes, when rightly pointed and directed. There is no going farther after these charming recollections and hopes, for they bring me to that grateful remembrance, to whom, under God, I owe them all, and also what I have been for so happy a period, and what I am, which will ever be my pride and my glory; and well it may, when I look back to my beginning with humble acknowledgment, and can call myself, dearest Mr. B., _your honoured and honouring, and, I hope to say, in time, useful wife_, P.B. LETTER XCVII MY DEAREST MR. B., Having in my former letters said as much as is necessary to let you into my notion of the excellent book you put into my hands, and having touched those points in which the children of both sexes may be concerned (with some _art_ in my intention, I own), in hope that they would not be so much out of the way, as to make you repent of the honour you have done me, in committing the dear Miss Goodwin to my care; I shall now very quickly set myself about the proposed little book. You have been so good as to tell me (at the same time that you disapprove not these my specimen letters as I may call them), that you will kindly accept of my intended present, and encourage me to proceed in it; and as I shall leave one side of the leaf blank for your corrections and alterations, those corrections will be a fine help and instruction to me in the pleasing task which I propose to myself, of assisting in the early education of your dear children. And as I may be years in writing it, as the dear babies improve, as I myself improve, by the opportunities which their advances in years will give me, and the experience I shall gain, I may then venture to give my notions on the more material and nobler parts of education, as well as the inferior: for (but that I think the subjects above my present abilities) Mr. Locke's book would lead me into several remarks, that might not be unuseful, and which appear to me entirely new; though that may be owing to my slender reading and opportunities, perhaps. But what I would now touch upon, is a word or two still more particularly upon the education of my own sex; a topic which naturally arises to me from the subject of my last letter. For there, dear Sir, we saw, that the mothers might teach the child _this_ part of science, and _that_ part of instruction; and who, I pray, as our sex is generally educated, shall teach the _mothers_? How, in a word, shall _they_ come by their knowledge? I know you'll be apt to say, that Miss Goodwin gives all the promises of becoming a fine young lady, and takes her learning, loves reading, and makes very pretty reflections upon all she reads, and asks very pertinent questions, and is as knowing, at her years, as most young ladies. This is very true, Sir; but it is not every one that can boast of Miss Goodwin's capacity, and goodness of temper, which have enabled her to get up a good deal of _lost_ time, as I must call it; for her first four years were a perfect blank, as far as I can find, just as if the pretty dear was born the day she was four years old; for what she had to _unlearn_ as to temper, and will, and such things, set against what little improvements she had made, might very fairly be compounded for, as a blank. I would indeed have a girl brought up to her needle, but I would not have _all_ her time employed in samplers, and learning to mark, and do those unnecessary things, which she will never, probably, be called upon to practise. And why, pray, are not girls entitled to the same _first_ education, though not to the same plays and diversions, as boys; so far, at least, as is supposed by Mr. Locke a mother can instruct them? Would not this lay a foundation for their future improvement, and direct their inclinations to useful subjects, such as would make them above the imputations of some unkind gentlemen, who allot to their part common tea-table prattle, while they do all they can to make them fit for nothing else, and then upbraid them for it? And would not the men find us better and more suitable companions and assistants to them in every useful purpose of life?--O that your lordly sex were all like my dear Mr. B.--I don't mean that they should all take raw, uncouth, unbred, lowly girls, as I was, from the cottage, and, destroying all distinction, make such their wives; for there is a far greater likelihood, that such a one, when she comes to be lifted up into so dazzling a sphere, would have her head made giddy with her exaltation, than that she would balance herself well in it: and to what a blot, over all the fair page of a long life, would this little drop of dirty ink spread itself! What a standing disreputation to the choice of a gentleman! But _this_ I mean, that after a gentleman had entered into the marriage state with a young creature (saying nothing at all of birth or descent) far inferior to him in learning, in parts, in knowledge of the world, and in all the graces which make conversation agreeable and improving, he would, as you do, endeavour to make her fit company for himself, as he shall find she is _willing_ to improve, and _capable_ of improvement: that he would direct her taste, point out to her proper subjects for her amusement and instruction; travel with her now and then, a month in a year perhaps; and shew her the world, after he has encouraged her to put herself forward at his own table, and at the houses of his friends, and has seen, that she will not do him great discredit any where. What obligations, and opportunities too, will this give her to love and honour such a husband, every hour, more and more! as she will see his wisdom in a thousand instances, and experience his indulgence to her in ten thousand, to the praise of his politeness, and the honour of them both!--And then, when select parties of pleasure or business engaged him not abroad, in his home conversation, to have him delight to instruct and open her views, and inspire her with an ambition to enlarge her mind, and more and more to excel! What an intellectual kind of married life would such persons find theirs! And how suitable to the rules of policy and self-love in the gentleman; for is not the wife, and are not her improvements, all _his own_?--_Absolutely_, as I may say, _his own_? And does not every excellence she can be adorned by, redound to her husband's honour because she is his, even more than to _her own_!--In like manner as no dishonour affects a man so much, as that which he receives from a bad wife. But where is such a gentleman as Mr. B. to be met with? Look round and see where, with all the advantages of sex, of education, of travel, of conversation in the open world, a gentleman of his abilities to instruct and inform, is to be found? And there are others, who, perhaps, will question the capacities or inclinations of our sex in general, to improve in useful knowledge, were they to meet with such kind instructors, either in the characters of parents or husbands. As to the first, I grant, that it is not easy to find such a gentleman: but for the second (if excusable in me, who am one of the sex, and so may be thought partial to it), I could by comparisons drawn from the gentlemen and ladies within the circle of my own acquaintance, produce instances, which are so flagrantly in their favour, as might make it suspected, that it is policy more than justice, in those who would keep our sex unacquainted with that more eligible turn of education, which gives the gentlemen so many advantages over us in _that_; and which will shew, they have none at all in _nature_ or _genius_. I know you will pardon me, dear Sir; for you are so exalted above your Pamela, by nature and education too, that you cannot apprehend any inconvenience from bold comparisons. I will beg, therefore, to mention a few instances among our friends, where the ladies, notwithstanding their more cramped and confined education, make _more_ than an equal figure with the gentlemen in all the graceful parts of conversation, in spite of the contempts poured out upon our sex by some witty gentlemen, whose writings I have in my eye. To begin then with Mr. Murray, and Miss Damford that was; Mr. Murray has the reputation of scholarship, and has travelled too; but how infinitely is he surpassed in every noble and useful quality, and in greatness of mind, and judgment, as well as wit, by the young lady I have named! This we saw, when last at the Hall, in fifty instances, where the gentleman was, you know, Sir, on a visit to Sir Simon and his lady. Next, dear Sir, permit me to observe, that my good Lord Davers, with all his advantages, born a counsellor of the realm, and educated accordingly, does not surpass his lady. _My_ countess, as I delight to call her, and Lady Betty, her eldest daughter, greatly surpassed the Earl and her eldest brother in every point of knowledge, and even learning, as I may say, although both ladies owe that advantage principally to their own cultivation and acquirement. Let me presume, Sir, to name Mr. H.: and when I _have_ named him, shall we not be puzzled to find any where in our sex, one remove from vulgar life, a woman that will not out-do Mr. H.? Lady Darnford, upon all useful subjects, makes a much brighter figure than Sir Simon, whose knowledge of the world has not yet made him acquainted with himself.--Mr. Arthur excels not his lady. Mrs. Towers, a maiden lady, is an over-match for half a dozen of the neighbouring gentlemen I could name, in what is called wit and politeness, and not inferior to any of them in judgment. I could multiply such instances, were it needful, to the confutation of that low, and I had almost said, _unmanly_ contempt, with which a certain celebrated genius treats our sex in general in most of his pieces, I have seen; particularly his _Letter of Advice to a new married Lady_; so written, as must disgust, instead of instruct; and looks more like the advice of an enemy to the _sex_, and a bitter one too, than a friend to the _particular Lady_. But I ought to beg pardon for this my presumption, for two reasons: first, because of the truly admirable talents of this writer; and next, because we know not what ladies the ingenious gentleman may have fallen among in his younger days. Upon the whole, therefore, I conclude, that Mr. B. is almost the only gentleman, who excels _every_ lady that I have seen; so _greatly_ excels, that even the emanations of his excellence irradiate a low cottage-born girl, and make her pass among ladies of birth and education for somebody. Forgive my pride, dear Sir; but it would be almost a crime in your Pamela not to exult in the mild benignity of those rays, by which her beloved Mr. B. endeavours to make her look up to his own sunny sphere: while she, by the advantage only of his reflected glory, in _his_ absence, which makes a dark night to her, glides along with her paler and fainter beaminess, and makes a distinguishing figure among such lesser planets, as can only poorly twinkle and glimmer, for want of the aid she boasts of. I dare not, Sir, conjecture whence arises this more than parity in the genius of the sexes, among the above persons, notwithstanding the disparity of education, and the difference in the opportunities of each. This might lead one into too proud a thought in favour of a sex too contemptuously treated by some _other_ wits I could name, who, indeed, are the less to be regarded, as they love to jest upon all God Almighty's works: yet might I better do it, too, than anybody, since I am so infinitely transcended by my husband, that no competition, pride or vanity, could be apprehended from me. But, however, I would only beg of those who are so free in their contempts of us, that they would, for _their own sakes_ (and that, with such generally goes a great way), rather try to _improve_ than _depreciate_ us: we should then make better daughters, better wives, better mothers, and better mistresses: and who (permit me, Sir, to ask them) would be so much the better for these opportunities and amendments, as our upbraiders themselves! On re-perusing this, I must repeatedly beg your excuse for these proud notions in behalf of my sex, which, I can truly say, are not owing to partiality because, I have the honour to be one of it; but to a far better motive; for what does this contemptuous treatment of one half, if not the better half, of the human species, naturally produce, but libertinism and abandoned wickedness? for does it not tend to make the daughters, the sisters, the wives of gentlemen, the subjects of profligate attempts?--Does it not render the sex vile in the eyes of the most vile? And when a lady is no longer beheld by such persons with that dignity and reverence, with which perhaps, the graces of her person, and the innocence of her mind, should sacredly, as it were, encompass her, do not her very excellencies become so many incentives for base wretches to attempt her virtue, and bring about her ruin? What then may not wicked wit have to answer for, when its possessors prostitute it to such unmanly purposes! And as if they had never had a mother, a sister, a daughter of their own, throw down, as much as in them lies, those sacred fences which may lay the fair inclosure open to the invasions of every clumsier and viler beast of prey; who, though destitute of _their_ wit, yet corrupted by it, shall fill their mouths, as well as their hearts, with the borrowed mischief, and propagate it from one to another to the end of time; and who, otherwise, would have passed by the uninvaded fence, and only shewed their teeth, and snarled at the well secured fold within it? You cannot, my dearest Mr. B., I know be angry at this romantic painting: since you are not affected by it: for when at worst, you acted (more dangerously, 'tis true, for the poor innocents) a _principal_ part, and were as a lion among beasts--Do, dear Sir, let me say _among_, this one time--You scorned to borrow any man's wit; and if nobody had followed your example, till they had had your qualities, the number of rakes would have been but small. Yet, don't mistake me, neither; I am not so mean as to bespeak your favour by extenuating your failings; if I _were_, you would deservedly despise me. For, undoubtedly (I _must_ say it, Sir), your faults were the greater for your perfections: and such talents misapplied, as they made you more capable of mischief, so did they increase the evil of your practices. All then that I mean by saying you are not affected by this painting, is, that you are not affected by my description of clumsy and sordid rakes, whose _wit_ is _borrowed_, and their _wickedness_ only what they may call _their own_. Then, dear Sir, since that noble conversation you held with me at Tunbridge, in relation to the consequences that might, had it not been for God's grace intervening, have followed the masquerade affair, I have the inexpressible pleasure to find a thorough reformation, from the _best_ motives, taking place; and your joining with me in my closet (as opportunity permits) in my evening duties, is the charming confirmation of your kind and voluntary, and I am proud to say, _pious_ assurances; so that this makes me fearless of your displeasure, while I rather triumph in my joy for your precious soul's sake, than presume to think of recriminating; and when (only for this once) I take the liberty of looking back from the delightful _now_, to the painful _formerly!_ But, what a rambler am I again! You command me to write to you all I think, without fear. I obey, and, as the phrase is, do it without either _fear_ or _wit_. If you are _not_ displeased, it is a mark of the true nobleness of your nature, and the sincerity of your late pious declarations. If you _are_, I shall be sure I have done wrong in having applied a corrosive to eat away the _proud flesh_ of a _wound_, that is not yet so thoroughly _digested_, as to bear a painful application, and requires balsam and a gentler treatment. But when we were at Bath, I remember what you said once of the benefit of retrospection: and you charged me, whenever a _proper_ opportunity offered, to remind you, by that one word, _retrospection_, of the charming conversation we had there, on our return from the rooms. If this be not one of them, forgive, dearest Sir, the unreasonableness of your very impertinent, but, in intention and resolution, _ever dutiful_, P.B. LETTER XCVIII _From Mrs. B. to her Father and Mother_ EVER DEAR, AND EVER HONOURED, I must write this one letter, although I have had the happiness to see you so lately; because Mr. B. is now about to honour me with the tour he so kindly promised; and it may therefore be several months, perhaps, before I have again the pleasure of paying you the like dutiful respects. You know his kind promise, that he would for every dear baby I present him with, take an excursion with me afterwards, in order to establish and confirm my health. The task I have undertaken of dedicating all my writing amusements to the dearest of men; the full employment I have, when at home; the frequent rambles he has so often indulged me in, with my dear Miss Goodwin, to Kent, London, Bedfordshire, Lincolnshire, and to my lady Davers, take from me the necessity of writing to you, to my Miss Damford that was, and to Lady Davers, so often as I formerly thought myself obliged to do, when I saw all my worthy friends so seldom; the same things, moreover, with little variation, occurring this year, as to our conversations, visits, friends, employments, and amusements, that fell out the last, as must be the case in a family so uniform and methodical as ours. I have for these reasons, more leisure to pursue my domestic duties, which are increased upon me; and when I have said, that I am every day more and more happy in my beloved Mr. B., in Miss Goodwin, my Billy, my Davers, and now, newly, in my sweet little Pamela (for so, you know, Lady Davers would have her called, rather than by her own name), what can I say more? As to the tour I spoke of, you know, the first part of Mr. B.'s obliging scheme is to carry me to France; for he has already travelled with me over the greatest part of England; and I am sure, by my passage last year, to the Isle of Wight, I shall not be afraid of crossing the water from Dover thither; and he will, when we are at Paris, he says, take _my_ farther directions (that was his kind expression) whither to go next. My Lord and Lady Davers are so good as to promise to accompany us to Paris, provided Mr. B. will give them our company to Aix-la-Chapelle, for a month or six weeks, whither my lord is advised to go. And Mr. H. if he can get over his fear of crossing the salt water, is to be of the party. Lady G., Miss Damford that was (who likewise has lately lain-in of a fine daughter), and I, are to correspond as opportunity offers; and she promises to send you what I write, as formerly: but I have refused to say one word in my letters of the manners, customs, curiosities, &c. of the places we see; because, first, I shall not have leisure; and, next, those things are so much better described in books written by persons who made stricter and better observations that I can pretend to make: so that what I shall write will relate only to our private selves, and be as brief as possible. If we are to do as Mr. B. has it in his thoughts, he intends to be out of England two years:--but how can I bear that, if for your sakes only, and for those of my dear babies!--But this must be my time, my _only_ time, Mr. B. says, to ramble and see distant places and countries; for as soon as his little ones are capable of my instructions, and begin to understand my looks and signs, he will not spare me from them a week together; and he is so kind as to propose, that my dear bold boy (for every one sees how greatly he resembles his papa in his dear forward spirit) shall go with us; and this pleases Miss Goodwin highly, who is very fond of _him_, and my little Davers; but vows she will never love so well my pretty black-eyed Pamela. You see what a sweet girl Miss is, and you admired her much: did I tell you, what she said to me, when first she saw you both, with your silver hairs, and reverend countenances?--"Madam, I dare say, your papa, and mamma, _honoured their father and mother_:"--"They did, my dear; but what is your reason for saying so?"--"Because _they have lived so long in the land which the LORD their GOD has given them_." I took the charmer in my arms, and kissed her three or four times, as she deserved; for was not this very pretty in the child? I must, with inexpressible pleasure, write you word how happily God's providence has now, at last, turned that affair, which once made me so uneasy, in relation to the fine Countess (who has been some time abroad), of whom you had heard, as you told me, some reports, which, had you known at the time, would have made you very apprehensive for Mr. B.'s morals, as well as for my repose. I will now (because I can do it with the highest pleasure, by reason of the event it has produced), explain that dark affair so far as shall make you judges of my present joy: although I had hitherto avoided entering into that subject to you. For now I think myself, by God's grace, secure to the affection and fidelity of the best of husbands, and that from the worthiest motives; as you shall hear. There was but one thing wanting to complete all the happiness I wished for in this life; which was, the remote hope I had entertained, that one day, my dear Mr. B. who from a licentious gentleman became a moralist, would be so touched by the divine grace, as to become in time, more than moral, a religious man, and, at last, join in the duties which he had the goodness to countenance. For this reason I began with mere _indispensables_. I crowded not his gates with objects of charity: I visited them at their homes, and relieved them; distinguishing the worthy indigent (made so by unavoidable accidents and casualties) from the wilfully, or perversely, or sottishly such, by _greater_ marks of my favour. I confined my morning and evening devotions to my own private closet, lest I should give offence and discouragement to so gay a temper, so unaccustomed (poor gentleman!) to acts of devotion and piety; whilst I met his household together, only on mornings and evenings of the Sabbath-day, to prepare them for their public duties in the one, and in hopes to confirm them in what they had heard at church in the other; leaving them to their own reflections for the rest of the week; after I had suggested a method I wished them to follow, and in which they constantly obliged me. This good order had its desired effect, and our Sabbath-day assemblies were held with so little parade, that we were hardly any of us missed. All, in short, was done with cheerful ease and composure: and every one of us was better disposed to our domestic duties: I, to attend the good pleasure of my best friend; and they, that of us both. Thus we went on very happily, my neighbourly visits of charity, taking up no more time than common airings, and passing many of them for such; my private duties being only between my FIRST, my HEAVENLY BENEFACTOR, and myself, and my family ones personally confined to the day separated for these best of services, and Mr. B. pleased with my manner beheld the good effects, and countenanced me by his praises and his endearments, as acting discreetly, as not falling into enthusiasm, and (as he used to say) as not aiming at being _righteous overmuch_. But still I wanted, and waited for, with humble patience, and made it part of my constant prayers, that the divine Grace would at last touch his heart, and make him _more_ than a countenancer, _more_ than an applauder of my duties; that he might for his own dear sake, become a partaker in them. "And then," thought I, "when we can, hand in hand, heart in heart, one spirit as well as one flesh, join in the same closet, in the same prayers and thanksgiving, what a happy creature shall I be." I say, _closet_: for I durst not aspire so high, as to hope the favour of his company among his servants, in our Sunday devotions.--I knew it would be going too far, in _his_ opinion, to expect it from him. In _me_ their mistress, had I been ever so high-born, it was not amiss, because I, and they, _every one_ of us, were _his_; I in one degree, Mr. Longman in another, Mrs. Jervis in another--But from a man of his high temper and manner of education, I knew I could never hope for it, so would not lose _every_ thing, by grasping at _too much_. But in the midst of all these comfortable proceedings, and my further charming hopes, a nasty masquerade threw into his way a temptation, which for a time blasted all my prospects, and indeed made me doubt my own head almost. For, judge my disappointment, when I found all my wishes frustrated, all my prayers rendered ineffectual; his very morality, which I had flattered myself, in time, I should be an humble instrument to exalt into religion, shocked, and in danger; and all the work to begin over again, if offended Grace should ever again offer itself to the dear wilful trespasser! But who should pretend to scrutinize the councils of the Almighty?--for out of all this _evil appearance_ was to proceed the _real good_, I had been so long, and so often, supplicating for! The dear man _was_ to be on the brink of relapsing: it was proper, that I should be so very uneasy, as to assume a conduct not natural to my temper, and to raise his generous concern for me: and, in the very crisis, divine Grace interposed, made him sensible of his danger, made him resolve against his error, before it was yet too late: and his sliding feet, quitting the slippery path he was in, collected new strength, and he stood the firmer and more secure for his peril. For having happily put a stop to that affair, and by his uniform conduct, for a considerable time, shewed me that I had nothing to apprehend from it, he was pleased, when we were last at Tunbridge, and in very serious discourse upon divine subjects, to say to this effect: "Is there not, my Pamela, a text, _That the unbelieving husband shall be saved by the believing wife, whilst he beholds her chaste conversation coupled with fear?_" "I need not tell you, my dear Mr. B., that there is, nor where it is." "Then, my dear, I begin to hope, _that_ will be my case; for, from a former affair, of which this spot of ground puts me more in mind, I see so much reason to doubt my own strength, which I had built, and, as I thought securely, on _moral_ foundations, that I must look out for a _better_ guide to conduct me, than the proud word _honour_ can be, in the general acceptance of it among us lively young gentlemen. "How often have I promised (and I never promised but I intended to perform) that I would be faithfully and only yours! How often declared, that I did not think I could possibly deserve my Pamela, till I could shew her, in my own mind, a purity as nearly equal to hers, as my past conduct would admit of! "But I depended too much upon my own strength: and I am now convinced, that nothing but RELIGIOUS CONSIDERATIONS, and a resolution to watch over the very _first_ appearances of evil, and to check them as they arise, can be of sufficient weight to keep steady to his good purpose, a vain young man, too little accustomed to restraint, and too much used to play upon the brink of dangers, from a temerity, and love of intrigue, natural to enterprising minds. "I would not make this declaration of my convictions to you, till I had thoroughly examined myself, and had reason to hope, that I should be enabled to make it good. And now, my Pamela, from this instant you shall be my guide; and, only taking care, that you do not, all at once, by injunctions too rigorous, damp and discourage the rising flame, I will leave it to you to direct as you please, till, by degrees, it may be deemed worthy to mingle with your own." Judge how rapturous my joy was upon this occasion, and how ready I was to bless God for a danger (so narrowly escaped) which was attended with the _very_ consequences that I had so long prayed for; and which I little thought the divine providence was bringing about by the very means, that, I apprehended, would put an end to all my pleasing hopes and prospects of that nature. It is in vain for me to seek words to express what I felt, and how I acted, on this occasion. I heard him out with twenty different and impatient emotions; and then threw myself at his feet, embracing his knees, with arms the most ardently clasped! My face lifted up to Heaven, and to him, by turns; my eyes overflowing with tears of joy, which half choked up the passage of my words.--At last, his kind arms clasping my neck, and kissing my tearful cheek, I could only say--"My ardent prayers, are at last-heard--May God Almighty confirm your pious purposes! And, Oh I what a happy Pamela have you at your feet!" I wept for joy till I sobbed again--and he raising me to his kind arms, I said--"To have this _heavenly_ prospect, O best beloved of my heart! added to all my _earthly_ blessings!--How shall I contain my joy!--For, oh! to think that he is, and will be mine, and I his, through the mercies of God, when this transitory life is past and gone, to all eternity; what a rich thought is this!--Methinks I am already, dear Sir, ceasing to be mortal, and beginning to taste the perfections of those joys, which this thrice welcome declaration gives me hope of hereafter!--But what shall I say, obliged as I was beyond expression before, and now doubly obliged in the rapturous view you have opened to me, into a happy futurity!" He said, he was delighted with me beyond expression; that I was his ecstatic charmer!--That the love I shewed for his future good was the moving proof of the purity of my heart, and my affection for him. And that very evening he joined with me in my retired duties; and, at all proper opportunities, favours me with his company in the same manner; listening attentively to all my lessons, as he calls my cheerful discourses on serious subjects. And now, my dear parents, do you not rejoice with me in this charming, charming appearance? For, _before_ I had the most generous, the most beneficent, the most noble, the most affectionate, but _now_ I am likely to have the most _pious_, of husbands! What a happy wife, what a happy daughter, is _his_ and _your_ Pamela! God of his infinite mercy, continue and improve the ravishing prospect! I was forced to leave off here, to enjoy the charming reflections, which this lovely subject, and my blessed prospects, filled me with; and now proceed to write a few lines more. I am under some concern on account of our going to travel into some Roman Catholic countries, for fear we should want the public opportunities of divine service: for I presume, the ambassador's chapel will be the only Protestant place of worship allowed of, and Paris the only city in France where there is one. But we must endeavour to make it up in our private and domestic duties: for, as the phrase is--"When we are at Rome, we must do as they do at Rome;" that is to say, so far as not to give offence, on the one hand, to the people we are among; nor scandal, on the other, by compliances hurtful to one's conscience. But my protector knows all these things so well (no place in what is called the grand tour, being new to him), that I have no reason to be very uneasy. And now let me, by letter, as I did on my knees at parting, beg the continuance of your prayers and blessings, and that God will preserve us to one another, and give us, and all our worthy friends, a happy meeting again. Kent, you may be sure, will be our first visit, on our return, for your sakes, for my dear Davers's, and my little Pamela's sake, who will be both put into your protection; while my Billy, and Miss Goodwin (for, since I began this letter, it is so determined), are to be my delightful companions; for Mr. B. declared, his temper wants looking after, and his notices of every thing are strong and significant. Poor little dear! he has indeed a little sort of perverseness and headstrongness, as one may say, in his will: yet he is but a baby, and I hope to manage him pretty well; for he notices all I say, and every look of mine already.--He is, besides, very good humoured, and willing to part with anything for a kind word: and this gives me hopes of a docile and benevolent disposition, as he grows up. I thought, when I began the last paragraph but one, that I was within a line of concluding; but it is _to_ you, and _of_ my babies, I am writing; so shall go on to the bottom of this new sheet, if I do not directly finish: which I do, with assuring you both, that wherever I am, I shall always be thoughtful of you, and remember you in my prayers, as becomes _your ever dutiful daughter_, P.B. My respects to all your good neighbours in general. Mr. Longman will visit you now and then. Mrs. Jervis will take one journey into Kent, she says, and it shall be to accompany my babies, when carried down to you. Poor Jonathan, and she, good folks! seem declining in their health, which grieves me.--Once more, God send us all a happy meeting, if it be his blessed will! Adieu, adieu, my dear parents! _your ever dutiful, &c._ LETTER XCIX My Dear Lady G., I received your last letter at Paris, as we were disposing every thing for our return to England, after an absence of near two years; in which, as I have informed you, from time to time, I have been a great traveller, into Holland, the Netherlands, through the most considerable province of France, into Italy; and, in our return to Paris again (the principal place of our residence), through several parts of Germany. I told you of the favours and civilities we received at Florence, from the then Countess Dowager of----, who, with her humble servant Lord C----(that had so assiduously attended her for so many months in Italy), accompanied us from Florence to Inspruck. Her ladyship made that worthy lord happy in about a month after she parted from us, and the noble pair gave us an opportunity at Paris, in their way to England, to return some of the civilities which we received from them in Italy; and they are now arrived at her ladyship's seat on the Forest. Her lord is exceedingly fond of her, as he well may; for she is one of the most charming ladies in England; and behaves to him with so much prudence and respect, that they are as happy in each other as can be wished. And let me just add, that both in Italy and at Paris, Mr. B.'s demeanour and her ladyship's to one another, was so nobly open, and unaffectedly polite, as well as highly discreet, that neither Lord C. who had once been jealous of Mr. B. nor the _other party_, who had had a tincture of the same yellow evil, as you know, because of the Countess, had so much as a shadow of uneasiness remaining on the occasion. Lord Davers has had his health (which had begun to decline in England) so well, that there was no persuading Lady Davers to return before now, although I begged and prayed I might not have another little Frenchman, for fear they should, as they grew up, forget, as I pleasantly used to say, the obligations which their parentage lays them under to dearer England. And now, my dearest friend, I have shut up my rambles for my whole life; for three little English folks, and one little Frenchman (but a charming baby as well as the rest, Charley by name), and a near prospect of a further increase, you will say, are family enough to employ all my cares at home. I have told you, from time to time, although I could not write to you so often as I would, because of our being constantly in motion, what was most worthy of your knowledge relating to every particular, and how happy we all have been in one another. And I have the pleasure to confirm to you what I have often written, that Mr. B. and my Lord and Lady Davers are all that I could wish and hope for, with regard to their first duties. We are indeed a happy family, united by the best and most solid ties! Miss Goodwin is a charming young lady!--I cannot express how much I love her. She is a perfect mistress of the French language and speaks Italian very prettily! And, as to myself, I have improved so well under my dear tutor's lessons, together with the opportunity of conversing with the politest and most learned gentry of different nations, that I will discourse with you in two or three languages, if you please, when I have the happiness to see you. There's a learned boaster for you, my dear friend! (if the knowledge of different languages makes one learned.)--But I shall bring you an heart as entirely English as ever, for all that! We landed on Thursday last at Dover, and directed our course to the dear farm-house; and you can better imagine, than I express, our meeting with my dear father and mother, and my beloved Davers and Pamela, who are charming babies.--But is not this the language of every fond mamma? Miss Goodwin is highly delighted now with my sweet little Pamela, and says, she shall be her sister indeed! "For, Madam," said she, "Miss is a beauty!--And we see no French beauties like Master Davers and Miss."--"Beauty! my dear," said I; "what is beauty, if she be not a good girl? Beauty is but a specious, and, as it may happen, a dangerous recommendation, a mere skin-deep perfection; and if, as she grows up, she is not as good as Miss Goodwin, she shall be none of my girl." What adds to my pleasure, my dear friend, is to see them both so well got over the small-pox. It has been as happy for them, as it was for their mamma and her Billy, that they had it under so skilful and kind a manager in that distemper, as my dear mother. I wish if it please God, it was as happily over with my little pretty Frenchman. Every body is surprised to see what the past two years have done for Miss Goodwin and my Billy.--O, my dear friend, they are both of them almost--nay, quite, I think, for their years, all that I wish them to be. In order to make them keep their French, which Miss so well speaks, and Billy so prettily prattles, I oblige them, when they are in the nursery, to speak nothing else: but at table, except on particular occasions, when French may be spoken, they are to speak in English; that is, when they do speak: for I tell them, that little masters must only ask questions for information, and say--"Yes," or--"No," till their papas or mammas permit them to speak; nor little ladies neither, till they are sixteen; for--"My dear loves," cry I, "you would not speak before you know _how_; and knowledge is obtained by _hearing_, and not by _speaking_." And setting my Billy on my lap, in Miss's presence--"Here," said I, taking an ear in the fingers of each hand, "are two ears, my Billy," and then, pointing to his mouth, "but one tongue, my love; so you must be sure to mind that you _hear_ twice as much as you _speak_, even when you grow a bigger master than you are now." "You have so many pretty ways to learn one, Madam," says Miss, now and then, "that it is impossible we should not regard what you say to us!" Several French tutors, when we were abroad, were recommended to Mr. B. But there is one English gentleman, now on his travels with young Mr. R. with whom Mr. B. has agreed; and in the mean time, my best friend is pleased to compliment me, that the children will not suffer for want of a tutor, while I can take the pains I do: which he will have to be too much for me: especially that now, on our return, my Davers and my Pamela are added to my cares. But what mother can take too much pains to cultivate the minds of her children?--If, my dear Lady G., it were not for these _frequent_ lyings-in!--But this is the time of life.--Though little did I think, so early, I should have so many careful blessings! I have as great credit as pleasure from my little family. All our neighbours here admire us more and more. You'll excuse my seeming (for it is but seeming) vanity: I hope I know better than to have it real--"Never," says Mrs. Towers, who is still a single lady, "did I see, before, a lady so much advantaged by her residence in that fantastic nation" (for she loves not the French) "who brought home with her nothing of their affectation!"--She says, that the French politeness, and the English frankness and plainness of heart, appear happily blended in all we say and do. And she makes me a thousand compliments upon Lord and Lady Davers's account, who, she would fain persuade me, owe a great deal of improvement (my lord in his conversation, and my lady in her temper) to living in the same house with us. My Lady Davers is exceeding kind and good to me, is always magnifying me to every body, and says she knows not how to live from me: and that I have been a means of saving half a hundred souls, as well as her dear brother's. On an indisposition of my Lord's at Montpellier, which made her very apprehensive, she declared, that were she to be deprived of his lordship, she would not let us rest till we had consented to her living with us; saying that we had room enough in Lincolnshire, and she would enlarge the Bedfordshire seat at her own expense. Mr. H. is Mr. H. still; and that's the best I can say of him; for I verily think, he is more of an ape than ever. His _whole_ head is now French. 'Twas _half_ so before. We had great difficulties with him abroad: his aunt and I endeavouring to give him a serious and religious turn, we had like to have turned him into a Roman Catholic. For he was much pleased with the shewy part of that religion, and the fine pictures, and decorations in the churches of Italy; and having got into company with a Dominican at Padua, a Franciscan at Milan, and a Jesuit at Paris, they lay so hard at him, in their turns, that we had like to have lost him to each assailant: so were forced to let him take his own course; for, his aunt would have it, that he had no other defence from the attacks of persons to make him embrace a faulty religion, than to permit him to continue as he was; that is to say, to have none at all. So she suspended attempting to proselyte the thoughtless creature, till he came to England. I wish her success here: but, I doubt, he will not be a credit to any religion, for a great while. And as he is very desirous to go to London, it will be found, when there, that any fluttering coxcomb will do more to make him one of that class, in an hour, than his aunt's lessons, to make him a good man, in a twelvemonth. "_Where much is given, much is required_." The contrary of this, I doubt, is all poor Mr. H. has to trust to. We have just now heard that his father, who has been long ill, is dead. So now, he is a lord indeed! He flutters and starts about most strangely, I warrant, and is wholly employed in giving directions as to his mourning equipage.--And now there will be no holding him in, I doubt; except his new title has so much virtue in it, as to make him a wiser and better man. He will now have a seat in the House of Peers of Great Britain; but I hope, for the nation's sake, he will not find many more like himself there!--For, to me, that is one of the most venerable assemblies in the world; and it appears the more so, since I have been abroad; for an English gentleman is respected, if he be any thing of a man, above a foreign nobleman; and an English nobleman above some petty sovereigns. If our travelling gentry duly considered this distinction in their favour, they would, for the honour of their country, as well as for their own credit, behave in a better manner, in their foreign tours, than, I am sorry to say, some of them do. But what can one expect from the unlicked cubs (pardon the term) sent abroad with only stature, to make them look like men, and equipage to attract respect, without one other qualification to enforce it? Here let me close this, with a few tears, to the memory of my dear Mrs. Jervis, my other mother, my friend, my adviser, my protectress, in my single state; and my faithful second and partaker in the comforts of my higher life, and better fortunes! What would I have given to have been present, as it seems, she so earnestly wished, to close her dying eyes! I should have done it with the piety and the concern of a truly affectionate daughter. But that melancholy happiness was denied to us both; for, as I told you in the letter on the occasion, the dear good woman (who is now in the possession of her blessed reward, and rejoicing in God's mercies) was no more, when the news reached me, so far off as Heidelburgh, of her last illness and wishes. I cannot forbear, every time I enter her parlour (where I used to see, with so much delight, the good woman sitting, always employed in some useful or pious work), shedding a tear to her memory; and in my Sabbath duties, missing _her_, I miss half a dozen friends, methinks; and I sigh in remembrance of her; and can only recover that cheerful frame, which the performance of those duties always gave me, by reflecting, that she is now reaping the reward of that sincere piety, which used to edify and encourage us all. The servants we brought home, and those we left behind, melt in tears at the name of Mrs. Jervis. Mr. Longman, too, lamented the loss of her, in the most moving strain. And all I can do now, in honour of her memory and her merit, is to be a friend to those she loved most, as I have already begun to be, and none of them shall suffer in those concerns that can be answered, now she is gone. For the loss of so excellent a friend and relation, is loss enough to all who knew her, and claimed kindred with her. Poor worthy Jonathan, too, ('tis almost a misery to have so soft, so susceptible an heart as I have, or to have such good servants and friends as one cannot lose without such emotions as I feel for the loss of them!) his silver hairs, which I have beheld with so much delight, and thought I had a father in presence, when I saw them adorning so honest and comely a face, are now laid low!--Forgive me, he was not a common servant; neither are _any_ of ours so: but Jonathan excelled all that excelled in his class!-I am told, that these two worthy folks died within two days of one another: on which occasion I could not help saying to myself, in the words of David over Saul and his son Jonathan, the name-sake of our worthy butler--"_They were lovely and pleasant in their lives, and in their deaths they were not divided._" I might have continued on in the words of the royal lamenter; for, surely, never did one fellow-servant love another in my maiden state, nor servant love a mistress in my exalted condition, better than Jonathan loved me! I could see in his eyes a glistening pleasure, whenever I passed by him: if at such times I spoke to him, as I seldom failed to do, with a--"_God bless you too!_" in answer to his repeated blessings, he had a kind of rejuvenescence (may I say?) visibly running through his whole frame: and, now and then, if I laid my hands upon his folded ones, as I passed him on a Sunday morning or evening, praying for me, with a--"_How do you, my worthy old acquaintance?_" his heart would spring to his lips in a kind of rapture, and his eyes would run over. O my beloved friend! how the loss of these two worthies of my family oppresses me at times! Mr. B. likewise shewed a generous concern on the occasion: and when all the servants welcomed us in a body, on our return--"Methinks my dear," said he, "I miss your Mrs. Jervis, and honest Jonathan." A starting tear, and--"They are happy, dear honest souls!" and a sigh, were the tribute I paid to their memories, on their beloved master's so kindly repeating their names. Who knows, had I been here--But away, too painful reflections--They lived to a good old age, and fell like fruit fully ripe: they _died the death of the righteous_; I must follow them in time, God knows how soon; and, _Oh! that my latter end may be like theirs!_ Once more, forgive me, my dear friend, this small tribute to their memories: and believe, that I am not so ungrateful for God's mercies, as to let the loss of these dear good folks lessen with me the joy and delight I have still left me, in the health and the love of the best of husbands, and good men; in the children, charming as ever mother could boast of--charming, I mean, principally, in the dawning beauties of their minds, and in the pleasure their towardliness of nature gives me; including, as I always do, my dear Miss Goodwin, and have reason to do, from her dutiful love of me, and observation of all I say to her; in the preservation to me of the best and worthiest of parents, hearty, though aged as they are; in the love and friendship of good Lord and Lady Davers, and my excellent friend Lady G.; not forgetting even worthy Mr. Longman. God preserve all these to me, as I am truly thankful for his mercies!--And then, notwithstanding my affecting losses, as above, who will be so happy as I? That you, my dear Lady G. may long continue so, likewise in the love of a worthy husband, and the delights of an increasing hopeful family, which will make you some amends for the heavy losses you also have sustained, in the two last years of an affectionate father, and a most worthy mother, and, in Mrs. Jones, of a good neighbour, prays _your ever affectionate friend and servant_, P.B. * * * * * LETTER C MY BELOVED LADY G., You will excuse my long silence, when I shall tell you the occasions of it. In the first place, I was obliged to pay a dutiful visit to Kent, where my good father was taken ill of a fever, and my mother of an ague; and think. Madam, how this must affect me, at their time of life! Mr. B. kindly accompanied me, apprehending that his presence would be necessary, if the recovery of them both, in which I thankfully rejoice, had not happened; especially as a circumstance I am, I think, always in, added more weight to his apprehensions. I had hardly returned from Kent to Bedfordshire, and looked around, when I was obliged to set out to attend Lady Davers, who said she should _die_, if she saw me not, to comfort and recover, by my counsel and presence (so she was pleased to express herself) her sick lord who had just got out of an intermittent fever, which left him without any spirit, and was occasioned by fretting at the conduct of her _stupid nephew_ (those also were her words). For you must have heard (every body hears when a man of quality does a foolish thing!), and it has been in all the newspapers, that, "On Wednesday last the Right Honourable John" (Jackey they should have said), "Lord H., nephew to the Right Honourable William Lord Davers, was married to the Honourable Mrs. P., relict of J.P. of Twickenham, Esq., a lady of celebrated beauty and ample fortune." Now, you must know, that this celebrated lady is, 'tis true, of the----family, whence her title of _honourable_; but is indeed so _celebrated_, that every fluttering coxcomb in town can give some account of her, even before she was in keeping of the Duke of----who had cast her on the town he had robbed of her. In short, she is quite a common woman; has no fortune at all, as one may say, only a small jointure incumbered; and is much in debt. She is a shrew into the bargain, and the poor wretch is a father already; for he has already had a girl of three years old (her husband has been dead seven) brought him home, which he knew nothing of, nor even inquired, whether his widow had a child!--And he is now paying the mother's debts, and trying to make the best of his bargain. This is the fruit of a London journey, so long desired by him, and his fluttering about there with his new title. He was drawn in by a brother of his lady, and a friend of that brother's, two town sharpers, gamesters, and bullies. Poor Sir Joseph Wittol! This was his case, and his character, it seems, in London. Shall I present you with a curiosity? "Tis a copy of his letter to his uncle, who had, as you may well think, lost all patience with him, on occasion of this abominable folly. "MY LORD DAVERS, "For iff you will not call me neffew, I have no reason to call you unkell; surely you forgett who it was you held up your kane to: I have as little reason to valew you displeassure, as you have me: for I am, God be thanked, a lord and a pere of the realme, as well as you; and as to youre nott owneing me, nor your brother B. not looking upon me, I care not a fardinge: and, bad as you think I have done, I have marry'd a woman of family. Take thatt among you! "As to your personal abuses of her, take care whatt you say. You know the stattute will defend us as well as you.--And, besides, she has a brother that won't lett her good name be called in question.--Mind thatt! "Some thinges I wish had been otherwise--perhapps I do.--What then?--Must you, my lord, make more mischiefe, and adde to my plagues, iff I have any?--Is this your unkelship? "Butt I shan't want youre advice. I have as good an estate as you have, and am as much a lord as yourselfe.--Why the devill then, am I to be treated as I am?--Why the plague--But I won't sware neither. I desire not to see you, any more than you doe me, I can tell you thatt. And iff we ever meet under one roofe with my likeing, it must be at the House of Peeres where I shall be upon a parr with you in every thing, that's my cumfurte. "As to Lady Davers, I desire not to see her ladyship; for she was always plaguy nimbel with her fingers; but, lett my false stepp be what itt will, I have in other respectes, marry'd a lady who is as well descended as herseife, and no disparagement neither; so have nott thatt to answer for to her pride; and who has as good a spiritt too, if they were to come face to face, or I am mistaken: nor will shee take affmntes from any one. So my lord, leave mee to make the best of my matters, as I will of youres. So no more, but that I am _youre servante_, H. "P.S. I mean no affrunte to Mrs. B. She is the best of yee all--by G--." I will not take up your time with further observations upon this poor creature's bad conduct: his reflection must proceed from _feeling_; and will, that's the worst of it, come too late, come _when_ or _how_ it will. I will only say, I am sorry for it on his own account, but more for that of Lord and Lady Davers, who take the matter very heavily, and wish he had married the lowest born creature in England (so she had been honest and virtuous), rather than done as he has done. But, I suppose, the poor gentleman was resolved to shun, at all adventures, Mr. B.'s fault, and keep up to the pride of descent and family;--and so married the only creature, as I hope (since it cannot be helped), that is so great a disgrace to both: for I presume to flatter myself, for the sake of my sex, that, among the poor wretches who are sunk so low as the town-women are, there are very few of birth or education; but such, principally, as have had their necessities or their ignorance taken advantage of by base men; since birth and education must needs set the most unhappy of the sex above so sordid and so abandoned a guilt, as the hourly wickedness of such a course of life subjects them to. But let me pursue my purpose of excusing my long silence. I had hardly returned from Lady Davers's, and recovered my family management, and resumed my nursery duties, when my fourth dear boy, my Jemmy (for, I think am I going on to make out the number Lady Davers allotted me), pressed so upon me, as not to be refused, for one month or six weeks close attention. And then a journey to Lord Davers's, and that noble pair accompanying us to Kent; and daily and hourly pleasures crowding upon us, narrow and confined as our room there was (though we went with as few attendants as possible), engrossed _more_ of my time. Thus I hope you will forgive me, because, as soon as I returned, I set about writing this, as an excuse for myself, in the first place; to promise you the subject you insist upon, in the next; and to say, that I am incapable of forgetfulness or negligence to such a friend as Lady G. For I must always be your _faithful and affectionate humble servant_, P.B. LETTER CI MY DEAR LADY G., The remarks, your cousin Fielding says, I have made on the subject of young gentlemen's travelling, and which you request me to communicate to you, are part of a little book upon education, which I wrote for Mr. B.'s correction and amendment, on his putting Mr. Locke's treatise on that subject into my hands, and requiring my observations upon it. I cannot flatter myself they will answer your expectation; for I am sensible they must be unworthy even of the opportunities I have had in the excursions, in which I have been indulged by the best of men. But your requests are so many laws to me; and I will give you a short abstract of what I read Miss Fielding, who has so greatly overrated it to you. The gentleman's book contains many excellent rules on education; but this of travel I will only refer you to at present. You will there see his objections against the age at which young gentlemen are sent abroad, from sixteen to twenty-one, the time in all their lives, he says, at which young gentlemen are the least suited to these improvements, and in which they have the least fence and guard against their passions. The age he proposes is from seven to fourteen, because of the advantage they will then have to master foreign languages, and to form their tongue to the true pronunciation; as well as that they will be more easily directed by their tutors or governors. Or else he proposes that more sedate time of life, when the gentleman is able to travel without a tutor, and to make his own observations; and when he is thoroughly acquainted with the laws and fashions, the natural and moral advantages and defects of his own country; by which means, as Mr. Locke wisely observes, the traveller will have something to exchange with those abroad, from whose conversation he hopes to reap any knowledge. And he supports his opinion by excellent reasons, to which I refer you. What I have written in my little book, not yet quite finished on _this_ head, relates principally to _Home Travelling_, which Mr. B. was always resolved his sons should undertake, before they entered upon a foreign tour. I have there observed, that England abounds with curiosities, both of art and nature, worth the notice of a diligent inquirer, and equal with some of those we admire in foreign parts; and that if the youth be not sent abroad at Mr. Locke's earliest time, from seven to fourteen (which I can hardly think will be worth while, merely for the sake of attaining a perfection in the languages), he may with good advantage begin, at fourteen or fifteen, the tour of Great Britain, now-and-then, by excursions, in the summer months, between his other studies, and as a diversion to him. This I should wish might be entered upon in his papa's company, as well as his tutor's, if it could conveniently be done; who thus initiating both the governed and governor in the methods he would have observed by both, will obtain no small satisfaction and amusement to himself. For the father would by this means be an eye-witness of the behaviour of the one and the other, and have a specimen how fit the young man was to be trusted, or the tutor to be depended upon, when they went abroad, and were out of his sight: as _they_ would of what was expected from them by the father. And hence a thousand benefits may arise to the young gentleman from the occasional observations and reflections of his father, with regard to expence, company, conversation, hours, and such like. If the father could not himself accompany his son, he might appoint the stages the young gentleman should take, and enjoin both tutor and son to give, at every stage, an account of whatever they observed curious and remarkable, not omitting the minutest occurrences. By this means, and the probability that he might hear of them, and their proceedings, from his friends, acquaintance, and relations, who might fall in with them, they would have a greater regard to their conduct; and so much the more, if the young gentleman were to keep an account of his expences, which, upon his return, he might lay before his father. By seeing thus the different customs, manners, and economy of different persons and families (for in so mixed a nation as ours is, there is as great a variety of that sort to be met with, as in most), and from their different treatment, at their several stages, a great deal of the world may be learned by the young gentleman. He would be prepared to go abroad with more delight to himself, as well as more experience, and greater reputation to his family and country. In such excursions as these, the tutor would see his temper and inclination, and might notice to the father any thing amiss, that it might be set right, while the youth was yet in his reach, and more under his inspection, than he would be in a foreign country; and his observations, on his return, as well as in his letters, would shew how fit he was to be trusted; and how likely to improve, when at a greater distance. After England and Wales, as well the inland parts as the sea-coasts, let them if they behave according to expectation, take a journey into Scotland and Ireland, and visit the principal islands, as Guernsey, Jersey, &c. the youth continuing to write down his observations all the way, and keeping a journal of occurrences; and let him employ the little time he will be on board of ship, in these small trips from island to island, or coastwise, in observing upon the noble art of navigation; of the theory of which, it will not be amiss that he has some notion, as well as of the curious structure of a ship, its tackle, and furniture: a knowledge very far from being insignificant to a gentleman who is an islander, and has a stake in the greatest maritime kingdom in the world; and hence he will be taught to love and value that most useful and brave set of men, the British sailors, who are the natural defence and glory of the realm. Hereby he will confirm his theory in the geography of the British dominions in Europe, he will be apprised of the situation, conveniences, interests, and constitution of his own country; and will be able to lay a ground-work for the future government of his thoughts and actions, if the interest he bears in his native country should call him to the public service in either house of parliament. With this foundation, how excellently would he be qualified to go abroad! and how properly then would he add to the knowledge he had attained of his own country, that of the different customs, manners, and forms of government of others! How would he be able to form comparisons, and to make all his inquiries appear pertinent and manly. All the occasions of that ignorant wonder, which renders a novice the jest of all about him, would be taken away. He would be able to ask questions, and to judge without leading strings. Nor would he think he has seen a country, and answered the ends of his father's expence, and his own improvement, by running through a kingdom, and knowing nothing of it, but the inns and stages, at which he stopped to eat and drink. For, on the contrary, he would make the best acquaintance, and contract worthy friendships with such as would court and reverence him as one of the rising geniuses of his country. Whereas most of the young gentlemen who are sent abroad raw and unprepared, as if to wonder at every thing they see, and to be laughed at by all that see them, do but expose themselves and their country. And if, at their return, by interest of friends, by alliances, or marriages, they should happen to be promoted to places of honour or profit, their unmerited preferment will only serve to make those foreigners, who were eye-witnesses of their weakness and follies, when among them, conclude greatly in disfavour of the whole nation, or, at least, of the prince, and his administration, who could find no fitter subjects to distinguish. This, my dear friend, is a brief extract from my observations on the head of qualifying young gentlemen to travel with honour and improvement. I doubt you'll be apt to think me not a little out of my element; but since you _would_ have it, I claim the allowances of a friend; to which my ready compliance with your commands the rather entitles me. I am very sorry Mr. and Mrs. Murray are so unhappy in each other. Were he a generous man, the heavy loss the poor lady has sustained, as well as her sister, my beloved friend, in so excellent a mother, and so kind a father, would make him bear with her infirmities a little. But, really, I have seen, on twenty occasions, that notwithstanding all the fine things gentlemen say to ladies before marriage, if the latter do not _improve_ upon their husbands' hands, their imputed graces when single, will not protect them from indifference, and, probably, from worse; while the gentleman, perhaps, thinks _he_ only, of the two, is entitled to go backward in acts of kindness and complaisance. A strange and shocking difference which too many ladies experience, who, from fond lovers, prostrate at their feet, find surly husbands, trampling upon their necks! You, my dear friend, were happy in your days of courtship, and are no less so in your state of wedlock. And may you continue to be so to a good old age, _prays your affectionate and faithful friend,_ P.B. LETTER CII My dear Lady G., I will cheerfully cause to be transcribed for you the conversation you desire, between myself, Mrs. Towers, and Lady Arthur, and the three young ladies their relations, in presence of the dean and his daughter, and Mrs. Brooks; and glad I shall be, if it may be of use to the two thoughtless Misses your neighbours; who, you are pleased to tell me, are great admirers of my story and my example; and will therefore, as you say, pay greater attention to what I write, than to the more passionate and interested lessons of their mamma. I am only sorry you should be concerned about the supposed trouble you give me, by having mislaid my former relation of it. For, besides obliging my dear Lady G., the hope of doing service by it to a family so worthy, in a case so nearly affecting its honour, as to make two headstrong young ladies recollect what belongs to their sex and their characters, and what their filial duties require of them, affords me high pleasure; and if it shall be attended with the wished effects, it will add to my happiness. I said, _cause_ to be transcribed, because I hope to answer a double end by it; for, on reconsideration, I set Miss Goodwin to transcribe it, who writes a pretty hand, and is not a little fond of the task, nor, indeed, of any task I set her; and will be more affected as she performs it, than she could be by _reading_ it only; although she is a very good girl at present, and gives me hopes that she will continue to be so. I will inclose it when done, that it may be read to the parties without this introduction, if you think fit. And you will forgive me for having added a few observations, with a view to the cases of your inconsiderate young ladies, and for having corrected the former narrative in several places. My dear Lady G., The papers you have mislaid, as to the conversation between me and the young ladies, relations of Mrs. Towers, and Lady Anne Arthur, in presence of these two last-named ladies, Mrs. Brooks, and the worthy dean, and Miss L. (of which, in order to perfect your kind collection of my communications you request another copy) contained as follows. I first stated, that I had seen these three ladies twice or thrice before, as visitors, at their kinswomen's houses so that they and I were not altogether strangers to one another: and my two neighbours acquainted me with their respective tastes and dispositions, and their histories preparatory to this visit, to the following effects: That MISS STAPYLTON is over-run with the love of poetry and romance, and delights in flowery language and metaphorical flourishes: is about eighteen, wants not either sense or politeness; and has read herself into a vein, more amorous (that was Mrs. Towers's word) than discreet. Has extraordinary notions of a _first sight_ love; and gives herself greater liberties, with a pair of fine eyes (in hopes to make sudden conquests in pursuance of that notion), than is pretty in her sex and age; which makes those who know her not, conclude her bold and forward; and is more than suspected, with a mind thus prepared for instantaneous impressions, to have experienced the argument to her own disadvantage, and to be _struck_ by (before she had _stricken_) a gentleman, whom her friends think not at all worthy of her, and to whom she was making some indiscreet advances, under the name of PHILOCLEA to PHILOXENUS, in a letter which she entrusted to a servant of the family, who, discovering her design, prevented her indiscretion for that time. That, in other respects, she has no mean accomplishments, will have a fine fortune, is genteel in her person, though with some visible affectation, dances well, sings well, and plays prettily on several instruments; is fond of reading, but affects the action, and air, and attitude of a tragedian; and is too apt to give an emphasis in the wrong place, in order to make an author mean significantly, even where the occasion is common, and, in a mere historical fact, that requires as much simplicity in the reader's accent, as in the writer's style. No wonder then, that when she reads a play, she will put herself into a sweat, as Mrs. Towers says; distorting very agreeable features, and making a _multitude_ of wry mouths with _one_ very pretty one, in order to convince her hearers, what a near neighbour her heart is to her lips. MISS COPE is a young lady of nineteen, lovely in her person, with a handsome fortune in possession, and great prospects. Has a soft and gentle turn of mind, which disposes her to be easily imposed upon. Is addressed by a libertine of quality, whose courtship, while permitted, was imperiousness; and whose tenderness, insult: having found the young lady too susceptible of impression, open and unreserved, and even valuing him the more, as it seemed, for treating her with ungenerous contempt; for that she was always making excuses for slights, ill manners, and even rudeness, which no other young lady would forgive. That this docility on her side, and this insolence on his, and an over-free, and even indecent degree of romping, as it is called, with her, which once her mamma surprised them in, made her papa forbid _his_ visits, and _her_ receiving them. That this however, was so much to Miss Cope's regret, that she was detected in a design to elope to him out of the private garden-door; which, had she effected, in all probability, the indelicate and dishonourable peer would have triumphed over her innocence; having given out since, that he intended to revenge himself on the daughter, for the disgrace he had received from the parents. That though convinced of this, it was feared she still loved him, and would again throw herself in his way; urging, that his rash expressions were the effect only of his passion; for that she knows he loves her too well to be dishonourable to her; and by the same degree of favourable prepossession, she will have it, that his brutal roughness is the manliness of his nature; that his most shocking expressions are sincerity of heart; that his boasts of former lewdness are but instances that he knows the world; that his freedoms with her person are but excess of love and innocent gaiety of temper; that his resenting the prohibition he has met with, and his threats, are other instances of his love and his courage: and peers of the realm ought not to be bound down by little narrow rules like the vulgar; for, truly, their _honour_ is in the greatest cases regarded as equal with the _oath_ of a common gentleman, and is a security that a lady may trust to, if he is not a profligate indeed; and that Lord P. _cannot_ be. That excepting these weaknesses, Miss has many good qualities; is charitable, pious, humane, humble; sings sweetly, plays on the spinnet charmingly; is meek, fearful, and never was resolute or courageous enough to step out of the regular path, till her too flexible heart became touched with a passion, that is said to polish the most brutal temper, and therefore her rough peer has none of it; and to animate the dove, of which Miss Cope has too much. That Miss Sutton, a young lady of the like age with the two former, has too lively and airy a turn of mind; affects to be thought well read in the histories of kingdoms, as well as in polite literature. Speaks French fluently, talks much upon all subjects; and has a great deal of flippant wit, which makes more enemies than friends. However, is innocent, and unsuspectedly virtuous hitherto; but makes herself cheap and accessible to fops and rakes, and has not the worse opinion of a man for being such. Listens eagerly to stories told to the disadvantage of some of her own sex; though affecting to be a great stickler for the honour of it in general: will unpityingly propagate them: thinks (without considering to what the imprudence of her own conduct may subject her) the woman that slips inexcusable; and the man who seduces her, much less faulty; and thus encourages the one sex in their vileness, and gives up the other for their weakness, in a kind of silly affectation, to shew her security in her own virtue; at the same time, that she is dancing upon the edge of a precipice, presumptuously inattentive to her own danger. The worthy dean, knowing the ladies' intention in this visit to me, brought his daughter with him, as if by accident; for Miss L. with many good qualities, is of a remarkable soft temper, though not so inconsiderately soft as Miss Cope: but is too credulous; and, as her papa suspects, entertains more than a liking to a wild young gentleman, the heir to a noble fortune, who makes visits to her, full of tenderness and respect, but without declaring himself. This gives the dean much uneasiness; and he is very desirous that his daughter should be in my company on all occasions, as she is so kind to profess a great regard to my opinion and judgment. 'Tis easy to see the poor young lady is in love; and she makes no doubt that the young gentleman loves _her_; but, alas! why then (for he is not a bashful man, as you shall hear) does he not say so?--He has deceived already two young creatures. His father has cautioned the dean against his son. Has told him, that he is sly, subtle, full of stratagem, yet has so much command of himself (which makes him more dangerous), as not to precipitate his designs; but can wait with patience till he thinks himself secure of his prey, and then pulls off the mask at once; and, if he succeeds, glories in his villainy. Yet does his father beg of the dean to permit his visits, for he wishes him to marry Miss L. though greatly unequal in fortune to his son, wishing for nothing so much as that he _would_ marry. And the dean, owing his principal preferment to the old gentleman, cares not to disoblige him, or affront his son, without some apparent reason for it, especially as the father is wrapt up in him, having no other child, and being himself half afraid of him, least, if too much thwarted, he should fly out entirely. So here, Madam, are four young ladies of like years, and different inclinations and tempers, all of whom may be said to have dangers to encounter, resulting from their respective dispositions: and who, professing to admire my character and example, were brought to me, to be benefited, as Mrs. Towers was pleased to say, by my conversation: and all was to be as if accidental, none of them knowing how well I was acquainted with their several characters. How proud would this compliment have made me from such a lady as Mrs. Towers, had I not been as proud as proud could be before, of the good opinion of four beloved persons, Mr. B., Lady Davers, the Countess of C. and your dear self. We were attended only by Polly Barlow, who in some points was as much concerned as any body. And this being when Lord and Lady Davers, and the noble Countess, were with us, 'tis proper to say, they were abroad together upon a visit, from which, knowing how I was to be engaged, they excused me. The dean was well known to, and valued by, all the ladies; and therefore was no manner of restraint upon the freedom of our conversation. I was in my closet when they came; and Mrs. Towers, having presented each young lady to me when I came down, said, being all seated, "I can guess at your employment, Mrs. B. Writing, I dare say? I have often wished to have you for a correspondent; for every one who can boast of that favour, exalts you to the skies, and says, your letters exceed your conversation, but I always insisted upon it that _that_ was impossible." "Mrs. Towers," said I, "is always saying the most obliging things in the world of her neighbours: but may not one suffer, dear Madam, for these kind prepossessions, in the opinion of greater strangers, who will judge more impartially than your favour will permit you to do?" "That," said Lady Arthur, "will be so soon put out of doubt, when Mrs. B. begins to speak, that we will refer to that, and to put an end to every thing that looks like compliment." "But, Mrs. B.," says Mrs. Towers, "may one ask, what particular subject was at this time your employment?" I had been writing (you must know, Lady G.) for the sake of suiting Miss Stapylton's flighty vein, a little sketch of the style she is so fond of; and hoped for some such opportunity as this question gave me, to bring it on the carpet; for my only fear, with her and Miss Cope, and Miss Sutton, was, that they would deem me too grave; and so what should fall in the course of conversation, would make the least impression upon them. For the best instructions, you know, will be ineffectual, if the manner of conveying them is not adapted to the taste and temper of the person you would wish to influence. And moreover, I had a view in it, to make this little sketch the introduction to some future observations on the stiff and affected style of romances, which might put Miss Stapylton out of conceit with them, and make her turn the course of her studies another way, as I shall mention in its place. I answered that I had been meditating upon the misfortunes of a fine young lady, who had been seduced and betrayed by a gentleman she loved, and who, notwithstanding, had the grace to stop short (indeed, later than were to be wished), and to abandon friends, country, lover, in order to avoid any further intercourse with him; and that God had blessed her penitence and resolution, and she was now very happy in a neighbouring dominion. "A fine subject," said Miss Stapylton. "Was the gentleman a man of wit, Madam? Was the lady a woman of taste?" we condemn every man who dresses well, and is not a sloven, as a fop or a coxcomb?" "No doubt, when this is the case. But you hardly ever saw a man _very_ nice about his person and dress, that had any thing he thought of _greater_ consequence to himself to regard. 'Tis natural it should be so; for should not the man of _body_ take the greater care to set out and adorn the part for which he thinks himself most valuable? And will not the man of _mind_ bestow his principal care in improving that mind? perhaps to the neglect of dress, and outward appearance, which is a fault. But surely, Madam, there is a middle way to be observed, in these, as in most other cases; for a man need not be a sloven, any more than a fop. He need not shew an utter disregard to dress, nor yet think it his first and chief concern; be ready to quarrel with the wind for discomposing his peruke, or fear to put on his hat, lest he should depress his foretop; more dislike a spot upon his clothes, than in his reputation; be a self-admirer, and always at the glass, which he would perhaps never look into, could it shew him the deformity of his mind, as well as the finery of his person; who has a taylor for his tutor, and a milliner for his school-mistress; who laughs at men of sense (excusably enough, perhaps in revenge because they laugh at him); who calls learning pedantry, and looks upon the knowledge of the fashions as the only useful science to a fine gentleman. "Pardon me, ladies; I could proceed with the character of this species of men, but I need not; for every lady present would despise such an one, as much as I do, were he to fall in her way: or the rather, because he who admires himself, will never admire his lady as he ought; and if he maintains his niceness after marriage, it will be with a preference to his own person; if not, will sink, very probably, into the worst of slovens. For whoever is capable of one extreme (take almost the cases of human life through) when he recedes from that, if he be not a man of prudence, will go over into the other. "But to return to the former subject" (for the general attention encouraged me to proceed), "permit me, Miss Sutton, to add, that a lady must run great risks to her reputation, if not to her virtue, who will admit into her company any gentleman who shall be of opinion, and know it to be _hers_, that it is _his_ province to ask a favour, which it will be _her_ duty to deny." "I believe, Madam, I spoke these words a little too carelessly; but I meant _honourable_ questions, to be sure." "There can be but _one_ honourable question," replied I; "and that is seldom asked, but when the affair is brought near a conclusion, and there is a probability of its being granted; and which a single lady, while she has parents or guardians, should never think of permitting to be put to herself, much less of approving, nor, perhaps, as the case may be of denying. But I make no doubt that you meant honourable questions. A young lady of Miss Sutton's good sense, and worthy character, could not mean otherwise. And I have said, perhaps, more than I need upon the subject, because we all know how ready the presuming of the other sex are, right or wrong to construe the most innocent meetings in favour of their own views." "Very true," said she; but appeared to be under an agreeable confusion, every lady, by her eye, seeming to think she had met with a deserved rebuke; and which not seeming to expect, it abated her liveliness all the time after. Mrs. Towers seasonably relieved us both from a subject _too applicable_, if I may so express it, saying--"But, dear Mrs. B., will you favour us with the result of your meditation, if committed to writing, on the unhappy case you mentioned?" "I was rather. Madam, exercising my fancy than my judgment, such as it is, upon the occasion. I was aiming at a kind of allegorical or metaphorical style, I know not which to call it; and it is not fit to be read before such judges, I doubt." "O pray, dear Madam," said Miss Stapylton, "favour us with it _to choose_; for I am a great admirer of that style." "I have a great curiosity," said Lady Arthur, "both from the _subject_ and the _style_, to hear what you have written: and I beg you will oblige us all." "It is short and unfinished. It was written for the sake of a friend, who is fond of such a style; and what I shall add to it, will be principally some slight observations upon this way of writing. But, let it be ever so censurable, I should be more so, if I made any difficulties after such an unanimous request." So, taking it out of my letter-case, I read as follows: "While the _banks_ of _discretion_ keep the _proud water_ of _passion_ within their natural channel, all calm and serene glides along the silver current, enlivening the adjacent meadows, as it passes, with a brighter and more flowery verdure. But if the _torrents_ of _sensual love_ are permitted to descend from the _hills_ of _credulous hope_, they may so swell the gentle stream, as to make it difficult, if not impossible, to be retained betwixt its usual bounds. What then will be the consequence?--Why, the _trees of resolution_, and the _shrubs of cautious fear_, which grew upon the frail mound, and whose intertwining roots had contributed to support it, being loosened from their hold, _they_, and all that would swim of the _bank_ itself, will be seen floating on the surface of the triumphant waters. "But here, a dear lady, having unhappily failed, is enabled to set her _foot_ in the _new-made_ breach, while yet it is _possible_ to stop it, and to say, with little variation in the language of that power, which only could enable _her_ to say it. _Hither, ye proud waves of dissolute love, although you_ HAVE _come, yet no farther_ SHALL _ye come;_ is such an instance of magnanimous resolution and self-conquest, as is very rarely to be met with." Miss Stapylton seemed pleased (as I expected), and told me, that she should take it for a high favour, to be permitted, if not improper, to see the whole letter when finished. I said, I would oblige her with all my heart.-"But you must not expect, Madam, that although I have written what I have read to you, I shall approve of it in my observations upon it; for I am convinced, that no style can be proper, which is not plain, simple, easy, natural and unaffected." She was sure, she was pleased to say, that whatever my observations were, they would be equally just and instructive. "I too," said the dean, "will answer for that; for I dare say, by what I have already heard, that Mrs. B. will distinguish properly between the style (and the matter too) which captivates the imagination, and that which informs the judgment." Our conversation, after this, took a more general turn; which I thought right, lest the young ladies should imagine it was a designed thing against them: yet it was such, that every one of them found her character and taste, little or much, concerned in it; and all seemed, as Mrs. Towers afterwards observed to me, by their silence and attention, to be busied in private applications. The dean began it with a high compliment to me; having a view, no doubt, by his kind praises, to make my observations have the greater weight upon the young ladies. He said, it was matter of great surprise to him, that, my tender years considered, I should be capable of making those reflections, by which persons of twice my age and experience might be instructed.-"You see, Madam," said he, "our attention, when your lips begin to open; and I beg we may have nothing to do, but to _be_ attentive." "I have had such advantages, Sir, from the observations and cautions of my late excellent lady, that did you but know half of them, you would rather wonder I had made _no greater_ improvement, than that I have made _so much._ She used to think me pretty, and not ill-tempered, and, of _course_ not incredulous, where I conceived a good opinion; and was always arming me on that side, as believing I might be the object of wicked attempts, and the rather, as my low fortune subjected me to danger. For, had I been born to rank and condition, as these young ladies here, I should have had reason to think of _myself_, as justly as, no doubt, _they_ do, and, of consequence, beyond the reach of any vile intriguer; as I should have been above the greatest part of that species of mankind, who, for want of understanding or honour, or through pernicious habits, give themselves up to libertinism." "These were great advantages," said Miss Sutton; "but in _you_, they met with a surprising genius, 'tis very plain, Madam; and there is not, in my opinion, a lady of England, of your years, who would have improved by them as you have done." I answered, that I was much obliged by her good opinion: and that I had always observed, the person who admired any good qualities in another, gave a kind of _natural_ demonstration, that she had the same in an eminent degree herself, although, perhaps, her modest diffidence would not permit her to trace the generous principle to its source. The dean, to renew the subject of _credulity_, repeated my remark, that it was safer, in cases where so much depended upon the issue, as a lady's honour and reputation, to _fear_ an _enemy_, than to _hope_ a _friend_; and praised my observation, that even a _weak_ enemy is not to be too much despised. I said, I had very high notions of the honour and value of my own sex, and very mean ones of the gay and frothy part of the other; insomuch, that I thought they could have no strength, but what was founded in our weakness: that the difference of education must give men advantages, even where the genius is naturally equal; besides, they have generally more hardness of heart, which makes women, where they meet not with men of honour, engage with that sex upon very unequal terms; for that it is so customary with them to make vows and promises, and to set light by them, _when made_, that an innocent lady cannot guard too watchfully against them; and, in my opinion, should believe nothing they said, or even _vowed_, but what carried demonstration with it. "I remember my lady used often to observe, there is a time of life in all young persons, which may properly be called _the romantic_, which is a very dangerous period, and requires therefore a great guard of prudence; that the risque is not a little augmented by reading novels and romances; and the poetical tribe have much to answer for, by reason of their heightened and inflaming descriptions, which do much hurt to thoughtless minds, and lively imaginations. For to those, she would have it, are principally owing, the rashness and indiscretion of _soft_ and _tender_ dispositions: which, in breach of their duty, and even to the disgrace of their sex, too frequently set them upon enterprises, like those they have read in those pernicious writings, which not seldom make them fall a sacrifice to the base designs of some wild intriguer; and even in cases where their precipitation ends the best, that is to say, in _marriage_, they too frequently (in direct opposition to the cautions and commands of their _tried_, their _experienced_, and _unquestionable_ friends) throw themselves upon an _almost stranger_, who, had he been worthy of them, would not, nor _needed_ to have taken indirect methods to obtain their favour. "And the misfortune is, the most innocent are generally the most credulous. Such a lady would do no harm to others, and cannot think others would do her any. And as to the particular person who has obtained, perhaps, a share in her confidence, _he_ cannot, she thinks, be so _ungrateful_, as to return irreparable mischief for her good-will to him. Were all the men in the world besides to prove false, the _beloved_ person cannot. 'Twould be unjust to _her own merit_, as well as to _his views_, to suppose it: and so _design_ on his side, and _credulity_ and _self-opinion_, on the lady's, at last enrol the unhappy believer in the list of the too-late repenters." "And what, Madam," said the dean, "has not that wretch to answer for, who makes sport of destroying a virtuous character, and in being the wicked means of throwing, perhaps, upon the town, and into the dregs of prostitution, a poor creature, whose love for him, and confidence in him, was all her crime? and who otherwise might have made a worthy figure at the head of a reputable family, and so have been an useful member of the commonwealth, propagating good examples, instead of ruin and infamy, to mankind? To say nothing of, what is still worse, the dreadful crime of occasioning the loss of a soul; since final impenitence too generally follows the first sacrifice which the poor wretch is seduced to make of her honour!" "There are several gentlemen in our neighbourhood," said Mrs. Brooks, "who might be benefited by this touching reflection, if represented in the same strong lights from the pulpit. And I think, Mr. Dean, you should give us a sermon upon this subject, for the sake of both sexes, one for caution, the other for conviction." "I will think of it," replied he, "but I am sorry to say, that we have too many among our younger gentry who would think themselves pointed at were I to touch this subject ever so cautiously." "I am sure," said Mrs. Towers, "there cannot well be a more useful one; and the very reason the dean gives, is a convincing proof of it to me." "When I have had the pleasure of hearing the further sentiments of such an assembly as this, upon the delicate subject," replied this polite divine, "I shall be better enabled to treat it. And pray, ladies, proceed; for it is from your conversation that I must take my hints." "You have only, then," said Mrs. Towers, "to engage Mrs. B. to speak, and you may be sure, we will all be as attentive to _her_, as we shall be to _you_, when we have the pleasure to hear so fine a genius improving upon her hints, from the pulpit." I bowed to Mrs. Towers; and knowing she praised me, with the dean's view, in order to induce the young ladies to give the greater attention to what she wished me to speak, I said, it would be a great presumption in me, after so high a compliment, to open my lips: nevertheless, as I was sure, by speaking, I should have the benefit of instruction, whenever it made _them_ speak, I would not be backward to enter upon any subject; for that I should consider myself as a young counsel, in some great cause, who served but to open it and prepare the way for those of greater skill and abilities. "I beg, then, Madam," said Miss Stapylton, "you will _open the cause_, be the subject what it will. And I could almost wish, that we had as many gentlemen here as ladies, who would have reason to be ashamed of the liberties they take in censuring the conversations of the tea-table; since the pulpit, as the worthy dean gives us reason to hope, may be beholden to that of Mrs. B." "Nor is it much wonder," replied I, "when the dean himself is with us, and it is graced by so distinguished a circle." "If many of our young gentlemen, were here," said Mrs. Towers, "they might improve themselves in all the graces of polite and sincere complaisance. But, compared to this, I have generally heard such trite and coarse stuff from our race of would-be wits, that what they say may be compared to the fawnings and salutations of the ass in the fable, who, emulating the lap-dog, merited a cudgel rather than encouragement. "But, Mrs. B.," continued she, "begin, I pray you, to _open_ and _proceed_ in the cause; for there will be no counsel employed but you, I can tell you." "Then give me a subject that will suit me, ladies, and you shall see how my obedience to your commands will make me run on." "Will you, Madam," said Miss Stapylton, "give us a few cautions and instructions on a theme of your own, that a young lady should rather _fear_ too much than _hope_ too much? A necessary doctrine, perhaps; but a difficult one to be practised by one who has begun to love, and who supposes all truth and honour in the object of her favour." "_Hope_, Madam," said I, "in my opinion, should never be unaccompanied by _fear_; and the more reason will a lady ever have to fear, and to suspect herself, and doubt her lover, when she once begins to find in her own breast an inclination to him. For then her danger is doubled, since she has _herself_ (perhaps the more dangerous enemy of the two) to guard against, as well as _him._ "She may secretly wish the best indeed: but what _has been_ the fate of others _may be_ her own; and though she thinks it not _probable_, from such a faithful protester, as he appears to her to be, yet, while it is _possible_, she should never be off her guard: nor will a prudent woman trust to his mercy or honour; but to her own discretion: and the rather, because, if he mean well, he _himself_ will value her the more for her caution, since every man desires to have a virtuous and prudent wife; if not well, she will detect him the sooner, and so, by her prudence, frustrate all his base designs. "But let me, my dear ladies, ask, what that passion is, which generally we dignify by the name of love; and which, when so dignified, puts us upon a thousand extravagances? I believe, if examined into, it would be found too generally to owe its original to _ungoverned fancy;_ and were we to judge of it by the consequences that usually attend it, it ought rather to be called _rashness, inconsideration, weakness_, and thing but _love;_ for very seldom, I doubt, is the solid judgment so much concerned in it, as the _airy fancy._ But when once we dignify the wild mis-leader with the name of _love_, all the absurdities which we read in novels and romances take place, and we are induced to follow examples that seldom end happily but in _them._ "But, permit me further to observe, that love, as we call it, operates differently in the two sexes, as to its effects. For in woman it is a _creeping_ thing, in a man an _incroacher;_ and this ought, in my humble opinion, to be very seriously attended to. Miss Sutton intimated thus much, when she observed that it was the man's province to ask, the lady's to deny:--excuse me. Madam, the observation was just, as to the men's notions; although, methinks, I would not have a lady allow of it, except in cases of caution to themselves. "The doubt, therefore, which a lady has of her _lover's_ honour, is needful to preserve _her own_ and _his_ too. And if she does him wrong, and he should be too just to deceive her, she can make him amends, by instances of greater confidence, when she pleases. But if she has been accustomed to grant him little favours, can she easily recal them? And will not the _incroacher_ grow upon her indulgence, pleading for a favour to-day, which was not refused him yesterday, and reproaching her want of confidence, as a want of esteem; till the poor lady, who, perhaps, has given way to the _creeping, insinuating_ passion, and has avowed her esteem for him, puts herself too much in his power, in order to manifest, as she thinks, the _generosity_ of her affection; and so, by degrees, is carried farther than she intended, or nice honour ought to have permitted; and all, because, to keep up to my theme, she _hopes_ too much, and _doubts_ too little? And there have been cases, where a man himself, pursuing the dictates of his _incroaching_ passion, and finding a lady _too conceding_, has taken advantages, of which, probably, at first he did not presume to think." Miss Stapylton said, that _virtue_ itself spoke when _I_ spoke; and she was resolved to recollect as much of this conversation as she could, and write it down in her common-place book, where it would make a better figure than any thing she had there. "I suppose, Miss," said Mrs. Towers, "your chief collections are flowers of rhetoric, picked up from the French and English poets, and novel-writers. I would give something for the pleasure of having it two hours in my possession." "Fie, Madam," replied she, a little abashed, "how can you expose your kinswoman thus, before the dean and Mrs. B.?" "Mrs. Towers," said I, "only says this to provoke you to shew your collections. I wish I had the pleasure of seeing them. I doubt not but your common-place book is a store-house of wisdom." "There is nothing bad in it, I hope," replied she; "but I would not, that Mrs. B. should see it for the world. But, Madam" (to Mrs. Towers), "there are many beautiful things, and good instructions, to be collected from novels and plays, and romances; and from the poetical writers particularly, light as you are pleased to make of them. Pray, Madam" (to me), "have you ever been at all conversant in such writers?" "Not a great deal in the former: there were very few novels and romances that my lady would permit me to read; and those I did, gave me no great pleasure; for either they dealt so much in the _marvellous_ and _improbable_, or were so unnaturally _inflaming_ to the _passions_, and so full of _love_ and _intrigue_, that most of them seemed calculated to _fire_ the _imagination_, rather than to _inform_ the _judgment._ Titles and tournaments, breaking of spears in honour of a mistress, engaging with monsters, rambling in search of adventures, making unnatural difficulties, in order to shew the knight-errant's prowess in overcoming them, is all that is required to constitute the _hero_ in such pieces. And what principally distinguishes the character of the _heroine_ is, when she is taught to consider her father's house as an enchanted castle, and her lover as the hero who is to dissolve the charm, and to set at liberty from one confinement, in order to put her into another, and, too probably, a worse: to instruct her how to climb walls, leap precipices, and do twenty other extravagant things, in order to shew the mad strength of a passion she ought to be ashamed of; to make parents and guardians pass for tyrants, the voice of reason to be drowned in that of indiscreet love, which exalts the other sex, and debases her own. And what is the instruction that can be gathered from such pieces, for the conduct of common life? "Then have I been ready to quarrel with these writers for another reason; and that is, the dangerous notion which they hardly ever fail to propagate, of a _first-sight_ love. For there is such a susceptibility supposed on both sides (which, however it may pass in a man, very little becomes the female delicacy) that they are smitten with a glance: the fictitious blind god is made a _real_ divinity: and too often prudence and discretion are the first offerings at his shrine." "I believe, Madam," said Miss Stapylton, blushing, and playing with her fan, "there have been many instances of people's loving at first sight, which have ended very happily." "No doubt of it," replied I. "But there are three chances to one, that so precipitate a liking does not. For where can be the room for caution, enquiry, the display of merit and sincerity, and even the assurance of a _grateful return_, to a lady, who thus suffers herself to be prepossessed? Is it not a random shot? Is it not a proof of weakness? Is it not giving up the negative voice, which belongs to the sex, even while she is not sure of meeting with the affirmative one from him whose affection she wishes to engage? "Indeed, ladies," continued I, "I cannot help concluding (and I am the less afraid of speaking my mind, because of the opinion I have of the prudence of every lady that hears me), that where this weakness is found, it is no way favourable to a lady's character, nor to that discretion which ought to distinguish it. It looks to me, as if a lady's _heart_ were too much in the power of her _eye_, and that she had permitted her _fancy_ to be much more busy than her _judgment_." Miss Stapylton blushed, and looked around her. "But I observe," said Mrs. Towers, "whenever you censure any indiscretion, you seldom fail to give cautions how to avoid it; and pray let us know what is to be done in this case? That is to say, how a young lady ought to guard against and overcome the first favourable impressions?" "What I imagine," replied I, "a young lady ought to do, on any the least favourable impressions of the kind, is immediately to _withdraw into herself_, as one may say; to reflect upon what she owes to her parents, to her family, to her character, and to her sex; and to resolve to check such a random prepossession, which may much more probably, as I hinted, make her a prey to the undeserving than otherwise, as there are so many of that character to one man of real merit. "The most that I apprehend a _first-sight_ approbation can do, is to inspire a _liking_; and a liking is conquerable, if the person will not brood over it, till she hatches it into _love_. Then every man and woman has a black and a white side; and it is easy to set the imperfections of the person against the supposed perfections, while it is only a _liking_. But if the busy fancy be permitted to work as it pleases, uncontrolled, then 'tis very likely, were the lady but to keep herself in countenance for receiving first impressions, she will see perfections in the object, which no other living soul can. And it may be expected, that as a consequence of her first indiscretion, she will confirm, as an act of her judgment, what her wild and ungoverned fancy had misled her to think of with so much partial favour. And too late, as it probably may happen, she will see and lament her fatal, and, perhaps, undutiful error. "We are talking of the ladies only," added I (for I saw Miss Stapylton was become very grave): "but I believe first-sight love often operates too powerfully in both sexes: and where it does so, it will be very lucky, if either gentleman or lady find reason, on cool reflection, to approve a choice which they were so ready to make without thought." "'Tis allowed," said Mrs. Towers, "that rash and precipitate love _may_ operate pretty much alike in the rash and precipitate of both sexes: and which soever loves, generally exalts the person beloved above his or her merits: but I am desirous, for the sake of us maiden ladies, since it is a science in which you are so great an adept, to have your advice, how we should watch and guard its first incroachments and that you will tell us what you apprehend gives the men most advantage over us." "Nay, now, Mrs. Towers, you rally my presumption, indeed!" "I admire you, Madam," replied she, "and every thing you say and do; and I won't forgive you to call what I so seriously _say_ and _think_, raillery. For my own part," continued she, "I never was in love yet, nor, I believe, were any of these young ladies." (Miss Cope looked a little silly upon this.) "And who can better instruct us to guard _our hearts_, than a lady who has so well defended _her own_?" "Why then, Madam, if I must speak, I think, what gives the other sex the greatest advantage over even many of the most deserving ones, is that dangerous foible, the _love of praise_, and the desire to be _flattered_ and _admired_, a passion I have observed to predominate, more or less, from sixteen to sixty, in most of our sex. We are too generally delighted with the company of those who extol our graces of person or mind: for, will not a _grateful_ lady study hard to return a_ few_ compliments to a gentleman who makes her so _many_! She is concerned to _prove_ him a man of distinguished sense, or a polite man, at least, in regard to what she _thinks_ of herself; and so the flatterer shall be preferred to such of the sincere and worthy, as cannot say what they do not think. And by this means many an excellent lady has fallen a prey to some sordid designer. "Then, I think, nothing can give gentlemen so much advantage over our sex, as to see how readily a virtuous lady can forgive the capital faults of the most abandoned of the other; and that sad, sad notion, _that a reformed rake makes the best husband_; a notion that has done more hurt, and discredit too, to our sex (as it has given more encouragement to the profligate, and more discouragement to the sober gentlemen), than can be easily imagined. A fine thing, indeed I as if the wretch, who had run through a course of iniquity, to the endangering of soul and body, was to be deemed the best companion for life, to an innocent and virtuous young lady, who is to owe the kindness of his treatment to her, to his having never before accompanied with a modest woman; nor, till his interest on one hand (to which his extravagance, perhaps, compels him to attend), and his impaired constitution on the other, oblige him to it, so much as _wished_ to accompany with one; and who always made a jest of the marriage state, and perhaps, of every thing either serious or sacred!" "You observe, very well," said Mrs. Towers: "but people will be apt to think, that you have less reason than any of our sex, to be severe against such a notion: for who was a greater rake than a certain gentleman, and who is a better husband?" "Madam," replied I, "the gentleman you mean, never was a common town rake: he is a man of sense, and fine understanding: and his reformation, _secondarily_, as I may say, has been the natural effect of those extraordinary qualities. But also, I will presume to say, that that gentleman, as he has not many equals in the nobleness of his nature, so he is not likely, I doubt, to have many followers, in a reformation begun in the bloom of youth, upon _self-conviction_, and altogether, humanly speaking, _spontaneous_. Those ladies who would plead his example, in support of this pernicious notion, should find out the same generous qualities in the man, before they trust to it: and it will then do less harm; though even then, I could not wish it to be generally entertained." "It is really unaccountable," said Mrs. Towers, "after all, as Mrs. B., I remember, said on another occasion, that our sex should not as much insist upon virtue and sobriety, in the character of a man, as a man, be he ever such a rake, does in that of a lady. And 'tis certainly a great encouragement to libertinism, that a worn-out debauchee should think himself at any time good enough for a husband, and have the confidence to imagine, that a modest woman will accept of his address, with a_ preference_ of him to any other." "I can account for it but one way," said the dean: "and that is, that a modest woman is apt to be _diffident_ of her own merit and understanding and she thinks this diffidence an imperfection. A rake _never_ is troubled with it: so he has in perfection a quality she thinks she wants; and, knowing _too little _of the world, imagines she mends the matter by accepting of one who knows_ too much_." "That's well observed, Mr. Dean," said Mrs. Towers: "but there is another fault in our sex, which Mrs. B. has not touched upon; and that is, the foolish vanity some women have, in the hopes of reforming a wild fellow; and that they shall be able to do more than any of their sex before them could do: a vanity that often costs them dear, as I know in more than one instance." "Another weakness," said I, "might be produced against some of our sex, who join too readily to droll upon, and sneer at, the misfortune of any poor young creature, who has shewn too little regard for her honour: and who (instead of speaking of it with concern, and inveighing against the seducer) too lightly sport with the unhappy person's fall; industriously spread the knowledge of it--" [I would not look upon Miss Sutton, while I spoke this], "and avoid her, as one infected; and yet scruple not to admit into their company the vile aggressor; and even to smile with him, at his barbarous jests, upon the poor sufferer of their own sex." "I have known three or four instances of this in my time," said Mrs. Towers, that Miss Sutton might not take it to herself; for she looked down and was a little serious. "This," replied I, "puts me in mind of a little humourous copy of verses, written, as I believe by Mr. B. And which, to the very purpose we are speaking of, he calls _"'Benefit of making others' misfortunes our own._ "'Thou'st heard it, or read it, a million of times, That men are made up of falsehood and crimes; Search all the old authors, and ransack the new, Thou'lt find in love stories, scarce one mortal true. Then why this complaining? And why this wry face? Is it 'cause thou'rt affected _most_ with thy own case? Had'st thou sooner made _others'_ misfortunes thy own, Thou never _thyself_, this disaster hadst known; Thy _compassionate caution_ had kept thee from evil, And thou might'st have defy'd mankind and the devil.'" The ladies were pleased with the lines; but Mrs. Towers wanted to know at what time of Mr. B.'s life they could be written. "Because," added she, "I never suspected, before, that the good gentleman ever took pains to write cautions or exhortations to our sex, to avoid the delusions of his own." These verses, and these facetious, but severe, remarks of Mrs. Towers, made every young lady look up with a cheerful countenance; because it pushed the ball from _self_: and the dean said to his daughter, "So, my dear, you, that have been so attentive, must let us know what useful inferences you can draw from what Mrs. B. and the other ladies so excellently said." "I observe. Sir, from the faults the ladies have so justly imputed to some of our sex, that the advantage the gentlemen _chiefly_ have over us, is from our own weakness: and that it behoves a prudent woman to guard against _first impressions_ of favour, since she will think herself obliged, in compliment to _her own_ judgment, to find reasons, if possible, to confirm them. "But I wish to know if there be any way that a woman can judge, whether a man means honourably or not, in his address to her!" "Mrs. B. can best inform you of that, Miss L.," said Mrs. Towers: "what say you, Mrs. B.?" "There are a few signs," answered I, "easy to be known, and, I think, almost infallible." "Pray let's have them," said Lady Arthur; and they all were very attentive. "I lay it down as an undoubted truth," said I, "that true love is one of the most _respectful_ things in the world. It strikes with awe and reverence the mind of the man who boasts its impressions. It is chaste and pure in word and deed, and cannot bear to have the least indecency mingled with it. "If, therefore, a man, be his birth or quality what it will, the higher the worse, presume to wound a lady's ears with indecent words: if he endeavour, in his expressions or sentiments, to convey gross or impure ideas to her mind: if he is continually pressing for _her confidence_ in _his_ honour: if he requests favours which a lady ought to refuse: if he can be regardless of his conduct or behaviour to her: if he can use _boisterous_ or _rude_ freedoms, either to her _person_ or _dress_--" [Here poor Miss Cope, by her blushes, bore witness to her case.] "If he avoids _speaking_ of _marriage_, when he has a _fair opportunity_ of doing it--" [Here Miss L. looked down and blushed]--"or leaves it _once_ to a lady to wonder that he does not:-- "In any, or in all these cases, he is to be suspected, and a lady can have little hope of such a person; nor, as I humbly apprehend, consistent with honour and discretion, encourage his address." The ladies were so kind as to applaud all I said, and so did the dean. Miss Stapylton, Miss Cope, and Miss L. were to write down what they could remember of the conversation: and our noble guests coming in soon after, with Mr. B., the ladies would have departed; but he prevailed upon them to pass the evening; and Miss L., who had an admirable finger on the harpsichord, as I have before said, obliged us with two or three lessons. Each of the ladies did the like, and prevailed upon me to play a tune or two: but Miss Cope, as well as Miss L., surpassed me much. We all sung too in turns, and Mr. B. took the violin, in which he excels. Lord Davers obliged us on the violincello: Mr. H. played on the German flute, and sung us a fop's song, and performed it in character; so that we had an exceeding gay evening, and parted with great satisfaction on all sides, particularly on the young ladies; for this put them all in good humour, and good spirits, enlivening the former scene, which otherwise might have closed, perhaps more gravely than efficaciously. The distance of time since this conversation passed, enables me to add what I could not do, when I wrote the account of it, which you have mislaid: and which take briefly, as follows: Miss Stapylton was as good as her word, and wrote down all she could recollect of the conversation: and I having already sent her the letter she desired, containing my observations upon the flighty style she so much admired, it had such an effect upon her, as to turn the course of her reading and studies to weightier and more solid subjects; and avoiding the gentleman she had begun to favour, gave way to her parents' recommendations, and is happily married to Sir Jonathan Barnes. Miss Cope came to me a week after, with the leave of both her parents, and tarried with me three days; in which time she opened all her heart to me, and returned in such a disposition, and with such resolutions, that she never would see her peer again; nor receive letters from him, which she owned to me she had done clandestinely before; and she is now the happy lady of Sir Michael Beaumont, who makes her the best of husbands, and permits her to follow her charitable inclinations according to a scheme which she consulted me upon. Miss L., by the dean's indulgent prudence and discretion, has escaped her rake; and upon the discovery of an intrigue he was carrying on with another, conceived a just abhorrence of him; and is since married to Dr. Jenkins, as you know, with whom she lives very happily. Miss Sutton is not quite so well off as the three former; though not altogether so unhappy neither, in her way. She could not indeed conquer her love of dress and tinsel, and so became the lady of Col. Wilson: and they are thus far easy in the marriage state, that, being seldom together, they have probably a multitude of misunderstandings; for the colonel loves gaming, in which he is generally a winner; and so passes his time mostly in town. His lady has her pleasures, neither laudable nor criminal ones, which she pursues in the country. And now and then a letter passes on both sides, by. the inscription and subscription of which they remind one another that they have been once in their lives at one church together, And what now, my dear Lady G., have I to add to this tedious account (for letter I can hardly call it) but that I am, with great affection, _your true friend and servant_, P.B. LETTER CIII MY DEAR LADY G., You desire to have a little specimen of my _nursery tales_ and _stories_, with which, as Miss Fenwick told you, on her return to Lincolnshire, I entertain my Miss Goodwin and my little boys. But you make me too high a compliment, when you tell me, it is for your _own_ instruction and example. Yet you know, my dear Lady G., be your motives what they will, I must obey you, although, were others to see it, I might expose myself to the smiles and contempt of judges less prejudiced in my favour. So I will begin without any further apology; and, as near as I can, give you those very stories with which Miss Fenwick was so pleased, and of which she has made so favourable a report. Let me acquaint you, then, that my method is to give characters of persons I have known in one part or other of my life, in feigned names, whose conduct may serve for imitation or warning to my dear attentive Miss; and sometimes I give instances of good boys and naughty boys, for the sake of my Billy and my Davers; and they are continually coming about me, "Dear Madam, a pretty story," now cries Miss: "and dear mamma, tell me of good boys, and of naughty boys," cries Billy. Miss is a surprising child of her age, and is very familiar with many of the best characters in the Spectators; and having a smattering of Latin, and more than a smattering of Italian, and being a perfect mistress of French, is seldom at a loss for a derivation of such words as are not of English original. And so I shall give you a story in feigned names, with which she is so delighted, that she has written it down. But I will first trespass on your patience with one of my childish tales. Every day, once or twice, I cause Miss Goodwin, who plays and sings very prettily, to give a tune or two to me, my Billy and my Davers, who, as well as my Pamela, love and learn to touch the keys, young as the latter is; and she will have a sweet finger; I can observe that; and a charming ear; and her voice is music itself!-"O the fond, fond mother!" I know you will say, on reading this. Then, Madam, we all proceed, hand-in-hand, together to the nursery, to my Charley and Jemmy: and in this happy retirement, so much my delight in the absence of my best beloved, imagine you see me seated, surrounded with the joy and the hope of my future prospects, as well as my present comforts. Miss Goodwin, imagine you see, on my right hand, sitting on a velvet stool, because she is eldest, and a Miss; Billy on my left, in a little cane elbow-chair, because he is eldest, and a good boy; my Davers, and my sparkling-ey'd Pamela, with my Charley between them, on little silken cushions, at my feet, hand-in-hand, their pleased eyes looking up to my more delighted ones; and my sweet-natured promising Jemmy, in my lap; the nurses and the cradle just behind us, and the nursery maids delightedly pursuing some useful needle-work for the dear charmers of my heart-All as hush and as still as silence itself, as the pretty creatures generally are, when their little, watchful eyes see my lips beginning to open: for they take neat notice already of my rule of two ears to one tongue, insomuch that if Billy or Davers are either of them for breaking the mum, as they call it, they are immediately hush, at any time, if I put my finger to my lip, or if Miss points hers to her ear, even to the breaking of a word in two, as it were: and yet all my boys are as lively as so many birds: while my Pamela is cheerful, easy, soft, gentle, always smiling, but modest and harmless as a dove. I began with a story of two little boys, and two little girls, the children of a fine gentleman, and a fine lady, who loved them dearly; that they were all so good, and loved one another so well, that every body who saw them, admired them, and talked of them far and near; that they would part with any thing to the another; loved the poor; spoke kindly to the servants; did every thing they were bid to do; were not proud; knew no strife, but who should learn their books best, and be the prettiest scholar; that the servants loved them, and would do any thing they desired; that they were not proud of fine clothes; let not their heads run upon their playthings when they should mind their books; said grace before they eat, their prayers before they went to bed, and as soon as they rose; were always clean and neat; would not tell a fib for the world, and were above doing any thing that required one; that God blessed them more and more, and blessed their papa and mamma, and their uncles and aunts, and cousins, for their sakes. "And there was a happy family, my dear loves!-No one idle; all prettily employed; the Masters at their books; the Misses at their books too, or at their needles; except at their play-hours, when they were never rude, nor noisy, nor mischievous, nor quarrelsome: and no such word was ever heard from their mouths, as, 'Why mayn't I have this or that, as well as Billy or Bobby?' Or, 'Why should Sally have this or that, any more than I?' But it was, 'As my mamma pleases; my mamma knows best;' and a bow and a smile, and no surliness, or scowling brow to be seen, if they were denied any thing; for well did they know that their papa and mamma loved them so dearly, that they would refuse them nothing that was for their good; and they were sure when they were refused, they asked for something that would have done them hurt, had it been granted. Never were such good boys and girls as these I And they grew up; and the Masters became fine scholars, and fine gentlemen, and every body honoured them: and the Misses became fine ladies, and fine housewives; and this gentleman, when they grew to be women, sought to marry one of the Misses, and that gentleman the other; and happy was he that could be admitted into their companies I so that they had nothing to do but to pick and choose out of the best gentlemen in the country: while the greatest ladies for birth and the most remarkable for virtue (which, my dears, is better than either birth or fortune), thought themselves honoured by the addresses of the two brothers. And they married, and made good papas and mammas, and were so many blessings to the age in which they lived. There, my dear loves, were happy sons and daughters; for good Masters seldom fail to make good gentlemen; and good Misses, good ladies; and God blesses them with as good children as they were to their parents; and so the blessing goes round!-Who would not but be good?" "Well, but, mamma, we will all be good:-Won't we, Master Davers?" cries my Billy. "Yes, brother Billy. But what will become of the naughty boys? Tell us, mamma, about the naughty boys!" "Why, there was a poor, poor widow woman, who had three naughty sons, and one naughty daughter; and they would do nothing that their mamma bid them do; were always quarrelling, scratching, and fighting; would not say their prayers; would not learn their books; so that the little boys used to laugh at them, and point at them, as they went along, for blockheads; and nobody loved them, or took notice of them, except to beat and thump them about, for their naughty ways, and their undutifulness to their poor mother, who worked hard to maintain them. As they grew up, they grew worse and worse, and more and more stupid and ignorant; so that they impoverished their poor mother, and at last broke her heart, poor poor widow woman!--And her neighbours joined together to bury the poor widow woman: for these sad ungracious children made away with what little she had left, while she was ill, before her heart was quite broken; and this helped to break it the sooner: for had she lived, she saw she must have wanted bread, and had no comfort with such wicked children." "Poor poor widow woman!" said my Billy, with tears; and my little dove shed tears too, and Davers was moved, and Miss wiped her fine eyes. "But what became of the naughty boys, and the naughty girl, mamma?" "Became of them! Why one son was forced to go to sea, and there he was drowned: another turned thief (for he would not work), and he came to an untimely end: the third was idle and ignorant, and nobody, who knew how he used his poor mother, would employ him; and so he was forced to go into a far country, and beg his bread. And the naughty girl, having never loved work, pined away in sloth and filthiness, and at last broke her arm, and died of a fever, lamenting, too late, that she had been so wicked a daughter to so good a mother!--And so there was a sad end to all the four ungracious children, who never would mind what their poor mother said to them; and God punished their naughtiness as you see!--While the good children I mentioned before, were the glory of their family, and the delight of every body that knew them." "Who would not be good?" was the inference: and the repetition from Billy, with his hands clapt together, "Poor widow woman!" gave me much pleasure. So my childish story ended, with a kiss of each pretty dear, and their thanks for my story: and then came on Miss's request for a woman's story, as she called it. I dismissed my babies to their play; and taking Miss's hand, she standing before me, all attention, began in a more womanly strain to _her_; for she is very fond of being thought a woman; and indeed is a prudent sensible dear, comprehends any thing instantly, and makes very pretty reflections upon what she hears or reads as you will observe in what follows: "There is nothing, my dear Miss Goodwin, that young ladies should be so watchful over, as their reputation: 'tis a tender flower that the least frost will nip, the least cold wind will blast; and when once blasted, it will never flourish again, but wither to the very root. But this I have told you so often, I need not repeat what I have said. So to my story. "There were four pretty ladies lived in one genteel neighbourhood, daughters of four several families; but all companions and visitors; and yet all of very different inclinations. Coquetilla we will call one, Prudiana another, Profusiana the third, and Prudentia the fourth; their several names denoting their respective qualities. "Coquetilla was the only daughter of a worthy baronet, by a lady very gay, but rather indiscreet than unvirtuous, who took not the requisite care of her daughter's education, but let her be over-run with the love of fashion, dress, and equipage; and when in London, balls, operas, plays, the Park, the Ring, the withdrawing-room, took up her whole attention. She admired nobody but herself, fluttered about, laughing at, and despising a crowd of men-followers, whom she attracted by gay, thoughtless freedoms of behaviour, too nearly treading on the skirts of immodesty: yet made she not one worthy conquest, exciting, on the contrary, in all sober minds, that contempt of herself, which she so profusely would be thought to pour down upon the rest of the world. After she had several years fluttered about the dangerous light, like some silly fly, she at last singed the wings of her reputation; for, being despised by every worthy heart, she became too easy and cheap a prey to a man the most unworthy of all her followers, who had resolution and confidence enough to break through those few cobweb reserves, in which she had encircled her precarious virtue; and which were no longer of force to preserve her honour, when she met with a man more bold and more enterprising than herself, and who was as designing as she was thoughtless. And what then became of Coquetilla?-Why, she was forced to pass over sea to Ireland, where nobody knew her, and to bury herself in a dull obscurity; to go by another name, and at last, unable to support a life so unsuitable to the natural gaiety of her temper, she pined herself into a consumption, and died, unpitied and unlamented, among strangers, having not one friend but whom she bought with her money." "Poor Lady Coquetilla!" said Miss Goodwin; "what a sad thing it is to have a wrong education; and how happy am I, who have so good a lady to supply the place of a dear distant mamma!-But be pleased, Madam, to proceed to the next." "Prudiana, my dear, was the daughter of a gentleman who was a widower, and had, while the young lady was an infant, buried her mamma. He was a good sort of man; but had but one lesson to teach to Prudiana, and that was to avoid all sort of conversation with the men; but never gave her the right turn of mind, nor instilled into it that sense of her religious duties, which would have been her best guard in all temptations. For, provided she kept out of the sight and conversation of the gentlemen, and avoided the company of those ladies who more freely conversed with the other sex, it was all her papa desired of her. This gave her a haughty, sullen, and reserved turn; made her stiff, formal, and affected. She had sense enough to discover early the faults of Coquetilla, and, in dislike to them, fell the more easily into that contrary extreme, which a recluse education, and her papa's cautions, naturally led her. So that pride, reserve, affectation, and censoriousness, made up the essentials of her character, and she became more unamiable even than Coquetilla; and as the other was too accessible, Prudiana was quite unapproachable by gentlemen, and unfit for any conversation, but that of her servants, being also deserted by those of her own sex, by whom she might have improved, on account of her censorious disposition. And what was the consequence? Why this: every worthy person of both sexes despising her, and she being used to see nobody but servants, at last throws herself upon one of that class: in an evil hour, she finds something that is taking to her low taste in the person of her papa's valet, a wretch so infinitely beneath her (but a gay coxcomb of a servant), that every body attributed to her the scandal of making the first advances; for, otherwise, it was presumed, he durst not have looked up to his master's daughter. So here ended all her pride. All her reserves came to this! Her censoriousness of others redoubled people's contempt upon herself, and made nobody pity her. She was finally turned out of doors, without a penny of fortune: the fellow was forced to set up a barber's shop in a country town; for all he knew was to shave and dress a peruke: and her papa would never look upon her more: so that Prudiana became the outcast of her family, and the scorn of all that knew her; and was forced to mingle in conversation and company with the wretches of her husband's degree!" "Poor, miserable Prudiana!" said Miss--"What a sad, sad fall was hers. And all owing to the want of a proper education too!--And to the loss of such a mamma, as I have an aunt; and so wise a papa as I have an uncle!--How could her papa, I wonder, restrain her person as he did, like a poor nun, and make her unacquainted with the generous restraints of the mind? "I am sure, my dear good aunt, it will be owing to you, that I shall never be a Coquetilla, nor a Prudiana neither. Your table is always surrounded with the best of company, with worthy gentlemen as well as ladies: and you instruct me to judge of both, and of every new guest, in such a manner, as makes me esteem them all, and censure nobody; but yet to see faults in some to avoid, and graces in others to imitate; but in nobody but yourself and my uncle, any thing so like perfection, as shall attract one's admiration to one's own ruin." "You are young, yet, my love, and must always doubt your own strength; and pray to God, more and more, as your years advance, to give you more and more prudence, and watchfulness over your conduct. "But yet, my dear, you must think justly of yourself too; for let the young gentlemen be ever so learned and discreet, your education entitles you to think as well of yourself as of them: for, don't you see, the ladies who are so kind as to visit us, that have not been abroad, as you have been, when they were young, yet make as good figures in conversation, say as good things as any of the gentlemen? For, my dear, all that the gentlemen know more than the ladies, except here and there such a one as your dear uncle, with all their learned education, is only, that they have been _disciplined_, perhaps, into an observation of a few accuracies in speech, which, if they know no more, rather distinguish the _pedant_ than the _gentleman_: such as the avoiding of a false concord, as they call it, and which you know how to do, as well as the best; not to put a _was_ for a _were_, an _are_ for an _is_, and to be able to speak in mood and tense, and such like valuable parts of education: so that, my dear, you can have no reason to look upon that sex in so high a light, as to depreciate your own: and yet you must not be proud nor conceited neither; but make this one rule your guide: "In your _maiden state_, think yourself _above_ the gentlemen, and they'll think you so too, and address you with reverence and respect, if they see there be neither pride nor arrogance in your behaviour, but a consciousness of merit, a true dignity, such as becomes virgin modesty, and untainted purity of mind and manners, like that of an angel among men; for so young ladies should look upon themselves to be, and will then be treated as such by the other sex. "In your _married state_, which is a kind of state of humiliation for a lady, you must think yourself subordinate to your husband; for so it has pleased God to make the wife. You must have no will of your own, in _petty_ things; and if you marry a gentleman of sense and honour, such a one as your uncle, he will look upon you as his equal; and will exalt you the more for your abasing yourself. In short, my dear, he will act by you, just as your dear uncle does by me: and then, what a happy creature will you be!" "So I shall, Madam! To be sure I shall!--But I know I shall be happy whenever I marry, because I have such wise directors, and such an example, before me: and, if it please God, I will never think of any man (in pursuance of your constant advice to young ladies at the tea-table), who is not a man of sense, and a virtuous gentleman. But now, dear Madam, for your next character. There are two more yet to come, that's my pleasure! I wish there were ten!" "Why the next was Profusiana, you may remember, my love. Profusiana took another course to _her_ ruin. She fell into some of Coquetilla's foibles, but pursued them for another end, and in another manner. Struck with the grandeur and magnificence of what weak people call the _upper life_, she gives herself up to the circus, to balls, to operas, to masquerades, and assemblies; affects to shine at the head of all companies, at Tunbridge, at Bath, and every place of public resort; plays high, is always receiving and paying visits, giving balls, and making treats and entertainments; and is so much _above_ the conduct which mostly recommends a young lady to the esteem of the deserving of the other sex, that no gentleman, who prefers solid happiness, can think of addressing her, though she is a fine person, and has many outward graces of behaviour. She becomes the favourite toast of the place she frequents, is proud of that distinction; gives the fashion, and delights in the pride, that she can make apes in imitation, whenever she pleases. But yet endeavouring to avoid being thought proud, makes herself cheap, and is the subject of the attempts of every coxcomb of eminence; and with much ado, preserves her virtue, though not her character. "What, all this while, is poor Profusiana doing? She would be glad, perhaps, of a suitable proposal, and would, it may be, give up some of her gaieties and extravagances: for Profusiana has wit, and is not totally destitute of reason, when she suffers herself to think. But her conduct procures her not one solid friendship, and she has not in a twelvemonth, among a thousand professions of service, one devoir that she can attend to, or a friend that she can depend upon. All the women she sees, if she excels them, hate her: the gay part of the men, with whom she accompanies most, are all in a plot against her honour. Even the gentlemen, whose conduct in the general is governed by principles of virtue, come down to these public places to partake of the innocent freedoms allowed there, and oftentimes give themselves airs of gallantry, and never have it in their thoughts to commence a treaty of marriage with an acquaintance begun upon that gay spot. What solid friendships and satisfactions then is Profusiana excluded from! "Her name indeed is written in every public window, and prostituted, as I may call it, at the pleasure of every profligate or sot, who wears a diamond to engrave it: and that it may be, with most vile and barbarous imputations and freedoms of words, added by rakes, who very probably never exchanged a syllable with her. The wounded trees are perhaps also taught to wear the initials of her name, linked, not unlikely, and widening as they grow, with those of a scoundrel. But all this while she makes not the least impression upon one noble heart: and at last, perhaps, having run on to the end of an uninterrupted race of follies, she is cheated into the arms of some vile fortune-hunter; who quickly lavishes away the remains of that fortune which her extravagance had left; and then, after the worst usage, abandoning her with contempt, she sinks into an obscurity that cuts short the thread of her life, and leaves no remembrance, but on the brittle glass, and still more faithless bark, that ever she had a being." "Alas, alas! what a butterfly of a day," said Miss (an expression she remembered of Lady Towers), "was poor Profusiana!--What a sad thing to be so dazzled by worldly grandeur, and to have so many admirers, and not one real friend!" "Very true, my dear; and how carefully ought a person of a gay and lively temper to watch over it I And what a rock may public places be to a lady's reputation, if she be not doubly vigilant in her conduct, when she is exposed to the censures and observations of malignant crowds of people; many of the worst of whom spare the least those who are most unlike themselves." "But then, Madam," said Miss, "would Profusiana venture to play at public places? Will ladies game, Madam? I have heard you say, that lords, and sharpers but just out of liveries, in gaming, are upon a foot in every thing, save that one has nothing to lose, and the other much, besides his reputation! And will ladies so disgrace their characters, and their sex, as to pursue this pernicious diversion in public?" "Yes, my dear, they will too often, the more's the pity! And don't you remember, when we were at Bath, in what a hurry I once passed by some knots of genteel people, and you asked what those were doing? I told you, whisperingly, they were gaming; and loath I was, that my Miss Goodwin should stop to see some sights, to which, till she arrived at the years of discretion, it was not proper to familiarize her eye; in some sort acting like the ancient Romans, who would not assign punishments to certain atrocious crimes, because they had such an high idea of human nature, as to suppose it incapable of committing them; so I was not for having you, while a little girl, see those things, which I knew would give no credit to our sex, and which I thought, when you grew older, should be new and shocking to you: but now you are so much a woman in discretion, I may tell you any thing." She kissed my hand, and made me a fine curtsey-and told me, that now she longed to hear of Prudentia's conduct. "_Her_ name, Madam," said she, "promises better things than those of her three companions; and so it had need: for how sad is it to think, that out of four ladies of distinction, three of them should be naughty, and, _of course_, unhappy."-"These two words, _of course_, my dear," said I, "were very prettily put in: let me kiss you for it: since every one that is naughty, first or last, must be _certainly_ unhappy. "Far otherwise than what I have related, was it with the amiable Prudentia. Like the industrious bee, she makes up her honey-hoard from every flower, bitter as well as sweet; for every character is of use to her, by which she can improve her own. She had the happiness of an aunt, who loved her, as I do you; and of an uncle who doated on her, as yours does: for, alas! poor Prudentia lost her papa and mamma almost in her infancy, in one week: but was so happy in her uncle and aunt's care, as not to miss them in her education, and but just to remember their persons. By reading, by observation, and by attention, she daily added new advantages to those which her education gave her. She saw, and pitied, the fluttering freedoms and dangerous nights of Coquetilla. The sullen pride, the affectation, and stiff reserves, which Prudiana assumed, she penetrated, and made it her study to avoid. And the gay, hazardous conduct, extravagant temper, and love of tinselled grandeur, which were the blemishes of Profusiana's character, she dreaded and shunned. She fortifies herself with the excellent examples of the past and present ages, and knows how to avoid the faults of the faulty, and to imitate the graces of the most perfect. She takes into her scheme of that future happiness, which she hopes to make her own, what are the true excellencies of her sex, and endeavours to appropriate to herself the domestic virtues, which shall one day make her the crown of some worthy gentleman's earthly happiness: and which, _of course_, as you prettily said, my dear, will secure and heighten her own. "That noble frankness of disposition, that sweet and unaffected openness and simplicity, which shines in all her actions and behaviour, commend her to the esteem and reverence of all mankind; as her humility and affability, and a temper uncensorious, and ever making the best of what she said of the absent person, of either sex, do to the love of every lady. Her name, indeed, is not prostituted on windows, nor carved on the barks of trees in public places: but it smells sweet to every nostril, dwells on every tongue, and is engraven on every heart. She meets with no address but from men of honour and probity: the fluttering coxcomb, the inveigling parasite, the insidious deceiver, the mercenary fortune-hunter, spread no snares for a heart guarded by discretion and prudence, as hers is. They see, that all her amiable virtues are the happy result of an uniform judgment, and the effects of her own wisdom, founded in an education to which she does the highest credit. And at last, after several worthy offers, enough to perplex a lady's choice, she blesses some one happy gentleman, more distinguished than the rest, for learning, good sense, and _true politeness_, which is but another word for _virtue_ and _honour_; and shines, to her last hour, in all the duties of domestic life, as an excellent wife, mother, mistress, friend, and Christian; and so confirms all the expectations of which her maiden life had given such strong and such edifying presages." Then folding my dear Miss in my arms, and kissing her, tears of pleasure standing in her pretty eyes, "Who would not," said I, "shun the examples of the Coquetilla's, the Prudiana's, and the Profusiana's of this world, and choose to' imitate the character of Prudentia!-the happy, and the happy-making Prudentia." "O Madam! Madam!" said the dear creature, smothering me with her rapturous kisses, "Prudentia is YOU!--Is YOU indeed!--It _can_ be nobody else!--O teach me, good God! to follow _your_ example, and I shall be a Second Prudentia--Indeed I shall!" "God send you may, my beloved Miss! And may he bless you more, if possible, than Prudentia was blessed!" And so, my dear Lady G., you have some of my nursery tales; with which, relying on your kind allowances and friendship, I conclude myself _your affectionate and faithful_ P.B. CONCLUSION The Editor thinks proper to conclude in this place, that he may not be thought to deserve a suspicion, that the extent of the work was to be measured by the patience of its readers. But he thinks it necessary, in order to elucidate the whole, to subjoin a note of the following facts. Mr. B. (after the affair which took date at the masquerade, and concluded so happily) continued to be one of the best and most exemplary of men, an honour to his country, both in his public and private capacity; having, at the instances of some of his friends in very elevated stations, accepted of an honourable employment abroad in the service of the state; which he discharged in such a manner, as might be expected from his qualifications and knowledge of the world: and on his return, after an absence of three years, resisting all the temptations of ambition, devoted himself to private duties, and joined with his excellent lady in every pious wish of her heart; adorning the married life with all the warmth of an elegant tenderness; beloved by his tenants, respected by his neighbours, revered by his children, and almost adored by the poor, in every county where his estates gave him interest, as well for his own bountiful temper, as for the charities he permitted to be dispensed, with so liberal a hand, by his lady. She made him the father of seven fine children, five sons, and two daughters, all adorned and accomplished by nature, to be the joy and delight of such parents; being educated, in every respect, by the rules of their inimitable mother, laid down in that book which she mentions to have been written by her for the revisal and correction of her consort; the contents of which may be gathered from her remarks upon Mr. Locke's Treatise on Education, in her letters to Mr. B., and in those to Lady G. Miss GOODWIN, at the age of eighteen, was married to a young gentleman of fine parts, and great sobriety and virtue: and both she and he, in every material part of their conduct, and in their behaviour to one another, emulate the good example set them by Mr. and Mrs. B. Lord DAVERS dying two years before this marriage, his lady went to reside at the Hall in Lincolnshire, the place of her birth, that she might enjoy the company and conversation of her excellent sister; who, for conveniency of the chapel, and advantage of room and situation, had prevailed upon Mr. B. to make it the chief place of his residence; and there the noble lady lived long (in the strictest friendship with the happy pair) an honourable relict of her affectionate lord. The worthy Mr. ANDREWS, and his wife, lived together in the sweet tranquillity set forth in their letters, for the space of twelve years, at the Kentish farm: the good old gentlewoman died first, full of years and comfort, her dutiful daughter performing the last pious offices to so beloved and so loving a parent: her husband survived her about a year only. Lady G., Miss DARNFORD that was, after a happy marriage of several years, died in child-bed of her fourth child, to the inexpressible concern of her affectionate consort, and of her dear friend Mrs. B. Lord H., after having suffered great dishonour by the ill courses of his wife, and great devastations in his estate, through her former debts, and continued extravagance (intimidated and dispirited by her perpetual insults, and those of her gaming brother, who with his bullying friends, terrified him into their measures), threw himself upon the protection of Mr. B. who, by his spirit and prudence, saved him from utter ruin, punished his wife's accomplices, and obliged her to accept a separate maintenance; and then taking his affairs into his own management, in due course of time, entirely re-established them: and after some years his wife dying, he became wiser by his past sufferings, and married a second, of Lady Davers's recommendation, who, by her prudence and virtue, made him happy for the remainder of his days. Mr. LONGMAN lived to a great age in the worthy family, much esteemed by every one, having trained up a diligent youth, whom he had recommended, to ease him in his business, and who, answering expectation, succeeded him in it after his death. He dying rich, out of his great love and gratitude to the family, in whose service he had acquired most of his fortune, and in disgust to his nearest relations, who had perversely disobliged him; he bequeathed to three of them one hundred pounds a-piece, and left all the rest to his honoured principal, Mr. B.; who, as soon as he came to know it, being at that time abroad, directed his lady to call together the relations of the old gentleman, and, after touching them to the heart with a just and effectual reproof, and finding them filled with due sense of their demerit, which had been the cause of their suffering, then to divide the whole, which had been left him, among them, in greater proportions as they were more nearly related: an action worthy prayers and blessings, not only of the benefited, but all who heard of it. For it is easy to imagine, how cheerfully, and how gracefully, his benevolent lady discharged a command so well suited to her natural generosity. THE END 
57260	----	THE FABLE OF THE BEES; OR, PRIVATE VICES PUBLIC BENEFITS: WITH AN ESSAY ON CHARITY AND CHARITY SCHOOLS, AND A SEARCH INTO THE NATURE OF SOCIETY: ALSO, A VINDICATION OF THE BOOK FROM THE ASPERSIONS CONTAINED IN A PRESENTMENT OF THE GRAND JURY OF MIDDLESEX, AND AN ABUSIVE LETTER TO LORD C----. LONDON: PUBLISHED BY T. OSTELL, AVE-MARIA LANE, LONDON, AND MUNDELL AND SON, EDINBURGH. 1806. CONTENTS. PART I. Page Preface, iii The Grumbling Hive; or Knaves turn'd Honest, 1 The Introduction, 12 An Inquiry into the Origin of Moral Virtue, 13 Remarks, 23 An Essay on Charity and Charity Schools, 155 A Search into the Nature of Society, 205 A Vindication of the Book, from the Aspersions contained in a Presentment of the Grand Jury of Middlesex, and an Abusive Letter to Lord C----, 237 PART II. Preface, 261 The First Dialogue, 279 The Second Dialogue, 302 The Third Dialogue, 331 The Fourth Dialogue, 366 The Fifth Dialogue, 400 The Sixth Dialogue, 451 PREFACE. Laws and government are to the political bodies of civil societies, what the vital spirits and life itself are to the natural bodies of animated creatures; and as those that study the anatomy of dead carcases may see, that the chief organs and nicest springs more immediately required to continue the motion of our machine, are not hard bones, strong muscles and nerves, nor the smooth white skin, that so beautifully covers them, but small trifling films, and little pipes, that are either overlooked or else seem inconsiderable to vulgar eyes; so they that examine into the nature of man, abstract from art and education, may observe, that what renders him a sociable animal, consists not in his desire of company, good nature, pity, affability, and other graces of a fair outside; but that his vilest and most hateful qualities are the most necessary accomplishments to fit him for the largest, and, according to the world, the happiest and most flourishing societies. The following Fable, in which what I have said is set forth at large, was printed above eight years ago [1], in a six penny pamphlet, called, The Grumbling Hive, or Knaves turn'd Honest; and being soon after pirated, cried about the streets in a halfpenny sheet. Since the first publishing of it, I have met with several that, either wilfully or ignorantly mistaking the design, would have it, that the scope of it was a satire upon virtue and morality, and the whole wrote for the encouragement of vice. This made me resolve, whenever it should be reprinted, some way or other to inform the reader of the real intent this little poem was wrote with. I do not dignify these few loose lines with the name of Poem, that I would have the reader expect any poetry in them, but barely because they are rhyme, and I am in reality puzzled what name to give them; for they are neither heroic nor pastoral, satire, burlesque, nor heroi-comic; to be a tale they want probability, and the whole is rather too long for a fable. All I can say of them is, that they are a story told in doggerel, which, without the least design of being witty, I have endeavoured to do in as easy and familiar a manner as I was able: the reader shall be welcome to call them what he pleases. It was said of Montaigne, that he was pretty well versed in the defects of mankind, but unacquainted with the excellencies of human nature: if I fare no worse, I shall think myself well used. What country soever in the universe is to be understood by the Bee-Hive represented here, it is evident, from what is said of the laws and constitution of it, the glory, wealth, power, and industry of its inhabitants, that it must be a large, rich and warlike nation, that is happily governed by a limited monarchy. The satire, therefore, to be met with in the following lines, upon the several professions and callings, and almost every degree and station of people, was not made to injure and point to particular persons, but only to show the vileness of the ingredients that altogether compose the wholesome mixture of a well-ordered society; in order to extol the wonderful power of political wisdom, by the help of which so beautiful a machine is raised from the most contemptible branches. For the main design of the Fable (as it is briefly explained in the Moral), is to show the impossibility of enjoying all the most elegant comforts of life, that are to be met with in an industrious, wealthy and powerful nation, and at the same time, be blessed with all the virtue and innocence that can be wished for in a golden age; from thence to expose the unreasonableness and folly of those, that desirous of being an opulent and flourishing people, and wonderfully greedy after all the benefits they can receive as such, are yet always murmuring at and exclaiming against those vices and inconveniences, that from the beginning of the world to this present day, have been inseparable from all kingdoms and states, that ever were famed, for strength, riches, and politeness, at the same time. To do this, I first slightly touch upon some of the faults and corruptions the several professions and callings are generally charged with. After that I show that those very vices, of every particular person, by skilful management, were made subservient to the grandeur and worldly happiness of the whole. Lastly, by setting forth what of necessity must be the consequence of general honesty and virtue, and national temperance, innocence and content, I demonstrate that if mankind could be cured of the failings they are naturally guilty of, they would cease to be capable of being raised into such vast potent and polite societies, as they have been under the several great commonwealths and monarchies that have flourished since the creation. If you ask me, why I have done all this, cui bono? and what good these notions will produce? truly, besides the reader's diversion, I believe none at all; but if I was asked what naturally ought to be expected from them, I would answer, that, in the first place, the people who continually find fault with others, by reading them, would be taught to look at home, and examining their own consciences, be made ashamed of always railing at what they are more or less guilty of themselves; and that, in the next, those who are so fond of the ease and comforts, and reap all the benefits that are the consequence of a great and flourishing nation, would learn more patiently to submit to those inconveniences, which no government upon earth can remedy, when they should see the impossibility of enjoying any great share of the first, without partaking likewise of the latter. This, I say, ought naturally to be expected from the publishing of these notions, if people were to be made better by any thing that could be said to them; but mankind having for so many ages remained still the same, notwithstanding the many instructive and elaborate writings, by which their amendment has been endeavoured, I am not so vain as to hope for better success from so inconsiderable a trifle. Having allowed the small advantage this little whim is likely to produce, I think myself obliged to show that it cannot be prejudicial to any; for what is published, if it does no good, ought at least to do no harm: in order to this, I have made some explanatory notes, to which the reader will find himself referred in those passages that seem to be most liable to exceptions. The censorious, that never saw the Grumbling Hive, will tell me, that whatever I may talk of the Fable, it not taking up a tenth part of the book, was only contrived to introduce the Remarks; that instead of clearing up the doubtful or obscure places, I have only pitched upon such as I had a mind to expatiate upon; and that far from striving to extenuate the errors committed before, I have made bad worse, and shown myself a more barefaced champion for vice, in the rambling digressions, than I had done in the Fable itself. I shall spend no time in answering these accusations: where men are prejudiced, the best apologies are lost; and I know that those who think it criminal to suppose a necessity of vice in any case whatever, will never be reconciled to any part of the performance; but if this be thoroughly examined, all the offence it can give must result from the wrong inferences that may perhaps be drawn from it, and which I desire nobody to make. When I assert that vices are inseparable from great and potent societies, and that it is impossible their wealth and grandeur should subsist without, I do not say that the particular members of them who are guilty of any should not be continually reproved, or not be punished for them when they grow into crimes. There are, I believe, few people in London, of those that are at any time forced to go a-foot, but what could wish the streets of it much cleaner than generally they are; while they regard nothing but their own clothes and private conveniency; but when once they come to consider, that what offends them, is the result of the plenty, great traffic, and opulency of that mighty city, if they have any concern in its welfare, they will hardly ever wish to see the streets of it less dirty. For if we mind the materials of all sorts that must supply such an infinite number of trades and handicrafts, as are always going forward; the vast quantity of victuals, drink, and fuel, that are daily consumed in it; the waste and superfluities that must be produced from them; the multitudes of horses, and other cattle, that are always dawbing the streets; the carts, coaches, and more heavy carriages that are perpetually wearing and breaking the pavement of them; and, above all, the numberless swarms of people that are continually harassing and trampling through every part of them: If, I say, we mind all these, we shall find, that every moment must produce new filth; and, considering how far distant the great streets are from the river side, what cost and care soever be bestowed to remove the nastiness almost as fast as it is made, it is impossible London should be more cleanly before it is less flourishing. Now would I ask, if a good citizen, in consideration of what has been said, might not assert, that dirty streets are a necessary evil, inseparable from the felicity of London, without being the least hinderance to the cleaning of shoes, or sweeping of streets, and consequently without any prejudice either to the blackguard or the scavingers. But if, without any regard to the interest or happiness of the city, the question was put, What place I thought most pleasant to walk in? Nobody can doubt, but before the stinking streets of London, I would esteem a fragrant garden, or a shady grove in the country. In the same manner, if laying aside all worldly greatness and vain glory, I should be asked where I thought it was most probable that men might enjoy true happiness, I would prefer a small peaceable society, in which men, neither envied nor esteemed by neighbours, should be contented to live upon the natural product of the spot they inhabit, to a vast multitude abounding in wealth and power, that should always be conquering others by their arms abroad, and debauching themselves by foreign luxury at home. Thus much I had said to the reader in the first edition; and have added nothing by way of preface in the second. But since that, a violent outcry has been made against the book, exactly answering the expectation I always had of the justice, the wisdom, the charity, and fair-dealing of those whose good will I despaired of. It has been presented by the Grand Jury, and condemned by thousands who never saw a word of it. It has been preached against before my Lord Mayor; and an utter refutation of it is daily expected from a reverend divine, who has called me names in the advertisements, and threatened to answer me in two months time for above five months together. What I have to say for myself, the reader will see in my Vindication at the end of the book, where he will likewise find the Grand Jury's Presentment, and a letter to the Right Honourable Lord C. which is very rhetorical beyond argument or connection. The author shows a fine talent for invectives, and great sagacity in discovering atheism, where others can find none. He is zealous against wicked books, points at the Fable of the Bees, and is very angry with the author: He bestows four strong epithets on the enormity of his guilt, and by several elegant innuendos to the multitude, as the danger there is in suffering such authors to live, and the vengeance of Heaven upon a whole nation, very charitably recommends him to their care. Considering the length of this epistle, and that it is not wholly levelled at me only, I thought at first to have made some extracts from it of what related to myself; but finding, on a nearer inquiry, that what concerned me was so blended and interwoven with what did not, I was obliged to trouble the reader with it entire, not without hopes that, prolix as it is, the extravagancy of it will be entertaining to those who have perused the treatise it condemns with so much horror. THE GRUMBLING HIVE: OR, KNAVES TURN'D HONEST. A spacious hive well stock'd with bees, That liv'd in luxury and ease; And yet as fam'd for laws and arms, As yielding large and early swarms; Was counted the great nursery 5 Of sciences and industry. No bees had better government, More fickleness, or less content: They were not slaves to tyranny. Nor rul'd by wild democracy; 10 But kings, that could not wrong, because Their power was circumscrib'd by laws. These insects liv'd like men, and all Our actions they performed in small: They did whatever's done in town, 15 And what belongs to sword or gown: Though th' artful works, by nimble slight Of minute limbs, 'scap'd human sight; Yet we've no engines, labourers, Ships, castles, arms, artificers, 20 Craft, science, shop, or instrument, But they had an equivalent: Which, since their language is unknown, Must be call'd, as we do our own. As grant, that among other things, 25 They wanted dice, yet they had kings; And those had guards; from whence we may Justly conclude, they had some play; Unless a regiment be shown Of soldiers, that make use of none. 30 Vast numbers throng'd the fruitful hive; Yet those vast numbers made 'em thrive; Millions endeavouring to supply Each other's lust and vanity; While other millions were employ'd, 35 To see their handy-works destroy'd; They furnish'd half the universe; Yet had more work than labourers. Some with vast flocks, and little pains, Jump'd into business of great gains; 40 And some were damn'd to scythes and spades, And all those hard laborious trades; Where willing wretches daily sweat, And wear out strength and limbs to eat: While others follow'd mysteries, 45 To which few folks binds 'prentices; That want no stock, but that of brass, And may set up without a cross; As sharpers, parasites, pimps, players, Pickpockets, coiners, quacks, soothsayers, 50 And all those, that in enmity, With downright working, cunningly Convert to their own use the labour Of their good-natur'd heedless neighbour. These were call'd Knaves, but bar the name, 55 The grave industrious were the same: All trades and places knew some cheat, No calling was without deceit. The lawyers, of whose art the basis Was raising feuds and splitting cases, 60 Oppos'd all registers, that cheats Might make more work with dipt estates; As were't unlawful, that one's own, Without a law-suit, should be known. They kept off hearings wilfully, 65 To finger the refreshing fee; And to defend a wicked cause, Examin'd and survey'd the laws, As burglar's shops and houses do, To find out where they'd best break through. 70 Physicians valu'd fame and wealth Above the drooping patient's health, Or their own skill: the greatest part Study'd, instead of rules of art, Grave pensive looks and dull behaviour, 75 To gain th' apothecary's favour; The praise of midwives, priests, and all That serv'd at birth or funeral. To bear with th' ever-talking tribe, And hear my lady's aunt prescribe; 80 With formal smile, and kind how d'ye, To fawn on all the family; And, which of all the greatest curse is, T' endure th' impertinence of nurses. Among the many priests of Jove, 85 Hir'd to draw blessings from above, Some few were learn'd and eloquent, But thousands hot and ignorant: Yet all pass'd muster that could hide Their sloth, lust, avarice and pride; 90 For which they were as fam'd as tailors For cabbage, or for brandy sailors, Some, meagre-look'd, and meanly clad, Would mystically pray for bread, Meaning by that an ample store, 95 Yet lit'rally received no more; And, while these holy drudges starv'd, The lazy ones, for which they serv'd, Indulg'd their ease, with all the graces Of health and plenty in their faces. 100 The soldiers, that were forc'd to fight, If they surviv'd, got honour by't; Though some, that shunn'd the bloody fray, Had limbs shot off, that ran away: Some valiant gen'rals fought the foe; 105 Others took bribes to let them go: Some ventur'd always where 'twas warm, Lost now a leg, and then an arm; Till quite disabled, and put by, They liv'd on half their salary; 110 While others never came in play, And staid at home for double pay. Their kings were serv'd, but knavishly, Cheated by their own ministry; Many, that for their welfare slaved, 115 Robbing the very crown they saved: Pensions were small, and they liv'd high, Yet boasted of their honesty. Calling, whene'er they strain'd their right, The slipp'ry trick a perquisite; 120 And when folks understood their cant, They chang'd that for emolument; Unwilling to be short or plain, In any thing concerning gain; For there was not a bee but would 125 Get more, I won't say, than he should; But than he dar'd to let them know, That pay'd for't; as your gamesters do, That, though at fair play, ne'er will own Before the losers that they've won. 130 But who can all their frauds repeat? The very stuff which in the street They sold for dirt t' enrich the ground, Was often by the buyers found Sophisticated with a quarter 135 Of good-for-nothing stones and mortar; Though Flail had little cause to mutter. Who sold the other salt for butter. Justice herself, fam'd for fair dealing, By blindness had not lost her feeling; 140 Her left hand, which the scales should hold, Had often dropt 'em, brib'd with gold; And, though she seem'd impartial, Where punishment was corporal, Pretended to a reg'lar course, 145 In murder, and all crimes of force; Though some first pillory'd for cheating, Were hang'd in hemp of their own beating; Yet, it was thought, the sword she bore Check'd but the desp'rate and the poor; 150 That, urg'd by mere necessity, Were ty'd up to the wretched tree For crimes, which not deserv'd that fate, But to secure the rich and great. Thus every part was full of vice, 155 Yet the whole mass a paradise; Flatter'd in peace, and fear'd in wars They were th' esteem of foreigners, And lavish of their wealth and lives, The balance of all other hives. 160 Such were the blessings of that state; Their crimes conspir'd to make them great: And virtue, who from politics Has learn'd a thousand cunning tricks, Was, by their happy influence, 165 Made friends with vice: And ever since, The worst of all the multitude Did something for the common good. This was the state's craft, that maintain'd The whole of which each part complain'd: 170 This, as in music harmony Made jarrings in the main agree, Parties directly opposite, Assist each other, as 'twere for spite; And temp'rance with sobriety, 175 Serve drunkenness and gluttony. The root of evil, avarice, That damn'd ill-natur'd baneful vice, Was slave to prodigality, That noble sin; whilst luxury 180 Employ'd a million of the poor, And odious pride a million more: Envy itself, and vanity, Were ministers of industry; Their darling folly, fickleness, 185 In diet, furniture, and dress, That strange ridic'lous vice, was made The very wheel that turn'd the trade. Their laws and clothes were equally Objects of mutability! 190 For, what was well done for a time, In half a year became a crime; Yet while they altered thus their laws, Still finding and correcting flaws, They mended by inconstancy 195 Faults, which no prudence could foresee. Thus vice nurs'd ingenuity, Which join'd the time and industry, Had carry'd life's conveniences, Its real pleasures, comforts, ease, 200 To such a height, the very poor } Liv'd better than the rich before. } And nothing could be added more. } How vain is mortal happiness! Had they but known the bounds of bliss; 205 And that perfection here below Is more than gods can well bestow; The grumbling brutes had been content With ministers and government. But they, at every ill success, 210 Like creatures lost without redress, Curs'd politicians, armies, fleets; While every one cry'd, damn the cheats, And would, though conscious of his own, In others barb'rously bear none. 215 One, that had got a princely store, By cheating master, king, and poor, Dar'd cry aloud, the land must sink For all its fraud; and whom d'ye think The sermonizing rascal chid? 220 A glover that sold lamb for kid. The least thing was not done amiss, Or cross'd the public business; But all the rogues cry'd brazenly, Good gods, had we but honesty! 225 Merc'ry smil'd at th' impudence, And others call'd it want of sense, Always to rail at what they lov'd: But Jove with indignation mov'd, At last in anger swore, he'd rid 230 The bawling hive of fraud; and did. The very moment it departs, And honesty fills all their hearts; There shows 'em, like th' instructive tree, Those crimes which they're asham'd to see; 235 Which now in silence they confess, By blushing at their ugliness: Like children, that would hide their faults, And by their colour own their thoughts: Imag'ning, when they're look'd upon, 240 That others see what they have done. But, O ye gods! what consternation, How vast and sudden was th' alteration! In half an hour, the nation round, Meat fell a penny in the pound. 245 The mask hypocrisy's sitting down, From the great statesman to the clown: And in some borrow'd looks well known, Appear'd like strangers in their own. The bar was silent from that day; 250 For now the willing debtors pay, Ev'n what's by creditors forgot; Who quitted them that had it not. Those that were in the wrong, stood mute, And dropt the patch'd vexatious suit: 255 On which since nothing else can thrive, Than lawyers in an honest hive, All, except those that got enough, With inkhorns by their sides troop'd off. Justice hang'd some, set others free; 260 And after gaol delivery, Her presence being no more requir'd, With all her train and pomp retir'd. First march'd some smiths with locks and grates, Fetters, and doors with iron plates: 265 Next gaolers, turnkeys and assistants: Before the goddess, at some distance, Her chief and faithful minister, 'Squire Catch, the law's great finisher, Bore not th' imaginary sword, 270 But his own tools, an ax and cord: Then on a cloud the hood-wink'd fair, Justice herself was push'd by air: About her chariot, and behind, Were serjeants, bums of every kind, 275 Tip-staffs, and all those officers, That squeeze a living out of tears. Though physic liv'd, while folks were ill, None would prescribe, but bees of skill, Which through the hive dispers'd so wide, 280 That none of them had need to ride; Wav'd vain disputes, and strove to free The patients of their misery; Left drugs in cheating countries grown, And us'd the product of their own; 285 Knowing the gods sent no disease, To nations without remedies. Their clergy rous'd from laziness, Laid not their charge on journey-bees; But serv'd themselves, exempt from vice, 290 The gods with pray'r and sacrifice; All those, that were unfit, or knew, Their service might be spar'd, withdrew: Nor was their business for so many, (If th' honest stand in need of any,) 295 Few only with the high-priest staid, To whom the rest obedience paid: Himself employ'd in holy cares; Resign'd to others state-affairs. He chas'd no starv'ling from his door, 300 Nor pinch'd the wages of the poor: But at his house the hungry's fed, } The hireling finds unmeasur'd bread, } The needy trav'ller board and bed. } Among the king's great ministers, 305 And all th' inferior officers, The change was great; for frugally They now liv'd on their salary: That a poor bee should ten times come To ask his due, a trifling sum, 310 And by some well-hir'd clerk be made To give a crown, or ne'er be paid, Would now be call'd a downright cheat, Though formerly a perquisite. All places manag'd first by three, 315 Who watch'd each other's knavery And often for a fellow-feeling, Promoted one another's stealing, Are happily supply'd by one, By which some thousands more are gone. 320 No honour now could be content, To live and owe for what was spent; Liv'ries in brokers shops are hung, They part with coaches for a song; Sell stately horses by whole sets; 325 And country-houses, to pay debts. Vain cost is shunn'd as much as fraud; They have no forces kept abroad; Laugh at th' esteem of foreigners, And empty glory got by wars; 330 They fight but for their country's sake, When right or liberty's at stake. Now mind the glorious hive, and see How honesty and trade agree. The show is gone, it thins apace; 335 And looks with quite another face. For 'twas not only that they went, By whom vast sums were yearly spent; But multitudes that liv'd on them, Were daily forc'd to do the same. 340 In vain to other trades they'd fly; All were o'er-stock'd accordingly. The price of land and houses falls; Mirac'lous palaces, whose walls, Like those of Thebes, were rais'd by play, 345 Are to be let; while the once gay, Well-seated household gods would be More pleas'd to expire in flames, than see The mean inscription on the door Smile at the lofty ones they bore. 350 The building trade is quite destroy'd, Artificers are not employ'd; No limner for his art is fam'd, Stone-cutters, carvers are not nam'd. Those, that remain'd, grown temp'rate, strive, 355 Not how to spend, but how to live; And, when they paid their tavern score, Resolv'd to enter it no more: No vintner's jilt in all the hive Could wear now cloth of gold, and thrive; 360 Nor Torcol such vast sums advance, For Burgundy and Ortolans; The courtier's gone that with his miss Supp'd at his house on Christmas peas; Spending as much in two hours stay, 365 As keeps a troop of horse a day. The haughty Chloe, to live great, Had made her husband rob the state: But now she sells her furniture, Which th' Indies had been ransack'd for; 370 Contracts the expensive bill of fare, And wears her strong suit a whole year: The slight and fickle age is past; And clothes, as well as fashions, last. Weavers, that join'd rich silk with plate, 375 And all the trades subordinate, Are gone; still peace and plenty reign, And every thing is cheap, though plain: Kind nature, free from gard'ners force, Allows all fruits in her own course; 380 But rarities cannot be had, Where pains to get them are not paid. As pride and luxury decrease, So by degrees they leave the seas. Not merchants now, but companies 385 Remove whole manufactories. All arts and crafts neglected lie; Content, the bane of industry, Makes 'em admire their homely store, And neither seek nor covet more. 390 So few in the vast hive remain, The hundredth part they can't maintain Against th' insults of numerous foes; Whom yet they valiantly oppose: 'Till some well fenc'd retreat is found, 395 And here they die or stand their ground. No hireling in their army's known; But bravely fighting for their own, Their courage and integrity At last were crown'd with victory. 400 They triumph'd not without their cost, For many thousand bees were lost. Harden'd with toils and exercise, They counted ease itself a vice; Which so improv'd their temperance; 405 That, to avoid extravagance, They flew into a hollow tree, Blest with content and honesty. THE MORAL. Then leave complaints: fools only strive To make a great an honest hive. 410 T' enjoy the world's conveniences, Be fam'd in war, yet live in ease, Without great vices, is a vain Eutopia seated in the brain. Fraud, luxury, and pride must live, 415 While we the benefits receive: Hunger's a dreadful plague, no doubt, Yet who digests or thrives without? Do we not owe the growth of wine To the dry shabby crooked vine? 420 Which, while its shoots neglected stood, Chok'd other plants, and ran to wood; But blest us with its noble fruit, As soon as it was ty'd and cut: So vice is beneficial found, 425 When it's by justice lopp'd and bound; Nay, where the people would be great, } As necessary to the state, } As hunger is to make 'em eat. } Bare virtue can't make nations live 430 In splendor; they, that would revive A golden age, must be as free, For acorns as for honesty. 433 THE INTRODUCTION. One of the greatest reasons why so few people understand themselves, is, that most writers are always teaching men what they should be, and hardly ever trouble their heads with telling them what they really are. As for my part, without any compliment to the courteous reader, or myself, I believe man (besides skin, flesh, bones, &c. that are obvious to the eye) to be a compound of various passions; that all of them, as they are provoked and come uppermost, govern him by turns, whether he will or no. To show that these qualifications, which we all pretend to be ashamed of, are the great support of a flourishing society, has been the subject of the foregoing poem. But there being some passages in it seemingly paradoxical, I have in the preface promised some explanatory remarks on it; which, to render more useful, I have thought fit to inquire, how man, no better qualified, might yet by his own imperfections be taught to distinguish between virtue and vice: and here I must desire the reader once for all to take notice, that when I say men, I mean neither Jews nor Christians; but mere man, in the state of nature and ignorance of the true Deity. AN INQUIRY INTO THE ORIGIN OF MORAL VIRTUE. All untaught animals are only solicitous of pleasing themselves, and naturally follow the bent of their own inclinations, without considering the good or harm that, from their being pleased, will accrue to others. This is the reason that, in the wild state of nature, those creatures are fittest to live peaceably together in great numbers, that discover the least of understanding, and have the fewest appetites to gratify; and consequently no species of animals is, without the curb of government, less capable of agreeing long together in multitudes, than that of man; yet such are his qualities, whether good or bad I shall not determine, that no creature besides himself can ever be made sociable: but being an extraordinary selfish and headstrong, as well as cunning animal, however he may be subdued by superior strength, it is impossible by force alone to make him tractable, and receive the improvements he is capable of. The chief thing, therefore, which lawgivers, and other wise men that have laboured for the establishment of society, have endeavoured, has been to make the people they were to govern, believe, that it was more beneficial for every body to conquer than indulge his appetites, and much better to mind the public than what seemed his private interest. As this has always been a very difficult task, so no wit or eloquence has been left untried to compass it; and the moralists and philosophers of all ages employed their utmost skill to prove the truth of so useful an assertion. But whether mankind would have ever believed it or not, it is not likely that any body could have persuaded them to disapprove of their natural inclinations, or prefer the good of others to their own, if, at the same time, he had not showed them an equivalent to be enjoyed as a reward for the violence, which, by so doing, they of necessity must commit upon themselves. Those that have undertaken to civilize mankind, were not ignorant of this; but being unable to give so many real rewards as would satisfy all persons for every individual action, they were forced to contrive an imaginary one, that, as a general equivalent for the trouble of self-denial, should serve on all occasions, and without costing any thing either to themselves or others, be yet a most acceptable recompence to the receivers. They thoroughly examined all the strength and frailties of our nature, and observing that none were either so savage as not to be charmed with praise, or so despicable as patiently to bear contempt, justly concluded, that flattery must be the most powerful argument that could be used to human creatures. Making use of this bewitching engine, they extolled the excellency of our nature above other animals, and setting forth with unbounded praises the wonders of our sagacity and vastness of understanding, bestowed a thousand encomiums on the rationality of our souls, by the help of which we were capable of performing the most noble achievements. Having, by this artful way of flattery, insinuated themselves into the hearts of men, they began to instruct them in the notions of honour and shame; representing the one as the worst of all evils, and the other as the highest good to which mortals could aspire: which being done, they laid before them how unbecoming it was the dignity of such sublime creatures to be solicitous about gratifying those appetites, which they had in common with brutes, and at the same time unmindful of those higher qualities that gave them the pre-eminence over all visible beings. They indeed confessed, that those impulses of nature were very pressing; that it was troublesome to resist, and very difficult wholly to subdue them. But this they only used as an argument to demonstrate, how glorious the conquest of them was on the one hand, and how scandalous on the other not to attempt it. To introduce, moreover, an emulation amongst men, they divided the whole species into two classes, vastly differing from one another: the one consisted of abject, low-minded people, that always hunting after immediate enjoyment, were wholly incapable of self-denial, and without regard to the good of others, had no higher aim than their private advantage; such as being enslaved by voluptuousness, yielded without resistance to every gross desire, and make no use of their rational faculties but to heighten their sensual pleasure. These wild grovelling wretches, they said, were the dross of their kind, and having only the shape of men, differed from brutes in nothing but their outward figure. But the other class was made up of lofty high-spirited creatures, that, free from sordid selfishness, esteemed the improvements of the mind to be their fairest possessions; and, setting a true value upon themselves, took no delight but in embellishing that part in which their excellency consisted; such as despising whatever they had in common with irrational creatures, opposed by the help of reason their most violent inclinations; and making a continual war with themselves, to promote the peace of others, aimed at no less than the public welfare, and the conquest of their own passion. Fortior est qui se quàm qui fortissima Vincit Moenia ---- ---- These they called the true representatives of their sublime species, exceeding in worth the first class by more degrees, than that itself was superior to the beasts of the field. As in all animals that are not too imperfect to discover pride, we find, that the finest, and such as are the most beautiful and valuable of their kind, have generally the greatest share of it; so in man, the most perfect of animals, it is so inseparable from his very essence (how cunningly soever some may learn to hide or disguise it), that without it the compound he is made of would want one of the chiefest ingredients: which, if we consider, it is hardly to be doubted but lessons and remonstrances, so skilfully adapted to the good opinion man has of himself, as those I have mentioned, must, if scattered amongst a multitude, not only gain the assent of most of them, as to the speculative part, but likewise induce several, especially the fiercest, most resolute, and best among them, to endure a thousand inconveniences, and undergo as many hardships, that they may have the pleasure of counting themselves men of the second class, and consequently appropriating to themselves all the excellencies they have heard of it. From what has been said, we ought to expect, in the first place, that the heroes who took such extraordinary pains to master some of their natural appetites, and preferred the good of others to any visible interest of their own, would not recede an inch from the fine notions they had received concerning the dignity of rational creatures; and having ever the authority of the government on their side, with all imaginable vigour assert the esteem that was due to those of the second class, as well as their superiority over the rest of their kind. In the second, that those who wanted a sufficient stock of either pride or resolution, to buoy them up in mortifying of what was dearest to them, followed the sensual dictates of nature, would yet be ashamed of confessing themselves to be those despicable wretches that belonged to the inferior class, and were generally reckoned to be so little removed from brutes; and that therefore, in their own defence, they would say, as others did, and hiding their own imperfections as well as they could, cry up self-denial and public spiritedness as much as any: for it is highly probable, that some of them, convinced by the real proofs of fortitude and self-conquest they had seen, would admire in others what they found wanting in themselves; others be afraid of the resolution and prowess of those of the second class, and that all of them were kept in awe by the power of their rulers; wherefore is it reasonable to think, that none of them (whatever they thought in themselves) would dare openly contradict, what by every body else was thought criminal to doubt of. This was (or at least might have been) the manner after which savage man was broke; from whence it is evident, that the first rudiments of morality, broached by skilful politicians, to render men useful to each other, as well as tractable, were chiefly contrived, that the ambitious might reap the more benefit from, and govern vast numbers of them with the greater ease and security. This foundation of politics being once laid, it is impossible that man should long remain uncivilized: for even those who only strove to gratify their appetites, being continually crossed by others of the same stamp, could not but observe, that whenever they checked their inclinations or but followed them with more circumspection, they avoided a world of troubles, and often escaped many of the calamities that generally attended the too eager pursuit after pleasure. First, they received, as well as others, the benefit of those actions that were done for the good of the whole society, and consequently could not forbear wishing well to those of the superior class that performed them. Secondly, the more intent they were in seeking their own advantage, without regard to others, the more they were hourly convinced, that none stood so much in their way as those that were most like themselves. It being the interest then of the very worst of them, more than any, to preach up public-spiritedness, that they might reap the fruits of the labour and self-denial of others, and at the same time indulge their own appetites with less disturbance, they agreed with the rest, to call every thing, which, without regard to the public, man should commit to gratify any of his appetites, vice; if in that action there could be observed the least prospect, that it might either be injurious to any of the society, or ever render himself less serviceable to others: and to give the name of virtue to every performance, by which man, contrary to the impulse of nature, should endeavour the benefit of others, or the conquest of his own passions, out of a rational ambition of being good. It shall be objected, that no society was ever any ways civilized before the major part had agreed upon some worship or other of an over-ruling power, and consequently that the notions of good and evil, and the distinction between virtue and vice, were never the contrivance of politicians, but the pure effect of religion. Before I answer this objection, I must repeat what I have said already, that in this inquiry into the origin of moral virtue, I speak neither of Jews or Christians, but man in his state of nature and ignorance of the true Deity; and then I affirm, that the idolatrous superstitions of all other nations, and the pitiful notions they had of the Supreme Being, were incapable of exciting man to virtue, and good for nothing but to awe and amuse a rude and unthinking multitude. It is evident from history, that in all considerable societies, how stupid or ridiculous soever people's received notions have been, as to the deities they worshipped, human nature has ever exerted itself in all its branches, and that there is no earthly wisdom or moral virtue, but at one time or other men have excelled in it in all monarchies and commonwealths, that for riches and power have been any ways remarkable. The Egyptians, not satisfied with having deified all the ugly monsters they could think on, were so silly as to adore the onions of their own sowing; yet at the same time their country was the most famous nursery of arts and sciences in the world, and themselves more eminently skilled in the deepest mysteries of nature than any nation has been since. No states or kingdoms under heaven have yielded more or greater patterns in all sorts of moral virtues, than the Greek and Roman empires, more especially the latter; and yet how loose, absurd and ridiculous were their sentiments as to sacred matters? For without reflecting on the extravagant number of their deities, if we only consider the infamous stories they fathered upon them, it is not to be denied but that their religion, far from teaching men the conquest of their passions, and the way to virtue, seemed rather contrived to justify their appetites, and encourage their vices. But if we would know what made them excel in fortitude, courage, and magnanimity, we must cast our eyes on the pomp of their triumphs, the magnificence of their monuments and arches; their trophies, statues, and inscriptions; the variety of their military crowns, their honours decreed to the dead, public encomiums on the living, and other imaginary rewards they bestowed on men of merit; and we shall find, that what carried so many of them to the utmost pitch of self-denial, was nothing but their policy in making use of the most effectual means that human pride could be flattered with. It is visible, then, that it was not any heathen religion, or other idolatrous superstition, that first put man upon crossing his appetites and subduing his dearest inclinations, but the skilful management of wary politicians; and the nearer we search into human nature, the more we shall be convinced, that the moral virtues are the political offspring which flattery begot upon pride. There is no man, of what capacity or penetration soever, that is wholly proof against the witchcraft of flattery, if artfully performed, and suited to his abilities. Children and fools will swallow personal praise, but those that are more cunning, must be managed with much greater circumspection; and the more general the flattery is, the less it is suspected by those it is levelled at. What you say in commendation of a whole town is received with pleasure by all the inhabitants: speak in commendation of letters in general, and every man of learning will think himself in particular obliged to you. You may safely praise the employment a man is of, or the country he was born in; because you give him an opportunity of screening the joy he feels upon his own account, under the esteem which he pretends to have for others. It is common among cunning men, that understand the power which flattery has upon pride, when they are afraid they shall be imposed upon, to enlarge, though much against their conscience, upon the honour, fair dealing, and integrity of the family, country, or sometimes the profession of him they suspect; because they know that men often will change their resolution, and act against their inclination, that they may have the pleasure of continuing to appear in the opinion of some, what they are conscious not to be in reality. Thus sagacious moralists draw men like angels, in hopes that the pride at least of some will put them upon copying after the beautiful originals which they are represented to be. When the incomparable Sir Richard Steele, in the usual elegance of his easy style, dwells on the praises of his sublime species, and with all the embellishments of rhetoric, sets forth the excellency of human nature, it is impossible not to be charmed with his happy turns of thought, and the politeness of his expressions. But though I have been often moved by the force of his eloquence, and ready to swallow the ingenious sophistry with pleasure, yet I could, never be so serious, but, reflecting on his artful encomiums, I thought on the tricks made use of by the women that would teach children to be mannerly. When an awkward girl before she can either speak or go, begins after many entreaties to make the first rude essays of curtseying, the nurse falls in an ecstacy of praise; "There is a delicate curtsey! O fine Miss! there is a pretty lady! Mamma! Miss can make a better curtsey than her sister Molly!" The same is echoed over by the maids, whilst Mamma almost hugs the child to pieces; only Miss Molly, who being four years older, knows how to make a very handsome curtsey, wonders at the perverseness of their judgment, and swelling with indignation, is ready to cry at the injustice that is done her, till, being whispered in the ear that it is only to please the baby, and that she is a woman, she grows proud at being let into the secret, and rejoicing at the superiority of her understanding, repeats what has been said with large additions, and insults over the weakness of her sister, whom all this while she fancies to be the only bubble among them. These extravagant praises would by any one, above the capacity of an infant, be called fulsome flatteries, and, if you will, abominable lies; yet experience teaches us, that by the help of such gross encomiums, young misses will be brought to make pretty curtesies, and behave themselves womanly much sooner, and with less trouble, than they would without them. It is the same with boys, whom they will strive to persuade, that all fine gentlemen do as they are bid, and that none but beggar boys are rude, or dirty their clothes; nay, as soon as the wild brat with his untaught fist begins to fumble for his hat, the mother, to make him pull it off, tells him before he is two years old, that he is a man; and if he repeats that action when she desires him, he is presently a captain, a lord mayor, a king, or something higher if she can think of it, till edged on by the force of praise, the little urchin endeavours to imitate man as well as he can, and strains all his faculties to appear what his shallow noddle imagines he is believed to be. The meanest wretch puts an inestimable value upon himself, and the highest wish of the ambitious man is to have all the world, as to that particular, of his opinion: so that the most insatiable thirst after fame that ever heroe was inspired with, was never more than an ungovernable greediness to engross the esteem and admiration of others in future ages as well as his own; and (what mortification soever this truth might be to the second thoughts of an Alexander or a Cæsar) the great recompense in view, for which the most exalted minds have with so much alacrity sacrificed their quiet, health, sensual pleasures, and every inch of themselves, has never been any thing else but the breath of man, the aerial coin of praise. Who can forbear laughing when he thinks on all the great men that have been so serious on the subject of that Macedonian madman, his capacious soul, that mighty heart, in one corner of which, according to Lorenzo Gratian, the world was so commodiously lodged, that in the whole there was room for six more? Who can forbear laughing, I say, when he compares the fine things that have been said of Alexander, with the end he proposed to himself from his vast exploits, to be proved from his own mouth; when the vast pains he took to pass the Hydaspes forced him to cry out? Oh ye Athenians, could you believe what dangers I expose myself to, to be praised by you! To define then, the reward of glory in the amplest manner, the most that can be said of it, is, that it consists in a superlative felicity which a man, who is conscious of having performed a noble action, enjoys in self-love, whilst he is thinking on the applause he expects of others. But here I shall be told, that besides the noisy toils of war and public bustle of the ambitious, there are noble and generous actions that are performed in silence; that virtue being its own reward, those who are really good, have a satisfaction in their consciousness of being so, which is all the recompence they expect from the most worthy performances; that among the heathens there have been men, who, when they did good to others, were so far from coveting thanks and applause, that they took all imaginable care to be for ever concealed from those on whom they bestowed their benefits, and consequently that pride has no hand in spurring man on to the highest pitch of self-denial. In answer to this, I say, that it is impossible to judge of a man's performance, unless we are thoroughly acquainted with the principle and motive from which he acts. Pity, though it is the most gentle and the least mischievous of all our passions, is yet as much a frailty of our nature, as anger, pride, or fear. The weakest minds have generally the greatest share of it, for which reason none are more compassionate than women and children. It must be owned, that of all our weaknesses, it is the most amiable, and bears the greatest resemblance to virtue; nay, without a considerable mixture of it, the society could hardly subsist: but as it is an impulse of nature, that consults neither the public interest nor our own reason, it may produce evil as well as good. It has helped to destroy the honour of virgins, and corrupted the integrity of judges; and whoever acts from it as a principle, what good soever he may bring to the society, has nothing to boast of, but that he has indulged a passion that has happened to be beneficial to the public. There is no merit in saving an innocent babe ready to drop into the fire: the action is neither good nor bad, and what benefit soever the infant received, we only obliged ourselves; for to have seen it fall, and not strove to hinder it, would have caused a pain, which self preservation compelled us to prevent: Nor has a rich prodigal, that happens to be of a commiserating temper, and loves to gratify his passions, greater virtue to boast of, when he relieves an object of compassion with what to himself is a trifle. But such men, as without complying with any weakness of their own, can part from what they value themselves, and, from no other motive but there love to goodness, perform a worthy action in silence: such men, I confess, have acquired more refined notions of virtue than those I have hitherto spoke of; yet even in these (with which the world has yet never swarmed) we may discover no small symptoms of pride, and the humblest man alive must confess, that the reward of a virtuous action, which is the satisfaction that ensues upon it, consists in a certain pleasure he procures to himself by contemplating on his own worth: which pleasure, together with the occasion of it, are as certain signs of pride, as looking pale and trembling at any imminent danger, are the symptoms of fear. If the too scrupulous reader should at first view condemn these notions concerning the origin of moral virtue, and think them perhaps offensive to Christianity, I hope he will forbear his censures, when he shall consider, that nothing can render the unsearchable depth of the Divine Wisdom more conspicuous, than that man, whom Providence had designed for society, should not only by his own frailties and imperfections, be led into the road to temporal happiness, but likewise receive, from a seeming necessity of natural causes, a tincture of that knowledge, in which he was afterwards to be made perfect by the true religion, to his eternal welfare. REMARKS. Line 45. Whilst others follow'd mysteries, To which few folks bind 'prentices. In the education of youth, in order to their getting of a livelihood when they shall be arrived at maturity, most people look out for some warrantable employment or other, of which there are whole bodies or companies, in every large society of men. By this means, all arts and sciences, as well as trades and handicrafts, are perpetuated in the commonwealth, as long as they are found useful; the young ones that are daily brought up to them, continually supplying the loss of the old ones that die. But some of these employments being vastly more creditable than others, according to the great difference of the charges required to set up in each of them, all prudent parents, in the choice of them, chiefly consult their own abilities, and the circumstances they are in. A man that gives three or four hundred pounds with his son to a great merchant, and has not two or three thousand pounds to spare against he is out of his time to begin business with, is much to blame not to have brought his child up to something that might be followed with less money. There are abundance of men of a genteel education, that have but very small revenues, and yet are forced, by their reputable callings, to make a greater figure than ordinary people of twice their income. If these have any children, it often happens, that as their indigence renders them incapable of bringing them up to creditable occupations, so their pride makes them unwilling to put them out to any of the mean laborious trades, and then, in hopes either of an alteration in their fortune, or that some friends, or favourable opportunity shall offer, they from time to time put off the disposing of them, until insensibly they come to be of age, and are at last brought up to nothing. Whether this neglect be more barbarous to the children, or prejudicial to the society, I shall not determine. At Athens all children were forced to assist their parents, if they came to want: But Solon made a law, that no son should be obliged to relieve his father, who had not bred him up to any calling. Some parents put out their sons to good trades very suitable to their then present abilities, but happen to die, or fail in the world, before their children have finished their apprenticeships, or are made fit for the business they are to follow: A great many young men again, on the other hand, are handsomely provided for and set up for themselves, that yet (some for want of industry, or else a sufficient knowledge in their callings, others by indulging their pleasures, and some few by misfortunes) are reduced to poverty, and altogether unable to maintain themselves by the business they were brought up to. It is impossible but that the neglects, mismanagements, and misfortunes I named, must very frequently happen in populous places, and consequently great numbers of people be daily flung unprovided for into the wide world, how rich and potent a commonwealth may be, or what care soever a government may take to hinder it. How must these people be disposed of? The sea, I know, and armies, which the world is seldom without, will take off some. Those that are honest drudges, and of a laborious temper, will become journeymen to the trades they are of, or enter into some other service: such of them as studied and were sent to the university, may become schoolmasters, tutors, and some few of them get into some office or other: But what must become of the lazy, that care for no manner of working, and the fickle, that hate to be confined to any thing? Those that ever took delight in plays and romances, and have a spice of gentility, will, in all probability, throw their eyes upon the stage, and if they have a good elocution, with tolerable mien, turn actors. Some that love their bellies above any thing else, if they have a good palate, and a little knack at cookery, will strive to get in with gluttons and epicures, learn to cringe and bear all manner of usage, and so turn parasites, ever flattering the master, and making mischief among the rest of the family. Others, who by their own and companions lewdness, judge of people's incontinence, will naturally fall to intriguing, and endeavour to live by pimping for such as either want leisure or address to speak for themselves. Those of the most abandoned principles of all, if they are sly and dexterous, turn sharpers, pick-pockets, or coiners, if their skill and ingenuity give them leave. Others again, that have observed the credulity of simple women, and other foolish people, if they have impudence and a little cunning, either set up for doctors, or else pretend to tell fortunes; and every one turning the vices and frailties of others to his own advantage, endeavours to pick up a living the easiest and shortest way his talents and abilities will let him. These are certainly the bane of civil society; but they are fools, who, not considering what has been said, storm at the remissness of the laws that suffer them to live, while wise men content themselves with taking all imaginable care not to be circumvented by them, without quarrelling at what no human prudence can prevent. Line 55. These we call'd Knaves, but bar the name, The grave industrious were the same. This, I confess, is but a very indifferent compliment to all the trading part of the people. But if the word Knave may be understood in its full latitude, and comprehend every body that is not sincerely honest, and does to others what he would dislike to have done to himself, I do not question but I shall make good the charge. To pass by the innumerable artifices, by which buyers and sellers outwit one another, that are daily allowed of and practised among the fairest of dealers, show me the tradesmen that has always discovered the defects of his goods to those that cheapened them; nay, where will you find one that has not at one time or other industriously concealed them, to the detriment of the buyer? Where is the merchant that has never, against his conscience, extolled his wares beyond their worth, to make them go off the better. Decio, a man of great figure, that had large commissions for sugar from several parts beyond sea, treats about a considerable parcel of that commodity with Alcander, an eminent West India merchant; both understood the market very well, but could not agree: Decio was a man of substance, and thought no body ought to buy cheaper than himself; Alcander was the same, and not wanting money, stood for his price. While they were driving their bargain at a tavern near the exchange, Alcander's man brought his master a letter from the West Indies, that informed him of a much greater quantity of sugars coming for England than was expected. Alcander now wished for nothing more than to sell at Decio's price, before the news was public; but being a cunning fox, that he might not seem too precipitant, nor yet lose his customer, he drops the discourse they were upon, and putting on a jovial humour, commends the agreeableness of the weather, from whence falling upon the delight he took in his gardens, invites Decio to go along with him to his country house, that was not above twelve miles from London. It was in the month of May, and, as it happened, upon a Saturday in the afternoon: Decio, who was a single man, and would have no business in town before Tuesday, accepts of the other's civility, and away they go in Alcander's coach. Decio was splendidly entertained that night and the day following; the Monday morning, to get himself an appetite, he goes to take the air upon a pad of Alcander's, and coming back meets with a gentleman of his acquaintance, who tells him news was come the night before that the Barbadoes fleet was destroyed by a storm, and adds, that before he came out it had been confirmed at Lloyd's coffee house, where it was thought sugars would rise 25 per cent, by change-time. Decio returns to his friend, and immediately resumes the discourse they had broke off at the tavern: Alcander, who thinking himself sure of his chap, did not design to have moved it till after dinner, was very glad to see himself so happily prevented; but how desirous soever he was to sell, the other was yet more eager to buy; yet both of them afraid of one another, for a considerable time counterfeited all the indifference imaginable; until at last, Decio fired with what he had heard, thought delays might prove dangerous, and throwing a guinea upon the table, struck the bargain at Alcander's price. The next day they went to London; the news proved true, and Decio got five hundred pounds by his sugars, Alcander, whilst he had strove to over-reach the other, was paid in his own coin: yet all this is called fair dealing; but I am sure neither of them would have desired to be done by, as they did to each other. Line 101. The soldiers that were forc'd to fight, If they surviv'd got honour by't. So unaccountable is the desire to be thought well of in men, that though they are dragged into the war against their will, and some of them for their crimes, and are compelled to fight with threats, and often blows, yet they would be esteemed for what they would have avoided, if it had been in their power: whereas, if reason in man was of equal weight with his pride, he could never be pleased with praises, which he is conscious he does not deserve. By honour, in its proper and genuine signification, we mean nothing else but the good opinion of others, which is counted more or less substantial, the more or less noise or bustle there is made about the demonstration of it; and when we say the sovereign is the fountain of honour, it signifies that he has the power, by titles or ceremonies, or both together, to stamp a mark upon whom he pleases, that shall be as current as his coin, and procure the owner the good opinion of every body, whether he deserves it or not. The reverse of honour is dishonour, or ignominy, which consists in the bad opinion and contempt of others; and as the first is counted a reward for good actions, so this is esteemed a punishment for bad ones; and the more or less public or heinous the manner is in which this contempt of others is shown, the more or less the person so suffering is degraded by it. This ignominy is likewise called shame, from the effect it produces; for though the good and evil of honour and dishonour are imaginary, yet there is a reality in shame, as it signifies a passion, that has its proper symptoms, over-rules our reason, and requires as much labour and self-denial to be subdued, as any of the rest; and since the most important actions of life often are regulated according to the influence this passion has upon us, a thorough understanding of it must help to illustrate the notions the world has of honour and ignominy. I shall therefore describe it at large. First, to define the passion of shame, I think it may be called a sorrowful reflection on our own unworthiness, proceeding from an apprehension that others either do, or might, if they knew all, deservedly despise us. The only objection of weight that can be raised against this definition is, that innocent virgins are often ashamed, and blush when they are guilty of no crime, and can give no manner of reason for this frailty: and that men are often ashamed for others, for, or with whom, they have neither friendship or affinity, and consequently that there may be a thousand instances of shame given, to which the words of the definition are not applicable. To answer this, I would have it first considered, that the modesty of women is the result of custom and education, by which all unfashionable denudations and filthy expressions are rendered frightful and abominable to them, and that notwithstanding this, the most virtuous young woman alive will often, in spite of her teeth, have thoughts and confused ideas of things arise in her imagination, which she would not reveal to some people for a thousand worlds. Then, I say, that when obscene words are spoken in the presence of an unexperienced virgin, she is afraid that some body will reckon her to understand what they mean, and consequently that she understands this, and that, and several things, which she desires to be thought ignorant of. The reflecting on this, and that thoughts are forming to her disadvantage, brings upon her that passion which we call shame; and whatever can sting her, though never so remote from lewdness, upon that set of thoughts I hinted, and which she thinks criminal, will have the same effect, especially before men, as long as her modesty lasts. To try the truth of this, let them talk as much bawdy as they please in the room next to the same virtuous young woman, where she is sure that she is undiscovered, and she will hear, if not hearken to it, without blushing at all, because then she looks upon herself as no party concerned; and if the discourse should stain her cheeks with red, whatever her innocence may imagine, it is certain that what occasions her colour, is a passion not half so mortifying as that of shame; but if, in the same place, she hears something said of herself that must tend to her disgrace, or any thing is named, of which she is secretly guilty, then it is ten to one but she will be ashamed and blush, though nobody sees her; because she has room to fear, that she is, or, if all was known, should be thought of contemptibly. That we are often ashamed, and blush for others, which was the second part of the objection, is nothing else but that sometimes we make the case of others too nearly our own; so people shriek out when they see others in danger: Whilst we are reflecting with too much earnest on the effect which such a blameable action, if it was ours, would produce in us, the spirits, and consequently the blood, are insensibly moved, after the same manner as if the action was our own, and so the same symptoms must appear. The shame that raw, ignorant, and ill-bred people, though seemingly without a cause, discover before their betters, is always accompanied with, and proceeds from a consciousness of their weakness and inabilities; and the most modest man, how virtuous, knowing, and accomplished soever he might be, was never yet ashamed without some guilt or diffidence. Such as out of rusticity, and want of education are unreasonably subject to, and at every turn overcome by this passion, we call bashful; and those who out of disrespect to others, and a false opinion of their own sufficiency, have learned not to be affected with it, when they should be, are called impudent or shameless. What strange contradictions man is made of! The reverse of shame is pride, (see Remark on l. 182) yet no body can be touched with the first, that never felt any thing of the latter; for that we have such an extraordinary concern in what others think of us, can proceed from nothing but the vast esteem we have of ourselves. That these two passions, in which the seeds of most virtues are contained, are realities in our frame, and not imaginary qualities, is demonstrable from the plain and different effects, that, in spite of our reason, are produced in us as soon as we are affected with either. When a man is overwhelmed with shame, he observes a sinking of the spirits! the heart feels cold and condensed, and the blood flies from it to the circumference of the body; the face glows, the neck and part of the breast partake of the fire: he is heavy as lead; the head is hung down, and the eyes through a mist of confusion are fixed on the ground: no injuries can move him; he is weary of his being, and heartily wishes he could make himself invisible: but when, gratifying his vanity, he exults in his pride, he discovers quite contrary symptoms; his spirits swell and fan the arterial blood; a more than ordinary warmth strengthens and dilates the heart; the extremities are cool; he feels light to himself, and imagines he could tread on air; his head is held up, his eyes rolled about with sprightliness; he rejoices at his being, is prone to anger, and would be glad that all the world could take notice of him. It is incredible how necessary an ingredient shame is to make us sociable; it is a frailty in our nature; all the world, whenever it affects them, submit to it with regret, and would prevent it if they could; yet the happiness of conversation depends upon it, and no society could be polished, if the generality of mankind were not subject to it. As, therefore, the sense of shame is troublesome, and all creatures are ever labouring for their own defence, it is probable, that man striving to avoid this uneasiness, would, in a great measure, conquer his shame by that he was grown up; but this would be detrimental to the society, and therefore from his infancy, throughout his education, we endeavour to increase, instead of lessening or destroying this sense of shame; and the only remedy prescribed, is a strict observance of certain rules, to avoid those things that might bring this troublesome sense of shame upon him. But as to rid or cure him of it, the politician would sooner take away his life. The rules I speak of, consist in a dextrous management of ourselves, a stifling of our appetites, and hiding the real sentiments of our hearts before others. Those who are not instructed in these rules long before they come to years of maturity, seldom make any progress in them afterwards. To acquire and bring to perfection the accomplishment I hint at, nothing is more assisting than pride and good sense. The greediness we have after the esteem of others, and the raptures we enjoy in the thoughts of being liked, and perhaps admired, are equivalents that over-pay the conquest of the strongest passions, and consequently keep us at a great distance from all such words or actions that can bring shame upon us. The passions we chiefly ought to hide, for the happiness and embellishment of the society, are lust, pride, and selfishness; therefore the word modesty has three different acceptations, that vary with the passions it conceals. As to the first, I mean the branch of modesty, that has a general pretension to chastity for its object, it consists in a sincere and painful endeavour, with all our faculties, to stifle and conceal before others, that inclination which nature has given us to propagate our species. The lessons of it, like those of grammar, are taught us long before we have occasion for, or understand the usefulness of them; for this reason children often are ashamed, and blush out of modesty, before the impulse of nature I hint at makes any impression upon them. A girl who is modestly educated, may, before she is two years old, begin to observe how careful the women she converses with, are of covering themselves before men; and the same caution being inculcated to her by precept, as well as example, it is very probable that at six she will be ashamed of showing her leg, without knowing any reason why such an act is blameable, or what the tendency of it is. To be modest, we ought, in the first place, to avoid all unfashionable denudations: a woman is not to be found fault with for going with her neck bare, if the custom of the country allows of it; and when the mode orders the stays to be cut very low, a blooming virgin may, without fear of rational censure, show all the world: How firm her pouting breasts, that white as snow, On th' ample chest at mighty distance grow. But to suffer her ancle to be seen, where it is the fashion for women to hide their very feet, is a breach of modesty; and she is impudent, who shows half her face in a country where decency bids her to be veiled. In the second, our language must be chaste, and not only free, but remote from obscenities, that is, whatever belongs to the multiplication of our species is not to be spoke of, and the least word or expression, that, though at a great distance, has any relation to that performance, ought never to come from our lips. Thirdly, all postures and motions that can any ways sully the imagination, that is, put us in mind of what I have called obscenities, are to be forbore with great caution. A young woman, moreover, that would be thought well-bred, ought to be circumspect before men in all her behaviour, and never known to receive from, much less to bestow favours upon them, unless the great age of the man, near consanguinity, or a vast superiority on either side, plead her excuse. A young lady of refined education keeps a strict guard over her looks, as well as actions, and in her eyes we may read a consciousness that she has a treasure about her, not out of danger of being lost, and which yet she is resolved not to part with at any terms. Thousand satires have been made against prudes, and as many encomiums to extol the careless graces, and negligent air of virtuous beauty. But the wiser sort of mankind are well assured, that the free and open countenance of the smiling fair, is more inviting, and yields greater hopes to the seducer, than the ever-watchful look of a forbidding eye. This strict reservedness is to be complied with by all young women, especially virgins, if they value the esteem of the polite and knowing world; men may take greater liberty, because in them the appetite is more violent and ungovernable. Had equal harshness of discipline been imposed upon both, neither of them could have made the first advances, and propagation must have stood still among all the fashionable people: which being far from the politician's aim, it was advisable to ease and indulge the sex that suffered most by the severity, and make the rules abate of their rigour, where the passion was the strongest, and the burden of a strict restraint would have been the most intolerable. For this reason, the man is allowed openly to profess the veneration and great esteem he has for women, and show greater satisfaction, more mirth and gaiety in their company, than he is used to do out of it. He may not only be complaisant and serviceable to them on all occasions, but it is reckoned his duty to protect and defend them. He may praise the good qualities they are possessed of, and extol their merit with as many exaggerations as his invention will let him, and are consistent with good sense. He may talk of love, he may sigh and complain of the rigours of the fair, and what his tongue must not utter he has the privilege to speak with his eyes, and in that language to say what he pleases; so it be done with decency, and short abrupted glances: but too closely to pursue a woman, and fasten upon her with ones eyes, is counted very unmannerly; the reason is plain, it makes her uneasy, and, if she be not sufficiently fortified by art and dissimulation, often throws her into visible disorders. As the eyes are the windows of the soul, so this staring impudence flings a raw, unexperienced woman, into panic fears, that she may be seen through; and that the man will discover, or has already betrayed, what passes within her: it keeps her on a perpetual rack, that commands her to reveal her secret wishes, and seems designed to extort from her the grand truth, which modesty bids her with all her faculties to deny. The multitude will hardly believe the excessive force of education, and in the difference of modesty between men and women, ascribe that to nature which is altogether owing to early instruction: Miss is scarce three years old, but she is spoke to every day to hide her leg, and rebuked in good earnest if she shows it; while little Master at the same age is bid to take up his coats, and piss like a man. It is shame and education that contains the seeds of all politeness, and he that has neither, and offers to speak the truth of his heart, and what he feels within, is the most contemptible creature upon earth, though he committed no other fault. If a man should tell a woman, that he could like no body so well to propagate his species upon, as herself, and that he found a violent desire that moment to go about it, and accordingly offered to lay hold of her for that purpose; the consequence would be, that he would be called a brute, the woman would run away, and himself be never admitted in any civil company. There is no body that has any sense of shame, but would conquer the strongest passion rather than be so served. But a man need not conquer his passions, it is sufficient that he conceals them. Virtue bids us subdue, but good breeding only requires we should hide our appetites. A fashionable gentleman may have as violent an inclination to a woman as the brutish fellow; but then he behaves himself quite otherwise; he first addresses the lady's father, and demonstrates his ability splendidly to maintain his daughter; upon this he is admitted into her company, where, by flattery, submission, presents, and assiduity, he endeavours to procure her liking to his person, which if he can compass, the lady in a little while resigns herself to him before witnesses in a most solemn manner; at night they go to bed together, where the most reserved virgin very tamely suffers him to do what he pleases, and the upshot is, that he obtains what he wanted without ever having asked for it. The next day they receive visits, and no body laughs at them, or speaks a word of what they have been doing. As to the young couple themselves, they take no more notice of one another, I speak of well-bred people, than they did the day before; they eat and drink, divert themselves as usually, and having done nothing to be ashamed of, are looked upon as, what in reality they may be, the most modest people upon earth. What I mean by this, is to demonstrate, that by being well-bred, we suffer no abridgement in our sensual pleasures, but only labour for our mutual happiness, and assist each other in the luxurious enjoyment of all worldly comforts. The fine gentleman I spoke of need not practise any greater self-denial than the savage, and the latter acted more according to the laws of nature and sincerity than the first. The man that gratifies his appetites after the manner the custom of the country allows of, has no censure to fear. If he is hotter than goats or bulls, as soon as the ceremony is over, let him sate and fatigue himself with joy and ecstacies of pleasure, raise and indulge his appetites by turns, as extravagantly as his strength and manhood will give him leave, he may with safety laugh at the wise men that should reprove him: all the women, and above nine in ten of the men are of his side; nay, he has the liberty of valuing himself upon the fury of his unbridled passion, and the more he wallows in lust, and strains every faculty to be abandonedly voluptuous, the sooner he shall have the good-will and gain the affection of the women, not the young, vain, and lascivious only, but the prudent, grave, and most sober matrons. Because impudence is a vice, it does not follow that modesty is a virtue; it is built upon shame, a passion in our nature, and may be either good or bad according to the actions performed from that motive. Shame may hinder a prostitute from yielding to a man before company, and the same shame may cause a bashful good-natured creature, that has been overcome by frailty, to make away with her infant. Passions may do good by chance, but there can be no merit but in the conquest of them. Was there virtue in modesty, it would be of the same force in the dark as it is in the light, which it is not. This the men of pleasure know very well, who never trouble their heads with a woman's virtue, so they can but conquer her modesty; seducers, therefore, do not make their attacks at noon-day, but cut their trenches at night. Illa verecundis lux est præbenda puellis, Qua timidus latebras sperat habere pudor. People of substance may sin without being exposed for their stolen pleasure; but servants, and the poorer sort of women, have seldom the opportunity of concealing a big belly, or at least the consequences of it. It is impossible that an unfortunate girl of good parentage may be left destitute, and know no shift for a livelihood than to become a nursery, or a chambermaid: she may be diligent, faithful, and obliging, have abundance of modesty, and if you will, be religious: she may resist temptations, and preserve her chastity for years together, and yet at last meet with an unhappy moment in which she gives up her honour to a powerful deceiver, who afterwards neglects her. If she proves with child, her sorrows are unspeakable, and she cannot be reconciled with the wretchedness of her condition; the fear of shame attacks her so lively, that every thought distracts her. All the family she lives in have a great opinion of her virtue, and her last mistress took her for a saint. How will her enemies, that envied her character, rejoice! How will her relations detest her! The more modest she is now, and the more violently the dread of coming to shame hurries her away, the more wicked and more cruel her resolutions will be, either against herself or what she bears. It is commonly imagined, that she who can destroy her child, her own flesh and blood, must have a vast stock of barbarity, and be a savage monster, different from other women; but this is likewise a mistake, which we commit for the want of understanding nature and the force of passions. The same woman that murders her bastard in the most execrable manner, if she is married afterwards, may take care of, cherish, and feel all the tenderness for her infant that the fondest mother can be capable of. All mothers naturally love their children: but as this is a passion, and all passions centre in self-love, so it may be subdued by any superior passion, to sooth that same self-love, which if nothing had intervened, would have bid her fondle her offspring. Common whores, whom all the world knows to be such, hardly ever destroy their children; nay, even those who assist in robberies and murders seldom are guilty of this crime; not because they are less cruel or more virtuous, but because they have lost their modesty to a greater degree, and the fear of shame makes hardly any impression upon them. Our love to what never was within the reach of our senses is but poor and inconsiderable, and therefore women have no natural love to what they bear; their affection begins after the birth: what they feel before is the result of reason, education, and the thoughts of duty. Even when children first are born, the mother's love is but weak, and increases with the sensibility of the child, and grows up to a prodigious height, when by signs it begins to express his sorrows and joys, makes his wants known, and discovers his love to novelty and the multiplicity of his desires. What labours and hazards have not women undergone to maintain and save their children, what force and fortitude beyond their sex have they not shown in their behalf! but the vilest women have exerted themselves on this head as violently as the best. All are prompted to it by a natural drift and inclination, without any consideration of the injury or benefit the society receives from it. There is no merit in pleasing ourselves, and the very offspring is often irreparably ruined by the excessive fondness of parents: for though infants, for two or three years, may be the better for this indulging care of mothers, yet afterwards, if not moderated, it may totally spoil them, and many it has brought to the gallows. If the reader thinks I have been too tedious on that branch of modesty, by the help of which we endeavour to appear chaste, I shall make him amends in the brevity with which I design to treat of the remaining part, by which we would make others believe, that the esteem we have for them exceeds the value we have for ourselves, and that we have no disregard so great to any interest as we have to our own. This laudable quality is commonly known by the name of Manners and Good-breeding, and consists in a fashionable habit, acquired by precept and example, of flattering the pride and selfishness of others, and concealing our own with judgment and dexterity. This must be only understood of our commerce with our equals and superiors, and whilst we are in peace and amity with them; for our complaisance must never interfere with the rules of honour, nor the homage that is due to us from servants and others that depend upon us. With this caution, I believe, that the definition will quadrate with every thing that can be alleged as a piece, or an example of either good-breeding or ill manners; and it will be very difficult throughout the various accidents of human life and conversation, to find out an instance of modesty or impudence that is not comprehended in, and illustrated by it, in all countries and in all ages. A man that asks considerable favours of one who is a stranger to him, without consideration, is called impudent, because he shows openly his selfishness, without having any regard to the selfishness of the other. We may see in it, likewise, the reason why a man ought to speak of his wife and children, and every thing that is dear to him, as sparing as is possible, and hardly ever of himself, especially in commendation of them. A well-bred man may be desirous, and even greedy after praise and the esteem of others, but to be praised to his face offends his modesty: the reason is this; all human creatures, before they are yet polished, receive an extraordinary pleasure in hearing themselves praised: this we are all conscious of, and therefore when we see a man openly enjoy and feast on this delight, in which we have no share, it rouses our selfishness, and immediately we begin to envy and hate him. For this reason, the well-bred man conceals his joy, and utterly denies that he feels any, and by this means consulting and soothing our selfishness, he averts that envy and hatred, which otherwise he would have justly to fear. When from our childhood we observe how those are ridiculed who calmly can hear their own praises, it is possible that we may strenuously endeavour to avoid that pleasure, that in tract of time we grow uneasy at the approach of it: but this is not following the dictates of nature, but warping her by education and custom; for if the generality of mankind took no delight in being praised, there could be no modesty in refusing to hear it. The man of manners picks not the best, but rather takes the worst out of the dish, and gets of every thing, unless it be forced upon him, always the most indifferent share. By this civility the best remains for others, which being a compliment to all that are present, every body is pleased with it: the more they love themselves, the more they are forced to approve of his behaviour, and gratitude stepping in, they are obliged almost, whether they will or not, to think favourably of him. After this manner, it is the well-bred man insinuates himself in the esteem of all the companies he comes in, and if he gets nothing else by it, the pleasure he receives in reflecting on the applause which he knows is secretly given him, is to a proud man more than an equivalent for his former self-denial, and overpays to self-love with interest, the loss it sustained in his complaisance to others. If there are seven or eight apples or peaches among six people of ceremony, that are pretty near equal, he who is prevailed upon to choose first, will take that, which, if there be any considerable difference, a child would know to be the worst: this he does to insinuate, that he looks upon those he is with to be of superior merit, and that there is not one whom he wishes not better to than he does to himself. It is custom and a general practice that makes this modish deceit familiar to us, without being shocked at the absurdity of it; for if people had been used to speak from the sincerity of their hearts, and act according to the natural sentiments they felt within, until they were three or four and twenty, it would be impossible for them to assist at this comedy of manners, without either loud laughter or indignation; and yet it is certain, that such behaviour makes us more tolerable to one another, than we could be otherwise. It is very advantageous to the knowledge of ourselves, to be able well to distinguish between good qualities and virtues. The bond of society exacts from every member a certain regard for others, which the highest is not exempt from in the presence of the meanest even in an empire: but when we are by ourselves, and so far removed from company, as to be beyond the reach of their senses, the words modesty and impudence lose their meaning; a person may be wicked, but he cannot be immodest while he is alone, and no thought can be impudent that never was communicated to another. A man of exalted pride may so hide it, that no body shall be able to discover that he has any; and yet receive greater satisfaction from that passion than another, who indulges himself in the declaration of it before all the world. Good manners having nothing to do with virtue or religion; instead of extinguishing, they rather inflame the passions. The man of sense and education never exults more in his pride than when he hides it with the greatest dexterity; and in feasting on the applause, which he is sure all good judges will pay to his behaviour, he enjoys a pleasure altogether unknown to the short-sighted surly alderman, that shows his haughtiness glaringly in his face, pulls off his hat to nobody, and hardly deigns to speak to an inferior. A man may carefully avoid every thing that in the eye of the world, is esteemed to be the result of pride, without mortifying himself, or making the least conquest of his passion. It is possible that he only sacrifices the insipid outward part of his pride, which none but silly ignorant people take delight in, to that part we all feel within, and which the men of the highest spirit and most exalted genius feed on with so much ecstacy in silence. The pride of great and polite men is no where more conspicuous than in the debates about ceremony and precedency, where they have an opportunity of giving their vices the appearance of virtues, and can make the world believe that it is their care, their tenderness for the dignity of their office, or the honour of their masters, what is the result of their own personal pride and vanity. This is most manifest in all negotiations of ambassadors and plenipotentiaries, and must be known by all that observe what is transacted at public treaties; and it will ever be true, that men of the best taste have no relish in their pride, as long as any mortal can find out that they are proud. Line 125. For there was not a bee but would Get more, I won't say, than he should; But than, &c. The vast esteem we have of ourselves, and the small value we have for others, make us all very unfair judges in our own cases. Few men can be persuaded that they get too much by those they sell to, how extraordinary soever their gains are, when, at the same time, there is hardly a profit so inconsiderable, but they will grudge it to those they buy from; for this reason the smallest of the seller's advantage being the greatest persuasive to the buyer; tradesmen are generally forced to tell lies in their own defence, and invent a thousand improbable stories, rather than discover what they really get by their commodities. Some old standers, indeed, that pretend to more honesty (or what is more likely, have more pride), than their neighbours, are used to make but few words with their customers, and refuse to sell at a lower price than what they ask at first. But these are commonly cunning foxes that are above the world, and know that those who have money, get often more by being surly, than others by being obliging. The vulgar imagine they can find more sincerity in the sour looks of a grave old fellow, than there appears in the submissive air and inviting complacency of a young beginner. But this is a grand mistake; and if they are mercers, drapers, or others, that have many sorts of the same commodity, you may soon be satisfied; look upon their goods and you will find each of them have their private marks, which is a certain sign that both are equally careful in concealing the prime cost of what they sell. Line 128. --------As your gamesters do, That, though at fair play ne'er will own Before the losers what they've won. This being a general practice, which no body can be ignorant of, that has ever seen any play, there must be something in the make of man that is the occasion of it: but as the searching into this will seem very trifling to many, I desire the reader to skip this remark, unless he be in perfect good humour, and has nothing at all to do. That gamesters generally endeavour to conceal their gains before the losers, seems to me to proceed from a mixture of gratitude, pity, and self-preservation. All men are naturally grateful while they receive a benefit, and what they say or do, while it affects and feels warm about them, is real, and comes from the heart; but when that is over, the returns we make generally proceed from virtue, good manners, reason, and the thoughts of duty, but not from gratitude, which is a motive of the inclination. If we consider, how tyrannically the immoderate love we bear to ourselves, obliges us to esteem every body that with or without design acts in our favour, and how often we extend our affection to things inanimate, when we imagine them to contribute to our present advantage: if, I say, we consider this, it will not be difficult to find out which way our being pleased with those whose money we win is owing to a principle of gratitude. The next motive is our pity, which proceeds from our consciousness of the vexation there is in losing; and as we love the esteem of every body, we are afraid of forfeiting theirs by being the cause of their loss. Lastly, we apprehend their envy, and so self-preservation makes that we strive to extenuate first the obligation, then the reason why we ought to pity, in hopes that we shall have less of their ill-will and envy. When the passions show themselves in their full strength, they are known by every body: When a man in power gives a great place to one that did him a small kindness in his youth, we call it gratitude: When a woman howls and wrings her hands at the loss of her child, the prevalent passion is grief; and the uneasiness we feel at the sight of great misfortunes, as a man's breaking his legs, or dashing his brains out, is every where called pity. But the gentle strokes, the slight touches of the passions, are generally overlooked or mistaken. To prove my assertion, we have but to observe what generally passes between the winner and the loser. The first is always complaisant, and if the other will but keep his temper, more than ordinary obliging; he is ever ready to humour the loser, and willing to rectify his mistakes with precaution, and the height of good manners. The loser is uneasy, captious, morose, and perhaps swears and storms; yet as long as he says or does nothing designedly affronting, the winner takes all in good part, without offending, disturbing, or contradicting him. Losers, says the proverb, must have leave to rail: All which shows that the loser is thought in the right to complain, and for that very reason pitied. That we are afraid of the loser's ill-will, is plain from our being conscious that we are displeased with those we lose to, and envy we always dread when we think ourselves happier than others: From whence it follows, that when the winner endeavours to conceal his gains, his design is to avert the mischiefs he apprehends, and this is self-preservation; the cares of which continue to affect us as long as the motives that first produced them remain. But a month, a week, or perhaps a much shorter time after, when the thoughts of the obligation, and consequently the winner's gratitude, are worn off, when the loser has recovered his temper, laughs at his loss, and the reason of the winner's pity ceases; when the winner's apprehension of drawing upon him the ill-will and envy of the loser is gone; that is to say, as soon as all the passions are over, and the cares of self-preservation employ the winner's thoughts no longer, he will not only make no scruple of owning what he has won, but will, if his vanity steps in, likewise, with pleasure, brag off, if not exaggerate his gains. It is possible, that when people play together who are at enmity, and perhaps desirous of picking a quarrel, or where men playing for trifles contend for superiority of skill, and aim chiefly at the glory of conquest, nothing shall happen of what I have been talking of. Different passions oblige us to take different measures; what I have said I would have understood of ordinary play for money, at which men endeavour to get, and venture to lose what they value: And even here I know it will be objected by many, that though they have been guilty of concealing their gains, yet they never observed those passions which I allege as the causes of that frailty; which is no wonder, because few men will give themselves leisure, and fewer yet take the right method of examining themselves as they should do. It is with the passions in men, as it is with colours in cloth: It is easy to know a red, a green, a blue, a yellow, a black, &c. in as many different places; but it must be an artist that can unravel all the various colours and their proportions, that make up the compound of a well-mixed cloth. In the same manner, may the passions be discovered by every body whilst they are distinct, and a single one employs the whole man; but it is very difficult to trace every motive of those actions that are the result of a mixture of passions. Line 163. And virtue, who from politics Has learn'd a thousand cunning tricks, Was, by their happy influence, Made friends with vice.---- It may be said, that virtue is made friends with vice, when industrious good people, who maintain their families, and bring up their children handsomely, pay taxes, and are several ways useful members of the society, get a livelihood by something that chiefly depends on, or is very much influenced by the vices of others, without being themselves guilty of, or accessary to them, any otherwise than by way of trade, as a druggist may be to poisoning, or a sword-cutler to blood-shed. Thus the merchant, that sends corn or cloth into foreign parts to purchase wines and brandies, encourages the growth or manufactory of his own country; he is a benefactor to navigation, increases the customs, and is many ways beneficial to the public; yet it is not to be denied, but that his greatest dependence is lavishness and drunkenness: For, if none were to drink wine but such only as stand in need of it, nor any body more than his health required, that multitude of wine-merchants, vintners, coopers, &c. that make such a considerable show in this flourishing city, would be in a miserable condition. The same may be said not only of card and dice-makers, that are the immediate ministers to a legion of vices; but that of mercers, upholsterers, tailors, and many others, that would be starved in half a year's time, if pride and luxury were at once to be banished the nation. Line 167. The worst of all the multitude Did something for the common good. This, I know, will seem to be a strange paradox to many; and I shall be asked what benefit the public receives from thieves and house-breakers. They are, I own, very pernicious to human society, and every government ought to take all imaginable care to root out and destroy them; yet if all people were strictly honest, and nobody would meddle with, or pry into any thing but his own, half the smiths of the nation would want employment; and abundance of workmanship (which now serves for ornament as well as defence) is to be seen every where both in town and country, that would never have been thought of, but to secure us against the attempts of pilferers and robbers. If what I have said be thought far fetched, and my assertion seems still a paradox, I desire the reader to look upon the consumption of things, and he will find that the laziest and most unactive, the profligate and most mischievous, are all forced to do something for the common good, and whilst their mouths are not sowed up, and they continue to wear and otherwise destroy what the industrious are daily employed about to make, fetch and procure, in spite of their teeth obliged to help, maintain the poor and the public charges. The labour of millions would soon be at an end, if there were not other millions, as I say, in the fable. --------Employ'd, To see their handy-works destroy'd. But men are not to be judged by the consequences that may succeed their actions, but the facts themselves, and the motives which it shall appear they acted from. If an ill-natured miser, who is almost a plumb, and spends but fifty pounds a-year, though he has no relation to inherit his wealth, should be robbed of five hundred or a thousand guineas, it is certain, that as soon as this money should come to circulate, the nation would be the better for the robbery, and receive the same, and as real a benefit from it, as if an archbishop had left the same sum to the public; yet justice, and the peace of society, require that he or they who robbed the miser should be hanged, though there were half a dozen of them concerned. Thieves and pick-pockets steal for a livelihood, and either what they can get honestly is not sufficient to keep them, or else they have an aversion to constant working: they want to gratify their senses, have victuals, strong drink, lewd women, and to be idle when they please. The victualler, who entertains them, and takes their money, knowing which way they come at it, is very near as great a villain as his guests. But if he fleeces them well, minds his business, and is a prudent man, he may get money, and be punctual with them he deals with: The trusty out-clerk, whose chief aim is his master's profit, sends him in what beer he wants, and takes care not to lose his custom; while the man's money is good, he thinks it no business of his to examine whom he gets it by. In the mean time, the wealthy brewer, who leaves all the management to his servants, knows nothing of the matter, but keeps his coach, treats his friends, and enjoys his pleasure with ease and a good conscience; he gets an estate; builds houses, and educates his children in plenty, without ever thinking on the labour which wretches perform, the shifts fools make, and the tricks knaves play to come at the commodity, by the vast sale of which he amasses his great riches. A highwayman having met with a considerable booty, gives a poor common harlot, he fancies, ten pounds to new-rig her from top to toe; is there a spruce mercer so conscientious that he will refuse to sell her a thread sattin, though he knew who she was? She must have shoes and stockings, gloves, the stay and mantua maker, the sempstress, the linen-draper, all must get something by her, and a hundred different tradesmen dependent on those she laid her money out with, may touch part of it before a month is at an end. The generous gentleman, in the mean time, his money being near spent, ventured again on the road, but the second day having committed a robbery near Highgate, he was taken with one of his accomplices, and the next sessions both were condemned, and suffered the law. The money due on their conviction fell to three country fellows, on whom it was admirably well bestowed. One was an honest farmer, a sober pains-taking man, but reduced by misfortunes: The summer before, by the mortality among the cattle, he had lost six cows out of ten, and now his landlord, to whom he owed thirty pounds, had seized on all his stock. The other was a day-labourer, who struggled hard with the world, had a sick wife at home, and several small children to provide for. The third was a gentleman's gardener, who maintained his father in prison, where, being bound for a neighbour, he had lain for twelve pounds almost a year and a half; this act of filial duty was the more meritorious, because he had for some time been engaged to a young woman, whose parents lived in good circumstances, but would not give their consent before our gardener had fifty guineas of his own to show. They received above fourscore pounds each, which extricated every one of them out of the difficulties they laboured under, and made them, in their opinion, the happiest people in the world. Nothing is more destructive, either in regard to the health or the vigilance and industry of the poor, than the infamous liquor, the name of which, derived from Juniper in Dutch, is now, by frequent use, and the laconic spirit of the nation, from a word of middling length, shrunk into a monosyllable, intoxicating gin, that charms the unactive, the desperate and crazy of either sex, and makes the starving sot behold his rags and nakedness with stupid indolence, or banter both in senseless laughter, and more insipid jests! It is a fiery lake that sets the brain in flame, burns up the entrails, and scorches every part within; and, at the same time, a Lethe of oblivion, in which the wretch immersed drowns his most pinching cares, and with his reason, all anxious reflection on brats that cry for food, hard winters frosts, and horrid empty home. In hot and adust tempers it makes men quarrelsome, renders them brutes and savages, sets them on to fight for nothing, and has often been the cause of murder. It has broke and destroyed the strongest constitutions, thrown them into consumptions, and been the fatal and immediate occasion of apoplexies, phrenzies, and sudden death. But, as these latter mischiefs happen but seldom, they might be overlooked and connived at: but this cannot be said of the many diseases that are familiar to the liquor, and which are daily and hourly produced by it; such as loss of appetite, fevers, black and yellow jaundice, convulsions, stone and gravel, dropsies, and leucophlegmacies. Among the doting admirers of this liquid poison, many of the meanest rank, from a sincere affection to the commodity itself, become dealers in it, and take delight to help others to what they love themselves, as whores commence bawds to make the profits of one trade subservient to the pleasures of the other. But as these starvelings commonly drink more than their gains, they seldom, by selling, mend the wretchedness of condition they laboured under while they were only buyers. In the fag-end and outskirts of the town, and all places of the vilest resort, it is sold in some part or other of almost every house, frequently in cellars, and sometimes in the garret. The petty traders in this Stygian comfort, are supplied by others in somewhat higher station, that keep professed brandy shops, and are as little to be envied as the former; and among the middling people, I know not a more miserable shift for a livelihood than their calling; whoever would thrive in it must, in the first place, be of a watchful and suspicious, as well as a bold and resolute temper, that he may not be imposed upon by cheats and sharpers, nor out-bullied by the oaths and imprecations of hackney coachmen and foot soldiers: in the second, he ought to be a dabster at gross jokes and loud laughter, and have all the winning ways to allure customers and draw out their money, and be well versed in the low jests and raileries the mob make use of to banter prudence and frugality. He must be affable and obsequious to the most despicable; always ready and officious to help a porter down with his load, shake hands with a basket woman, pull off his hat to an oyster wench, and be familiar with a beggar; with patience and good humour he must be able to endure the filthy actions and viler language of nasty drabs, and the lewdest rakehells, and without a frown, or the least aversion, bear with all the stench and squalor, noise and impertinence, that the utmost indigence, laziness, and ebriety, can produce in the most shameless and abandoned vulgar. The vast number of the shops I speak of throughout the city and suburbs, are an astonishing evidence of the many seducers, that, in a lawful occupation, are accessary to the introduction and increase of all the sloth, sottishness, want, and misery, which the abuse of strong waters is the immediate cause of, to lift above mediocrity perhaps half a score men that deal in the same commodity by wholesale, while, among the retailers, though qualified as I required, a much greater number are broke and ruined, for not abstaining from the Circean cup they hold out to others, and the more fortunate are their whole lifetime obliged to take the uncommon pains, endure the hardships, and swallow all the ungrateful and shocking things I named, for little or nothing beyond a bare sustenance, and their daily bread. The short-sighted vulgar in the chain of causes seldom can see further than one link; but those who can enlarge their view, and will give themselves the leisure of gazing on the prospect of concatenated events, may, in a hundred places, see good spring up and pullulate from evil, as naturally as chickens do from eggs. The money that arises from the duties upon malt is a considerable part of the national revenue, and should no spirits be distilled from it, the public treasure would prodigiously suffer on that head. But if we would set in a true light the many advantages, and large catalogue of solid blessings that accrue from, and are owing to the evil I treat of, we are to consider the rents that are received, the ground that is tilled, the tools that are made, the cattle that are employed, and above all, the multitude of poor that are maintained, by the variety of labour, requited in husbandry, in malting, in carriage and distillation, before we can have the product of malt, which we call low wines, and is but the beginning from which the various spirits are afterwards to be made. Besides this, a sharp-sighted good-humoured man might pick up abundance of good from the rubbish, which I have all flung away for evil. He would tell me, that whatever sloth and sottishness might be occasioned by the abuse of malt-spirits, the moderate use of it was of inestimable benefit to the poor, who could purchase no cordials of higher prices, that it was an universal comfort, not only in cold and weariness, but most of the afflictions that are peculiar to the necessitous, and had often to the most destitute supplied the places of meat, drink, clothes, and lodging. That the stupid indolence in the most wretched condition occasioned by those composing draughts, which I complained of, was a blessing to thousands, for that certainly those were the happiest, who felt the least pain. As to diseases, he would say, that, as it caused some, so it cured others, and that if the excess in those liquors had been sudden death to some few, the habit of drinking them daily prolonged the lives of many, whom once it agreed with; that for the loss sustained from the insignificant quarrels it created at home, we were overpaid in the advantage we received from it abroad, by upholding the courage of soldiers, and animating the sailors to the combat; and that in the two last wars no considerable victory had been obtained without. To the dismal account I have given of the retailers, and what they are forced to submit to, he would answer, that not many acquired more than middling riches in any trade, and that what I had counted so offensive and intolerable in the calling, was trifling to those who were used to it; that what seemed irksome and calamitous to some, was delightful and often ravishing to others; as men differed in circumstances and education. He would put me in mind, that the profit of an employment ever made amends for the toil and labour that belonged to it, nor forget, Dulcis odor lucri e re qualibet; or to tell me, that the smell of gain was fragrant even to night-workers. If I should ever urge to him, that to have here and there one great and eminent distiller, was a poor equivalent for the vile means, the certain want, and lasting misery of so many thousand wretches, as were necessary to raise them, he would answer, that of this I could be no judge, because I do not know what vast benefit they might afterwards be of to the commonwealth. Perhaps, would he say, the man thus raised will exert himself in the commission of the peace, or other station, with vigilance and zeal against the dissolute and disaffected, and retaining his stirring temper, be as industrious in spreading loyalty, and the reformation of manners, throughout every cranny of the wide populous town, as once he was in filling it with spirits; till he becomes at last the scourge of whores, of vagabonds and beggars, the terror of rioters and discontented rabbles, and constant plague to sabbath-breaking butchers. Here my good-humoured antagonist would exult and triumph over me, especially if he could instance to me such a bright example, what an uncommon blessing, would he cry out, is this man to his country! how shining and illustrious his virtue! To justify his exclamation, he would demonstrate to me, that it was impossible to give a fuller evidence of self-denial in a grateful mind, than to see him at the expence of his quiet and hazard of his life and limbs, be always harassing, and even for trifles, persecuting that very class of men to whom he owes his fortune, from no other motive than his aversion to idleness, and great concern for religion and the public welfare. Line 173. Parties directly opposite, Assist each other, as 'twere for spite. Nothing was more instrumental in forwarding the Reformation, than the sloth and stupidity of the Roman clergy; yet the same reformation has roused them from the laziness and ignorance they then laboured under; and the followers of Luther, Calvin, and others, may be said to have reformed not only those whom they drew into their sentiment, but likewise those who remained their greatest opposers. The clergy of England, by being severe upon the Schismatics, and upbraiding them with want of learning, have raised themselves such formidable enemies as are not easily answered; and again, the Dissenters by prying into the lives, and diligently watching all the actions of their powerful antagonists, render those of the Established Church more cautious of giving offence, than in all probability they would, if they had no malicious over-lookers to fear. It is very much owing to the great number of Huguenots that have always been in France, since the late utter extirpation of them, that that kingdom has a less dissolute and more learned clergy to boast of than any other Roman Catholic country. The clergy of that church are no where more sovereign than in Italy, and therefore no where more debauched; nor any where more ignorant than they are in Spain, because their doctrine is nowhere less opposed. Who would imagine, that virtuous women, unknowingly, should be instrumental in promoting the advantage of prostitutes? Or (what still seems the greater paradox) that incontinence should be made serviceable to the preservation of chastity? and yet nothing is more true. A vicious young fellow, after having been an hour or two at church, a ball, or any other assembly, where there is a great parcel of handsome women dressed to the best advantage, will have his imagination more fired, than if he had the same time been poling at Guildhall, or walking in the country among a flock of sheep. The consequence of this is, that he will strive to satisfy the appetite that is raised in him; and when he finds honest women obstinate and uncomatable, it is very natural to think, that he will hasten to others that are more compliable. Who would so much as surmise, that this is the fault of the virtuous women? They have no thoughts of men in dressing themselves, poor souls, and endeavour only to appear clean and decent, every one according to her quality. I am far from encouraging vice, and think it would be an unspeakable felicity to a state, if the sin of uncleanness could be utterly banished from it; but I am afraid it is impossible: The passions of some people are too violent to be curbed by any law or precept; and it is wisdom in all governments to bear with lesser inconveniencies to prevent greater. If courtezans and strumpets were to be prosecuted with as much rigour as some silly people would have it, what locks or bars would be sufficient to preserve the honour of our wives and daughters? For it is not only that the women in general would meet with far greater temptations, and the attempts to ensnare the innocence of virgins would seem more excusable, even to the sober part of mankind, than they do now: but some men would grow outrageous, and ravishing would become a common crime. Where six or seven thousand sailors arrive at once, as it often happens, at Amsterdam, that have seen none but their own sex for many months together, how is it to be supposed that honest women should walk the streets unmolested, if there were no harlots to be had at reasonable prices? for which reason, the wise rulers of that well-ordered city always tolerate an uncertain number of houses, in which women are hired as publicly as horses at a livery stable; and there being in this toleration a great deal of prudence and economy to be seen, a short account of it will be no tiresome digression. In the first place, the houses I speak of are allowed to be no where but in the most slovenly and unpolished part of the town, where seamen and strangers of no repute chiefly lodge and resort. The street in which most of them stand is counted scandalous, and the infamy is extended to all the neighbourhood round it. In the second, they are only places to meet and bargain in, to make appointments in order to promote interviews of greater secrecy, and no manner of lewdness is ever suffered to be transacted in them: which order is so strictly observed, that bar the ill manners and noise of the company that frequent them, you will meet with no more indecency, and generally less lasciviousness there, than with us are to be seen at a playhouse. Thirdly, the female traders that come to these evening exchanges are always the scum of the people, and generally such as in the day time carry fruit and other eatables about in wheel-barrows. The habits, indeed, they appear in at night are very different from their ordinary ones; yet they are commonly so ridiculously gay, that they look more like the Roman dresses of strolling actresses than gentlewomen's clothes: if to this you add the awkwardness, the hard hands, and coarse breeding of the damsels that wear them, there is no great reason to fear, that many of the better sort of people will be tempted by them. The music in these temples of Venus is performed by organs, not out of respect to the deity that is worshipped in them, but the frugality of the owners, whose business it is to procure as much sound for as little money as they can, and the policy of the government, who endeavour, as little as is possible to encourage the breed of pipers and scrapers. All seafaring men, especially the Dutch, are like the element they belong to, much given to loudness and roaring, and the noise of half-a-dozen of them, when they call themselves merry, is sufficient to drown twice the number of flutes or violins; whereas, with one pair of organs, they can make the whole house ring, and are at no other charge than the keeping of one scurvy musician, which can cost them but little: yet notwithstanding the good rules and strict discipline that are observed in these markets of love, the schout and his officers are always vexing, mulcting, and, upon the least complaint, removing the miserable keepers of them: which policy is of two great uses; first, it gives an opportunity to a large parcel of officers, the magistrates make use of on many occasions, and which they could not be without, to squeeze a living out of the immoderate gains accruing from the worst of employments, and, at the same time, punish those necessary profligates, the bawds and panders, which, though they abominate, they desire yet not wholly to destroy. Secondly, as on several accounts it might be dangerous to let the multitude into the secret, that those houses and the trade that is drove in them are connived at, so by this means appearing unblameable, the wary magistrates preserve themselves in the good opinion of the weaker sort of people, who imagine that the government is always endeavouring, though unable, to suppress what it actually tolerates: whereas, if they had a mind to root them out, their power in the administration of justice is so sovereign and extensive, and they know so well how to have it executed, that one week, nay, one night might send them all a packing. In Italy, the toleration of strumpets is yet more barefaced, as is evident from their public stews. At Venice and Naples, impurity is a kind of merchandise and traffic; the courtezans at Rome, and the cantoneras in Spain, compose a body in the state, and are under a legal tax and impost. It is well known, that the reason why so many good politicians as these tolerate lewd houses, is not their irreligion, but to prevent a worse evil, an impurity of a more execrable kind, and to provide for the safety of women of honour. "About two hundred and fifty years ago," says Monsieur de St. Didier, "Venice being in want of courtezans, the republic was obliged to procure a great number from foreign parts." Doglioni, who has written the memorable affairs of Venice, highly extols the wisdom of the republic in this point, which secured the chastity of women of honour, daily exposed to public violences, the churches and consecrated places not being a sufficient asylum for their chastity. Our universities in England are much belied, if in some colleges there was not a monthly allowance ad expurgandos renes: and time was when monks and priests in Germany were allowed concubines on paying a certain yearly duty to their prelate. "It is generally believed" says Monsieur Bayle, (to whom I owe the last paragraph) "that avarice was the cause of this shameful indulgence; but it is more probable their design was to prevent their tempting modest women, and to quiet the uneasiness of husbands, whose resentments the clergy do well to avoid." From what has been said, it is manifest that there is a necessity of sacrificing one part of womankind to preserve the other, and prevent a filthiness of a more heinous nature. From whence I think I may justly conclude (what was the seeming paradox I went about to prove) that chastity may be supported by incontinence, and the best of virtues want the assistance of the worst of vices. Line 177. The root of evil, avarice, That damn'd ill-natur'd baneful vice, Was slave to prodigality. I have joined so many odious epithets to the word avarice, in compliance to the vogue of mankind, who generally bestow more ill language upon this than upon any other vice, and indeed not undeservedly; for there is hardly a mischief to be named which it has not produced at one time or other: but the true reason why every body exclaims so much against it, is, that almost every body suffers by it; for the more the money is hoarded up by some, the scarcer it must grow among the rest, and therefore when men rail very much at misers, there is generally self-interest at bottom. As there is no living without money, so those that are unprovided, and have nobody to give them any, are obliged to do some service or other to the society, before they can come at it; but every body esteeming his labour as he does himself, which is generally not under the value, most people that want money only to spend it again presently, imagine they do more for it than it is worth. Men cannot forbear looking upon the necessaries of life as their due, whether they work or not; because they find that nature, without consulting whether they have victuals or not, bids them eat whenever they are hungry; for which reason, every body endeavours to get what he wants with as much ease as he can; and therefore when men find that the trouble they are put to in getting money is either more or less, according as those they would have it from are more or less tenacious, it is very natural for them to be angry at covetousness in general; for it obliges them either to go without what they have occasion for, or else to take greater pains for it than they are willing. Avarice, notwithstanding it is the occasion of so many evils, is yet very necessary to the society, to glean and gather what has been dropt and scattered by the contrary vice. Was it not for avarice, spendthrifts would soon want materials; and if none would lay up and get faster than they spend, very few could spend faster than they get. That it is a slave to prodigality, as I have called it, is evident from so many misers as we daily see toil and labour, pinch and starve themselves, to enrich a lavish heir. Though these two vices appear very opposite, yet they often assist each other. Florio is an extravagant young blade, of a very profuse temper; as he is the only son of a very rich father, he wants to live high, keep horses and dogs, and throw his money about, as he sees some of his companions do; but the old hunks will part with no money, and hardly allows him necessaries. Florio would have borrowed money upon his own credit long ago; but as all would be lost, if he died before his father, no prudent man would lend him any. At last he has met with the greedy Cornaro, who lets him have money at thirty per cent. and now Florio thinks himself happy, and spends a thousand a-year. Where would Cornaro ever have got such a prodigious interest, if it was not for such a fool as Florio, who will give so great a price for money to fling it away? And how would Florio get it to spend, if he had not lit of such a greedy usurer as Cornaro, whose excessive covetousness makes him overlook the great risk he runs in venturing such great sums upon the life of a wild debauchee. Avarice is no longer the reverse of profuseness, than while it signifies that sordid love of money, and narrowness of soul that hinders misers from parting with what they have, and makes them covet it only to hoard up. But there is a sort of avarice which consists in a greedy desire of riches, in order to spend them, and this often meets with prodigality in the same persons, as is evident in most courtiers and great officers, both civil and military. In their buildings and furniture, equipages and entertainments, their gallantry is displayed with the greatest profusion; while the base actions they submit to for lucre, and the many frauds and impositions they are guilty of, discover the utmost avarice. This mixture of contrary vices, comes up exactly to the character of Catiline, of whom it is said, that he was appetens alieni & sui profusus, greedy after the goods of others, and lavish of his own. Line 180. That noble sin---- The prodigality, I call a noble sin, is not that which has avarice for its companion, and makes men unreasonably profuse to some of what they unjustly extort from others, but that agreeable good-natured vice that makes the chimney smoke, and all the tradesmen smile; I mean the unmixed prodigality of heedless and voluptuous men, that being educated in plenty, abhor the vile thoughts of lucre, and lavish away only what others took pains to scrape together; such as indulge their inclinations at their own expence, that have the continual satisfaction of bartering old gold for new pleasures, and from the excessive largeness of a diffusive soul, are made guilty of despising too much what most people overvalue. When I speak thus honourably of this vice, and treat it with so much tenderness and good manners as I do, I have the same thing at heart that made me give so many ill names to the reverse of it, viz. the interest of the public; for as the avaricious does no good to himself, and is injurious to all the world besides, except his heir, so the prodigal is a blessing to the whole society, and injures no body but himself. It is true, that as most of the first are knaves, so the latter are all fools; yet they are delicious morsels for the public to feast on, and may with as much justice, as the French call the monks the patridges of the women, be styled the woodcocks of the society. Was it not for prodigality, nothing could make us amends for the rapine and extortion of avarice in power. When a covetous statesman is gone, who spent his whole life in fattening himself with the spoils of the nation, and had by pinching and plundering heaped up an immense treasure, it ought to fill every good member of the society with joy, to behold the uncommon profuseness of his son. This is refunding to the public what was robbed from it. Resuming of grants is a barbarous way of stripping, and it is ignoble to ruin a man faster than he does it himself, when he sets about it in such good earnest. Does he not feed an infinite number of dogs of all sorts and sizes, though he never hunts; keep more horses than any nobleman in the kingdom, though he never rides them; and give as large an allowance to an ill-favoured whore as would keep a dutchess, though he never lies with her? Is he not still more extravagant in those things he makes use of? Therefore let him alone, or praise him, call him public-spirited lord, nobly bountiful and magnificently generous, and in a few years he will suffer himself to be stript his own way. As long as the nation has its own back again, we ought not to quarrel with the manner in which the plunder is repaid. Abundance of moderate men, I know, that are enemies to extremes, will tell me, that frugality might happily supply the place of the two vices I speak of, that if men had not so many profuse ways of spending wealth, they would not be tempted to so many evil practices to scrape it together, and consequently that the same number of men, by equally avoiding both extremes, might render themselves more happy, and be less vicious without, than they could with them. Whoever argues thus, shows himself a better man than he is a politician. Frugality is like honesty, a mean starving virtue, that is only fit for small societies of good peaceable men, who are contented to be poor, so they may be easy; but, in a large stirring nation, you may have soon enough of it. It is an idle dreaming virtue that employs no hands, and therefore very useless in a trading country, where there are vast numbers that one way or other must be all set to work. Prodigality has a thousand inventions to keep people from sitting still, that frugality would never think of; and as this must consume a prodigious wealth, so avarice again knows innumerable tricks to raise it together, which frugality would scorn to make use of. Authors are always allowed to compare small things to great ones, especially if they ask leave first. Si licit exemplis, &c. but to compare great things to mean trivial ones, is unsufferable, unless it be in burlesque; otherwise I would compare the body politic (I confess the simile is very low) to a bowl of punch. Avarice should be the souring, and prodigality the sweetening of it. The water I would call the ignorance, folly, and credulity of the floating insipid multitude; while wisdom, honour, fortitude, and the rest of the sublime qualities of men, which separated by art from the dregs of nature, the fire of glory has exalted and refined into a spiritual essence, should be an equivalent to brandy. I do not doubt but a Westphalian, Laplander, or any other dull stranger that is unacquainted with the wholesome composition, if he was to sell the several ingredients apart, would think it impossible they should make any tolerable liquor. The lemons would be too sour, the sugar too luscious, the brandy he will say is too strong ever to be drank in any quantity, and the water he will call a tasteless liquor, only fit for cows and horses: yet experience teaches us, that the ingredients I named, judiciously mixed, will make an excellent liquor, liked of, and admired by men of exquisite palates. As to our vices in particular, I could compare avarice, that causes so much mischief, and is complained of by every body who is not a miser, to a griping acid that sets our teeth on edge, and is unpleasant to every palate that is not debauched: I could compare the gaudy trimming and splendid equipage of a profuse beau, to the glistening brightness of the finest loaf sugar; for as the one, by correcting the sharpness, prevent the injuries which a gnawing sour might do to the bowels, so the other is a pleasing balsam that heals and makes amends for the smart, which the multitude always suffers from the gripes of the avaricious; while the substances of both melt away alike, and they consume themselves by being beneficial to the several compositions they belong to. I could carry on the simile as to proportions, and the exact nicety to be observed in them, which would make it appear how little any of the ingredients could be spared in either of the mixtures; but I will not tire my reader by pursuing too far a ludicrous comparison, when I have other matters to entertain him with of greater importance; and to sum up what I have said in this and the foregoing remark, shall only add, that I look upon avarice and prodigality in the society, as I do upon two contrary poisons in physic, of which it is certain that the noxious qualities being by mutual mischief corrected in both, they may assist each other, and often make a good medicine between them. Line 180. --------Whilst luxury Employ'd a million of the poor, &c. If every thing is to be luxury (as in strictness it ought) that is not immediately necessary to make man subsist as he is a living creature, there is nothing else to be found in the world, no not even among the naked savages; of which it is not probable that there are any but what by this time have made some improvements upon their former manner of living; and either in the preparation of their eatables, the ordering of their huts, or otherwise, added something to what once sufficed them. This definition every body will say is too rigorous: I am of the same opinion; but if we are to abate one inch of this severity, I am afraid we shall not know where to stop. When people tell us they only desire to keep themselves sweet and clean, there is no understanding what they would be at: if they made use of these words in their genuine proper literal sense, they might be soon satisfied without much cost or trouble, if they did not want water: but these two little adjectives are so comprehensive, especially in the dialect of some ladies, that nobody can guess how far they may be stretched. The comforts of life are likewise so various and extensive, that nobody can tell what people mean by them, except he knows what sort of life they lead. The same obscurity I observe in the words decency and conveniency, and I never understand them, unless I am acquainted with the quality of the persons that make use of them. People may go to church together, and be all of one mind as much as they please, I am apt to believe that when they pray for their daily bread, the bishop includes several things in that petition which the sexton does not think on. By what I have said hitherto I would only show, that if once we depart from calling every thing luxury that is not absolutely necessary to keep a man alive, that then there is no luxury at all; for if the wants of men are innumerable, then what ought to supply them has no bounds; what is called superfluous, to some degree of people, will be thought requisite to those of higher quality; and neither the world, nor the skill of man can produce any thing so curious or extravagant, but some most gracious sovereign or other, if it either eases or diverts him, will reckon it among the necessaries of life; not meaning every body's life, but that of his sacred person. It is a received notion, that luxury is as destructive to the wealth of the whole body politic, as it is to that of every individual person who is guilty of it, and that a national frugality enriches a country in the same manner, as that which is less general increases the estates of private families. I confess, that though I have found men of much better understanding than myself of this opinion, I cannot help dissenting from them in this point. They argue thus: We send, say they, for example, to Turkey of woollen manufactury, and other things of our own growth, a million's worth every year; for this we bring back silk, mohair, drugs, &c. to the value of twelve hundred thousand pounds, that are all spent in our own country. By this, say they, we get nothing; but if most of us would be content with our own growth, and so consume but half the quantity of those foreign commodities, then those in Turkey, who would still want the same quantity of our manufactures, would be forced to pay ready money for the rest, and so by the balance of that trade only, the nation should get six hundred thousand pounds per annum. To examine the force of this argument, we will suppose (what they would have) that but half the silk, &c. shall be consumed in England of what there is now; we will suppose likewise, that those in Turkey, though we refuse to buy above half as much of their commodities as we used to do, either can or will not be without the same quantity of our manufactures they had before, and that they will pay the balance in money; that is to say, that they shall give us as much gold or silver, as the value of what they buy from us, exceeds the value of what we buy from them. Though what we suppose might perhaps be done for one year, it is impossible it should last: Buying is bartering; and no nation can buy goods of others, that has none of her own to purchase them with. Spain and Portugal, that are yearly supplied with new gold and silver from their mines, may for ever buy for ready money, as long as their yearly increase of gold or silver continues; but then money is their growth, and the commodity of the country. We know that we could not continue long to purchase the goods of other nations, if they would not take our manufactures in payment for them; and why should we judge otherwise of other nations? If those in Turkey, then, had no more money fall from the skies than we, let us see what would be the consequence of what we supposed. The six hundred thousand pounds in silk, mohair, &c. that are left upon their hands the first year, must make those commodities fall considerably: Of this the Dutch and French will reap the benefit as much as ourselves; and if we continue to refuse taking their commodities in payment for our manufactures, they can trade no longer with us, but must content themselves with buying what they want of such nations as are willing to take what we refuse, though their goods are much worse than ours; and thus our commerce with Turkey must in few years be infallibly lost. But they will say, perhaps, that to prevent the ill consequence I have showed, we shall take the Turkish merchandise as formerly, and only be so frugal as to consume but half the quantity of them ourselves, and send the rest abroad to be sold to others. Let us see what this will do, and whether it will enrich the nation by the balance of that trade with six hundred thousand pounds. In the first place, I will grant them that our people at home making use of so much more of our own manufactures, those who were employed in silk, mohair, &c. will get a living by the various preparations of woollen goods. But, in the second, I cannot allow that the goods can be sold as formerly; for suppose the half that is wore at home to be sold at the same rate as before, certainly the other half that is sent abroad will want very much of it: For we must send those goods to markets already supplied; and besides that, there must be freight, insurance, provision, and all other charges deducted, and the merchants in general must lose much more by this half that is reshipped, than they got by the half that is consumed here. For, though the woollen manufactures are our own product, yet they stand the merchant that ships them off to foreign countries, in as much as they do the shopkeeper here that retails them: so that if the returns for what he sends abroad repay him not what his goods cost him here, with all other charges, till he has the money and a good interest for it in cash, the merchant must run out, and the upshot would be, that the merchants in general, finding they lost by the Turkish commodities they sent abroad, would ship no more of our manufactures, than what would pay for as much silk, mohair, &c. as would be consumed here. Other nations would soon find ways to supply them with as much as we should send short, and some where or other to dispose of the goods we should refuse: So that all we should get by this frugality, would be, that those in Turkey would take but half the quantity of our manufactures of what they do now, while we encourage and wear their merchandises, without which they are not able to purchase ours. As I have had the mortification, for several years, to meet with abundance of sensible people against this opinion, and who always thought me wrong in this calculation, so I had the pleasure at last to see the wisdom of the nation fall into the same sentiments, as is so manifest from an act of parliament made in the year 1721, where the legislature disobliges a powerful and valuable company, and overlooks very weighty inconveniences at home, to promote the interest of the Turkey trade, and not only encourages the consumption of silk and mohair, but forces the subjects, on penalties, to make use of them whether they will or not. What is laid to the charge of luxury besides, is, that it increases avarice and rapine: And where they are reigning vices, offices of the greatest trust are bought and sold; the ministers that should serve the public, both great and small, corrupted, and the countries every moment in danger of being betrayed to the highest bidders: And, lastly, that it effeminates and enervates the people, by which the nations become an easy prey to the first invaders. These are indeed terrible things; but what is put to the account of luxury belongs to male-administration, and is the fault of bad politics. Every government ought to be thoroughly acquainted with, and stedfastly to pursue the interest of the country. Good politicians, by dexterous management, laying heavy impositions on some goods, or totally prohibiting them, and lowering the duties on others, may always turn and divert the course of trade which way they please; and as they will ever prefer, if it be equally considerable, the commerce with such countries as can pay with money as well as goods, to those that can make no returns for what they buy, but in the commodities of their own growth and manufactures, so they will always carefully prevent the traffic with such nations as refuse the goods of others, and will take nothing but money for their own. But, above all, they will keep a watchful eye over the balance of trade in general, and never suffer that all the foreign commodities together, that are imported in one year, shall exceed in value what of their own growth or manufacture is in the same imported to others. Note, That I speak now of the interest of those nations that have no gold or silver of their own growth, otherwise this maxim need not to be so much insisted on. If what I urged last, be but diligently looked after, and the imports are never allowed to be superior to the exports, no nation can ever be impoverished by foreign luxury; and they may improve it as much as they please, if they can but in proportion raise the fund of their own that is to purchase it. Trade is the principal, but not the only requisite to aggrandize a nation: there are other things to be taken care of besides. The meum and tuum must be secured, crimes punished, and all other laws concerning the administration of justice, wisely contrived, and strictly executed. Foreign affairs must be likewise prudently managed, and the ministry of every nation ought to have a good intelligence abroad, and be well acquainted with the public transactions of all those countries, that either by their neighbourhood, strength, or interest, may be hurtful or beneficial to them, to take the necessary measures accordingly, of crossing some, and assisting others, as policy, and the balance of power direct. The multitude must be awed, no man's conscience forced, and the clergy allowed no greater share in state affairs, than our Saviour has bequeathed in his testament. These are the arts that lead to worldly greatness: What sovereign power soever makes a good use of them, that has any considerable nation to govern, whether it be a monarchy, a commonwealth, or a mixture of both, can never fail of making it flourish in spite of all the other powers upon earth, and no luxury, or other vice, is ever able to shake their constitution.----But here I expect a full-mouthed cry against me; What! has God never punished and destroyed great nations for their sins? Yes, but not without means, by infatuating their governors, and suffering them to depart from either all or some of those general maxims I have mentioned; and of all the famous states and empires the world has had to boast of hitherto, none ever came to ruin, whose destruction was not principally owing to the bad politics, neglects, or mismanagements of the rulers. There is no doubt, but more health and vigour is expected among the people, and their offspring, from temperance and sobriety, than there is from gluttony and drunkenness; yet I confess, that as to luxury's effeminating and enervating a nation, I have not such frightful notions now, as I have had formerly. When we hear or read of things which we are altogether strangers to, they commonly bring to our imagination such ideas of what we have seen, as (according to our apprehension) must come the nearest to them: And I remember, that when I have read of the luxury of Persia, Egypt, and other countries where it has been a reigning vice, and that were effeminated and enervated by it, it has sometimes put me in mind of the cramming and swilling of ordinary tradesmen at a city feast, and the beastliness their overgorging themselves is often attended with; at other times, it has made me think on the distraction of dissolute sailors, as I had seen them in company of half a dozen lewd women, roaring along with fiddles before them; and was I to have been carried into any of their great cities, I would have expected to have found one third of the people sick a-bed with surfeits; another laid up with the gout, or crippled by a more ignominious distemper; and the rest, that could go without leading, walk along the streets in petticoats. It is happy for us to have fear for a keeper, as long as our reason is not strong enough to govern our appetites: And I believe, that the great dread I had more particularly against the word, to enervate, and some consequent thoughts on the etymology of it, did me abundance of good when I was a school boy: But since I have seen something in the world, the consequences of luxury to a nation seem not so dreadful to me as they did. As long as men have the same appetites, the same vices will remain. In all large societies, some will love whoring, and others drinking. The lustful that can get no handsome clean women, will content themselves with dirty drabs: and those that cannot purchase true Hermitage or Pontack, will be glad of more ordinary French claret. Those that cannot reach wine, take up with most liquors, and a foot soldier or a beggar may make himself as drunk with stale beer or malt spirits, as a lord with Burgundy, Champaign, or Tockay. The cheapest and most slovenly way of indulging our passions, does as much mischief to a man's constitution, as the most elegant and expensive. The greatest excesses of luxury are shown in buildings, furniture, equipages, and clothes: Clean linen weakens a man no more than flannel; tapestry, fine painting, or good wainscot, are no more unwholesome than bare walls; and a rich couch, or a gilt chariot, are no more enervating than the cold floor, or a country cart. The refined pleasures of men of sense are seldom injurious to their constitution, and there are many great epicures that will refuse to eat or drink more than their heads or stomachs can bear. Sensual people may take as great care of themselves as any: and the errors of the most viciously luxurious, do not so much consist in the frequent repetitions of their lewdness, and their eating and drinking too much (which are the things which would most enervate them), as they do in the operose contrivances, the profuseness and nicety they are served with, and the vast expence they are at in their tables and amours. But let us once suppose, that the ease and pleasures, the grandees, and the rich people of every nation live in, render them unfit to endure hardships, and undergo the toils of war. I will allow that most of the common council of the city would make but very indifferent foot soldiers; and I believe heartily, that if your horse was to be composed of aldermen, and such as most of them are, a small artillery of squibs would be sufficient to route them. But what have the aldermen, the common council, or indeed all people of any substance to do with the war, but to pay taxes? The hardships and fatigues of war that are personally suffered, fall upon them that bear the brunt of every thing, the meanest indigent part of the nation, the working slaving people: For how excessive soever the plenty and luxury of a nation may be, some body must do the work, houses and ships must be built, merchandises must be removed, and the ground tilled. Such a variety of labours in every great nation, require a vast multitude, in which there are always loose, idle, extravagant fellows enough to spare for an army; and those that are robust enough to hedge and ditch, plow and thrash, or else not too much enervated to be smiths, carpenters, sawyers, cloth-workers, porters or carmen, will always be strong and hardy enough in a campaign or two to make good soldiers, who, where good orders are kept, have seldom so much plenty and superfluity come to their share, as to do them any hurt. The mischief, then, to be feared from luxury among the people of war, cannot extend itself beyond the officers. The greatest of them are either men of a very high birth and princely education, or else extraordinary parts, and no less experience; and whoever is made choice of by a wise government to command an army en chef, should have a consummate knowledge in martial affairs, intrepidity to keep him calm in the midst of danger, and many other qualifications that must be the work of time and application, on men of a quick penetration, a distinguished genius, and a world of honour. Strong sinews and supple joints are trifling advantages, not regarded in persons of their reach and grandeur, that can destroy cities a-bed, and ruin whole countries while they are at dinner. As they are most commonly men of great age, it would be ridiculous to expect a hale constitution and agility of limbs from them: So their heads be but active and well furnished, it is no great matter what the rest of their bodies are. If they cannot bear the fatigue of being on horseback, they may ride in coaches, or be carried in litters. Mens conduct and sagacity are never the less for their being cripples, and the best general the king of France has now, can hardly crawl along. Those that are immediately under the chief commanders must be very nigh of the same abilities, and are generally men that have raised themselves to those posts by their merit. The other officers are all of them in their several stations obliged to lay out so large a share of their pay in fine clothes, accoutrements, and other things, by the luxury of the times called necessary, that they can spare but little money for debauches; for, as they are advanced, and their salaries raised, so they are likewise forced to increase their expences and their equipages, which, as well as every thing else, must still be proportionable to their quality: by which means, the greatest part of them are in a manner hindered from those excesses that might be destructive to health; while their luxury thus turned another way, serves, moreover, to heighten their pride and vanity, the greatest motives to make them behave themselves like what they would be thought to be (See Remark on l. 321). There is nothing refines mankind more than love and honour. Those two passions are equivalent to many virtues, and therefore the greatest schools of breeding and good manners, are courts and armies; the first to accomplish the women, the other to polish the men. What the generality of officers among civilized nations affect, is a perfect knowledge of the world and the rules of honour; an air of frankness, and humanity peculiar to military men of experience, and such a mixture of modesty and undauntedness, as may bespeak them both courteous and valiant. Where good sense is fashionable, and a genteel behaviour is in esteem, gluttony and drunkenness can be no reigning vices. What officers of distinction chiefly aim at, is not a beastly, but a splendid way of living, and the wishes of the most luxurious, in their several degrees of quality, are to appear handsomely, and excel each other in finery of equipage, politeness of entertainments, and the reputation of a judicious fancy in every thing about them. But if there should be more dissolute reprobates among officers, than there are among men of other professions, which is not true, yet the most debauched of them may be very serviceable, if they have but a great share of honour. It is this that covers and makes up for a multitude of defects in them, and it is this that none (how abandoned soever they are to pleasure) dare pretend to be without. But as there is no argument so convincing as matter of fact, let us look back on what so lately happened in our two last wars with France. How many puny young striplings have we had in our armies, tenderly educated, nice in their dress, and curious in their diet, that underwent all manner of duties with gallantry and cheerfulness? Those that have such dismal apprehensions of luxury's enervating and effeminating people, might, in Flanders and Spain have seen embroidered beaux with fine laced shirts and powdered wigs stand as much fire, and lead up to the mouth of a cannon, with as little concern as it was possible for the most stinking slovens to have done in their own hair, though it had not been combed in a month, and met with abundance of wild rakes, who had actually impaired their healths, and broke their constitutions with excesses of wine and women, that yet behaved themselves with conduct and bravery against their enemies. Robustness is the least thing required in an officer, and if sometimes strength is of use, a firm resolution of mind, which the hopes of preferment, emulation, and the love of glory inspire them with, will at a push supply the place of bodily force. Those that understand their business, and have a sufficient sense of honour, as soon as they are used to danger will always be capable officers: and their luxury, as long as they spend nobody's money but their own, will never be prejudicial to a nation. By all which, I think, I have proved what I designed in this remark on luxury. First, that in one sense every thing may be called so, and in another there is no such thing. Secondly, that with a wise administration all people may swim in as much foreign luxury as their product can purchase, without being impoverished by it. And, lastly, that where military affairs are taken care of as they ought, and the soldiers well paid and kept in good discipline, a wealthy nation may live in all the ease and plenty imaginable; and in many parts of it, show as much pomp and delicacy, as human wit can invent, and at the same time be formidable to their neighbours, and come up to the character of the bees in the fable, of which I said, that Flatter'd in peace, and fear'd in wars, They were th' esteem of foreigners; And lavish of their wealth and lives, The balance of all other hives. (See what is farther said concerning luxury in the Remarks on line 182 and 307.) Line 182. And odious pride a million more. Pride is that natural faculty by which every mortal that has any understanding over-values, and imagines better things of himself than any impartial judge, thoroughly acquainted with all his qualities and circumstances, could allow him. We are possessed of no other quality so beneficial to society, and so necessary to render it wealthy and flourishing as this, yet it is that which is most generally detested. What is very peculiar to this faculty of ours, is, that those who are the fullest of it, are the least willing to connive at it in others; whereas the heinousness of other vices is the most extenuated by those who are guilty of them themselves. The chaste man hates fornication, and drunkenness is most abhorred by the temperate; but none are so much offended at their neighbour's pride, as the proudest of all; and if any one can pardon it, it is the most humble: from which, I think, we may justly infer, that it being odious to all the world, is a certain sign that all the world is troubled with it. This all men of sense are ready to confess, and nobody denies but that he has pride in general. But, if you come to particulars, you will meet with few that will own any action you can name of theirs to have proceeded from that principle. There are likewise many who will allow, that among the sinful nations of the times, pride and luxury are the great promoters of trade, but they refuse to own the necessity there is, that in a more virtuous age (such a one as should be free from pride), trade would in a great measure decay. The Almighty, they say, has endowed us with the dominion over all things which the earth and sea produce or contain; there is nothing to be found in either, but what was made for the use of man; and his skill and industry above other animals were given him, that he might render both them and every thing else within the reach of his senses, more serviceable to him. Upon this consideration they think it impious to imagine, that humility, temperance, and other virtues should debar people from the enjoyment of those comforts of life, which are not denied to the most wicked nations; and so conclude, that without pride or luxury, the same things might be eat, wore, and consumed; the same number of handicrafts and artificers employed, and a nation be every way as flourishing as where those vices are the most predominant. As to wearing apparel in particular, they will tell you, that pride, which sticks much nearer to us than our clothes, is only lodged in the heart, and that rags often conceal a greater portion of it than the most pompous attire; and that as it cannot be denied but that there have always been virtuous princes, who, with humble hearts, have wore their splendid diadems, and swayed their envied sceptres, void of ambition, for the good of others; so it is very probable, that silver and gold brocades, and the richest embroideries may, without a thought of pride, be wore by many whose quality and fortune are suitable to them. May not (say they) a good man of extraordinary revenues, make every year a greater variety of suits than it is possible he should wear out, and yet have no other ends than to set the poor at work, to encourage trade, and by employing many, to promote the welfare of his country? And considering food and raiment to be necessaries, and the two chief articles to which all our worldly cares are extended, why may not all mankind set aside a considerable part of their income for the one as well as the other, without the least tincture of pride? Nay, is not every member of the society in a manner obliged, according to his ability, to contribute toward the maintenance of that branch of trade on which the whole has so great a dependence? Besides that, to appear decently is a civility, and often a duty, which, without any regard to ourselves, we owe to those we converse with. These are the objections generally made use of by haughty moralists, who cannot endure to hear the dignity of their species arraigned; but if we look narrowly into them, they may soon be answered. If we had vices, I cannot see why any man should ever make more suits than he has occasion for, though he was never so desirous of promoting the good of the nation: for, though in the wearing of a well-wrought silk, rather than a slight stuff, and the preferring curious fine cloth to coarse, he had no other view but the setting of more people to work, and consequently the public welfare, yet he could consider clothes no otherwise than lovers of their country do taxes now; they may pay them with alacrity, but nobody gives more than his due; especially where all are justly rated according to their abilities, as it could no otherwise be expected in a very virtuous age. Besides, that in such golden times nobody would dress above his condition, nobody pinch his family, cheat or over reach his neighbour to purchase finery, and consequently there would not be half the consumption, nor a third part of the people employed as now there are. But, to make this more plain, and demonstrate, that for the support of trade there can be nothing equivalent to pride, I shall examine the several views men have in outward apparel, and set forth what daily experience may teach every body as to dress. Clothes were originally made for two ends, to hide our nakedness, and to fence our bodies against the weather, and other outward injuries: to these our boundless pride has added a third, which is ornament; for what else but an excess of stupid vanity, could have prevailed upon our reason to fancy that ornamental, which must continually put us in mind of our wants and misery, beyond all other animals that are ready clothed by nature herself? It is indeed to be admired how so sensible a creature as man, that pretends to so many fine qualities of his own, should condescend to value himself upon what is robbed from so innocent and defenceless an animal as a sheep, or what he is beholden for to the most insignificant thing upon earth, a dying worm; yet while he is proud of such trifling depredations, he has the folly to laugh at the Hottentots on the furthest promontory of Afric, who adorn themselves with the guts of their dead enemies, without considering that they are the ensigns of their valour those barbarians are fine with, the true spolia opima, and that if their pride be more savage than ours, it is certainly less ridiculous, because they wear the spoils of the more noble animal. But whatever reflections may be made on this head, the world has long since decided the matter; handsome apparel is a main point, fine feathers make fine birds, and people, where they are not known, are generally honoured according to their clothes and other accoutrements they have about them; from the richness of them we judge of their wealth, and by their ordering of them we guess at their understanding. It is this which encourages every body, who is conscious of his little merit, if he is any ways able to wear clothes above his rank, especially in large and populous cities, where obscure men may hourly meet with fifty strangers to one acquaintance, and consequently have the pleasure of being esteemed by a vast majority, not as what they are, but what they appear to be: which is a greater temptation than most people want to be vain. Whoever takes delight in viewing the various scenes of low life, may, on Easter, Whitsun, and other great holidays, meet with scores of people, especially women, of almost the lowest rank, that wear good and fashionable clothes: if coming to talk with them, you treat them more courteously and with greater respect than what they are conscious they deserve, they will commonly be ashamed of owning what they are; and often you may, if you are a little inquisitive, discover in them a most anxious care to conceal the business they follow, and the place they live in. The reason is plain; while they receive those civilities that are not usually paid them, and which they think only due to their betters, they have the satisfaction to imagine, that they appear what they would be, which, to weak minds, is a pleasure almost as substantial as they could reap from the very accomplishments of their wishes: this golden dream they are unwilling to be disturbed in, and being sure that the meanness of their condition, if it is known, must sink them very low in your opinion, they hug themselves in their disguise, and take all imaginable precaution not to forfeit, by a useless discovery, the esteem which they flatter themselves that their good clothes have drawn from you. Though every body allows, that as to apparel and manner of living, we ought to behave ourselves suitable to our conditions, and follow the examples of the most sensible, and prudent among our equals in rank and fortune: yet how few, that are not either miserably covetous, or else proud of singularity, have this discretion to boast of? We all look above ourselves, and, as fast as we can, strive to imitate those that some way or other are superior to us. The poorest labourer's wife in the parish, who scorns to wear a strong wholesome frize, as she might, will half starve herself and her husband to purchase a second-hand gown and petticoat, that cannot do her half the service; because, forsooth, it is more genteel. The weaver, the shoemaker, the tailor, the barber, and every mean working fellow, that can set up with little, has the impudence, with the first money he gets, to dress himself like a tradesman of substance: the ordinary retailer in the clothing of his wife, takes pattern from his neighbour, that deals in the same commodity by wholesale, and the reason he gives for it is, that twelve years ago the other had not a bigger shop than himself. The druggist, mercer, draper, and other creditable shopkeepers, can find no difference between themselves and merchants, and therefore dress and live like them. The merchant's lady, who cannot bear the assurance of those mechanics, flies for refuge to the other end of the town, and scorns to follow any fashion but what she takes from thence; this haughtiness alarms the court, the women of quality are frightened to see merchants wives and daughters dressed like themselves: this impudence of the city, they cry, is intolerable; mantua-makers are sent for, and the contrivance of fashions becomes all their study, that they may have always new modes ready to take up, as soon as those saucy cits shall begin to imitate those in being. The same emulation is continued through the several degrees of quality, to an incredible expence, till at last the prince's great favourites and those of the first rank of all, having nothing left to outstrip some of their inferiors, are forced to lay out vast estates in pompous equipages, magnificent furniture, sumptuous gardens, and princely palaces. To this emulation and continual striving to out-do one another it is owing, that after so many various shiftings and changes of modes, in trumping up new ones, and renewing of old ones, there is still a plus ultra left for the ingenious; it is this, or at least the consequence of it, that sets the poor to work, adds spurs to industry, and encourages the skilful artificer to search after further improvements. It may be objected, that many people of good fashion, who have been used to be well dressed, out of custom, wear rich clothes with all the indifferency imaginable, and that the benefit to trade accruing from them cannot be ascribed to emulation or pride. To this I answer, that it is impossible, that those who trouble their heads so little with their dress, could ever have wore those rich clothes, if both the stuffs and fashions had not been first invented to gratify the vanity of others, who took greater delight in fine apparel, than they; besides that every body is not without pride that appears to be so; all the symptoms of that vice are not easily discovered; they are manifold, and vary according to the age, humour, circumstances, and often constitution of the people. The choleric city captain seems impatient to come to action, and expressing his warlike genius by the firmness of his steps, makes his pike, for want of enemies, tremble at the valour of his arm: his martial finery, as he marches along, inspires him with an unusual elevation of mind, by which, endeavouring to forget his shop as well as himself, he looks up at the balconies with the fierceness of a Saracen conqueror: while the phlegmatic alderman, now become venerable both for his age and his authority, contents himself with being thought a considerable man; and knowing no easier way to express his vanity, looks big in his coach, where being known by his paultry livery, he receives, in sullen state, the homage that is paid him by the meaner sort of people. The beardless ensign counterfeits a gravity above his years, and with ridiculous assurance strives to imitate the stern countenance of his colonel, flattering himself, all the while, that by his daring mien you will judge of his prowess. The youthful fair, in a vast concern of being overlooked, by the continual changing of her posture, betrays a violent desire of being observed, and catching, as it were, at every body's eyes, courts with obliging looks the admiration of her beholders. The conceited coxcomb, on the contrary, displaying an air of sufficiency, is wholly taken up with the contemplation of his own perfections, and in public places discovers such a disregard to others, that the ignorant must imagine, he thinks himself to be alone. These, and such like, are all manifest, though different tokens of pride, that are obvious to all the world; but man's vanity is not always so soon found out. When we perceive an air of humanity, and men seem not to be employed in admiring themselves, nor altogether unmindful of others, we are apt to pronounce them void of pride, when, perhaps, they are only fatigued with gratifying their vanity, and become languid from a satiety of enjoyments. That outward show of peace within, and drowsy composure of careless negligence, with which a great man is often seen in his plain chariot to loll at ease, are not always so free from art, as they may seem to be. Nothing is more ravishing to the proud, than to be thought happy. The well-bred gentleman places his greatest pride in the skill he has of covering it with dexterity, and some are so expert in concealing this frailty, that when they are the most guilty of it, the vulgar think them the most exempt from it. Thus the dissembling courtier, when he appears in state, assumes an air of modesty and good humour; and while he is ready to burst with vanity, seems to be wholly ignorant of his greatness; well knowing, that those lovely qualities must heighten him in the esteem of others, and be an addition to that grandeur, which the coronets about his coach and harnesses, with the rest of his equipage, cannot fail to proclaim without his assistance. And as in these, pride is overlooked, because industriously concealed, so in others again, it is denied that they have any, when they show (or at least seem to show) it in the most public manner. The wealthy parson being, as well as the rest of his profession, debarred from the gaiety of laymen, makes it his business to look out for an admirable black, and the finest cloth that money can purchase, and distinguishes himself by the fullness of his noble and spotless garment; his wigs are as fashionable as that form he is forced to comply with will admit of; but as he is only stinted in their shape, so he takes care that for goodness of hair, and colour, few noblemen shall be able to match him; his body is ever clean, as well as his clothes, his sleek face is kept constantly shaved, and his handsome nails are diligently pared; his smooth white hand, and a brilliant of the first water, mutually becoming, honour each other with double graces; what linen he discovers is transparently curious, and he scorns ever to be seen abroad with a worse beaver than what a rich banker would be proud of on his wedding-day; to all these niceties in dress he adds a majestic gait, and expresses a commanding loftiness in his carriage; yet common civility, notwithstanding, the evidence of so many concurring symptoms, will not allow us to suspect any of his actions to be the result of pride: considering the dignity of his office, it is only decency in him, what would be vanity in others; and in good manners to his calling we ought to believe, that the worthy gentleman, without any regard to his reverend person, puts himself to all this trouble and expence, merely out of a respect which is due to the divine order he belongs to, and a religious zeal to preserve his holy function from the contempt of scoffers. With all my heart; nothing of all this shall be called pride, let me only be allowed to say, that to our human capacities it looks very like it. But if at last I should grant, that there are men who enjoy all the fineries of equipage and furniture, as well as clothes, and yet have no pride in them; it is certain, that if all should be such, that emulation I spoke of before must cease, and consequently trade, which has so great a dependence upon it, suffer in every branch. For to say, that if all men were truly virtuous, they might, without any regard to themselves, consume as much out of zeal to serve their neighbours and promote the public good, as they do now out of self-love and emulation, is a miserable shift, and an unreasonable supposition. As there have been good people in all ages, so, without doubt, we are not destitute of them in this; but let us inquire of the periwig-makers and tailors, in what gentlemen, even of the greatest wealth and highest quality, they ever could discover such public-spirited views. Ask the lacemen, the mercers, and the linen-drapers, whether the richest, and if you will, the most virtuous ladies, if they buy with ready money, or intend to pay in any reasonable time, will not drive from shop to shop, to try the market, make as many words, and stand as hard with them to save a groat or sixpence in a yard, as the most necessitous jilts in town. If it be urged, that if there are not, it is possible there might be such people; I answer that it is as possible that cats, instead of killing rats and mice, should feed them, and go about the house to suckle and nurse their young ones; or that a kite should call the hens to their meat, as the cock does, and sit brooding over their chickens instead of devouring them; but if they should all do so, they would cease to be cats and kites; it is inconsistent with their natures, and the species of creatures which now we mean, when we name cats and kites, would be extinct as soon as that could come to pass. Line 183. Envy itself, and vanity, Were ministers of industry. Envy is that baseness in our nature, which makes us grieve and pine at what we conceive to be a happiness in others. I do not believe there is a human creature in his senses arrived to maturity, that at one time or other has not been carried away by this passion in good earnest; and yet I never met with any one that dared own he was guilty of it, but in jest. That we are so generally ashamed of this vice, is owing to that strong habit of hypocrisy, by the help of which, we have learned from our cradle to hide even from ourselves the vast extent of self-love, and all its different branches. It is impossible man should wish better for another than he does for himself, unless where he supposes an impossibility that himself should attain to those wishes; and from hence we may easily learn after what manner this passion is raised in us. In order to it, we are to consider first, that as well as we think of ourselves, so ill we think of our neighbour with equal injustice; and when we apprehend, that others do or will enjoy what we think they do not deserve, it afflicts and makes us angry with the cause of that disturbance. Secondly, That we are employed in wishing well for ourselves, every one according to his judgment and inclinations, and when we observe something we like, and yet are destitute of, in the possession of others; it occasions first sorrow in us for not having the thing we like. This sorrow is incurable, while we continue our esteem for the thing we want: but as self-defence is restless, and never suffers us to leave any means untried how to remove evil from us, as far and as well as we are able; experience teaches us, that nothing in nature more alleviates this sorrow, than our anger against those who are possessed of what we esteem and want. This latter passion, therefore, we cherish and cultivate to save or relieve ourselves, at least in part, from the uneasiness we felt from the first. Envy, then, is a compound of grief and anger; the degrees of this passion depend chiefly on the nearness or remoteness of the objects, as to circumstances. If one, who is forced to walk on foot envies a great man for keeping a coach and six, it will never be with that violence, or give him that disturbance which it may to a man, who keeps a coach himself, but can only afford to drive with four horses. The symptoms of envy are as various, and as hard to describe, as those of the plague; at some time it appears in one shape, at others in another quite different. Among the fair, the disease is very common, and the signs of it very conspicuous in their opinions and censures of one another. In beautiful young women, you may often discover this faculty to a high degree; they frequently will hate one another mortally at first sight, from no other principle than envy; and you may read this scorn, and unreasonable aversion, in their very countenances, if they have not a great deal of art, and well learned to dissemble. In the rude and unpolished multitude, this passion is very bare-faced; especially when they envy others for the goods of fortune: They rail at their betters, rip up their faults, and take pains to misconstrue their most commendable actions: They murmur at Providence, and loudly complain, that the good things of this world are chiefly enjoyed by those who do not deserve them. The grosser sort of them it often affects so violently, that if they were not withheld by the fear of the laws, they would go directly and beat those their envy is levelled at, from no other provocation than what that passion suggests to them. The men of letters, labouring under this distemper, discover quite different symptoms. When they envy a person for his parts and erudition, their chief care is industriously to conceal their frailty, which generally is attempted by denying and depreciating the good qualities they envy: They carefully peruse his works, and are displeased with every fine passage they meet with; they look for nothing but his errors, and wish for no greater feast than a gross mistake: In their censures they are captious, as well as severe, make mountains of mole-hills, and will not pardon the least shadow of a fault, but exaggerate the most trifling omission into a capital blunder. Envy is visible in brute-beasts; horses show it in their endeavours of outstripping one another; and the best spirited will run themselves to death, before they will suffer another before them. In dogs, this passion is likewise plainly to be seen, those who are used to be caressed will never tamely bear that felicity in others. I have seen a lap-dog that would choke himself with victuals, rather than leave any thing for a competitor of his own kind; and we may often observe the same behaviour in those creatures which we daily see in infants that are froward, and by being over-fondled made humoursome. If out of caprice they at any time refuse to eat what they have asked for, and we can but make them believe that some body else, nay, even the cat or the dog is going to take it from them, they will make an end of their oughts with pleasure, and feed even against their appetite. If envy was not rivetted in human nature, it would not be so common in children, and youth would not be so generally spurred on by emulation. Those who would derive every thing that is beneficial to the society from a good principle, ascribe the effects of emulation in school-boys to a virtue of the mind; as it requires labour and pains, so it is evident, that they commit a self-denial, who act from that disposition; but if we look narrowly into it, we shall find, that this sacrifice of ease and pleasure is only made to envy, and the love of glory. If there was not something very like this passion, mixed with that pretended virtue, it would be impossible to raise and increase it by the same means that create envy. The boy, who receives a reward for the superiority of his performance, is conscious of the vexation it would have been to him, if he should have fallen short of it: This reflection makes him exert himself, not to be outdone by those whom he looks upon as his inferiors, and the greater his pride is, the more self-denial he will practise to maintain his conquest. The other, who, in spite of the pains he took to do well, has missed of the prize, is sorry, and consequently angry with him whom he must look upon as the cause of his grief: But to show this anger, would be ridiculous, and of no service to him, so that he must either be contented to be less esteemed than the other boy; or, by renewing his endeavours, become a greater proficient: and it is ten to one, but the disinterested, good-humoured, and peaceable lad, will choose the first, and so become indolent and inactive, while the covetous, peevish, and quarrelsome rascal, shall take incredible pains, and make himself a conqueror in his turn. Envy, as it is very common among painters, so it is of great use for their improvement: I do not mean, that little dawbers envy great masters, but most of them are tainted with this vice against those immediately above them. If the pupil of a famous artist is of a bright genius, and uncommon application, he first adores his master; but as his own skill increases, he begins insensibly to envy what he admired before. To learn the nature of this passion, and that it consists in what I have named, we are but to observe, that, if a painter, by exerting himself, comes not only to equal, but to exceed the man he envied, his sorrow is gone, and all his anger disarmed; and if he hated him before, he is now glad to be friends with him, if the other will condescend to it. Married women, who are guilty of this vice, which few are not, are always endeavouring to raise the same passion in their spouses; and where they have prevailed, envy and emulation have kept more men in bounds, and reformed more ill husbands from sloth, from drinking, and other evil courses, than all the sermons that have been preached since the time of the Apostles. As every body would be happy, enjoy pleasure, and, avoid pain, if he could, so self-love bids us look on every creature that seems satisfied, as a rival in happiness; and the satisfaction we have in seeing that felicity disturbed, without any advantage to ourselves, but what springs from the pleasure we have in beholding it, is called loving mischief for mischief's sake; and the motive of which that frailty is the result, malice, another offspring derived from the same original; for if there was no envy, there could be no malice. When the passions lie dormant, we have no apprehension of them, and often people think they have not such a frailty in their nature, because that moment they are not affected with it. A gentleman well dressed, who happens to be dirtied all over by a coach or a cart, is laughed at, and by his inferiors much more than his equals, because they envy him more: they know he is vexed at it, and, imagining him to be happier than themselves, they are glad to see him meet with displeasures in his turn! But a young lady, if she be in a serious mood, instead of laughing at, pities him, because a clean man is a sight she takes delight in, and there is no room for envy. At disasters, we either laugh, or pity those that befal them, according to the stock we are possessed of either malice or compassion. If a man falls or hurts himself so slightly, that it moves not the latter, we laugh, and here our pity and malice shake us alternately: Indeed, Sir, I am very sorry for it, I beg your pardon for laughing, I am the silliest creature in the world, then laugh again; and again, I am indeed very sorry, and so on. Some are so malicious, they would laugh if a man broke his leg, and others are so compassionate, that they can heartily pity a man for the least spot in his clothes; but nobody is so savage that no compassion can touch him, nor any man so good-natured, as never to be affected with any malicious pleasure. How strangely our passions govern us! We envy a man for being rich, and then perfectly hate him: But if we come to be his equals, we are calm, and the least condescension in him makes us friends; but if we become visibly superior to him, we can pity his misfortunes. The reason why men of true good sense envy less than others, is because they admire themselves with less hesitation than fools and silly people; for, though they do not show this to others, yet the solidity of their thinking gives them an assurance of their real worth, which men of weak understanding can never feel within, though they often counterfeit it. The ostracism of the Greeks was a sacrifice of valuable men made to epidemic envy, and often applied as an infallible remedy to cure and prevent the mischiefs of popular spleen and rancour. A victim of state often appeases the murmurs of a whole nation, and after-ages frequently wonder at barbarities of this nature, which, under the same circumstances, they would have committed themselves. They are compliments to the people's malice, which is never better gratified, than when they can see a great man humbled. We believe that we love justice, and to see merit rewarded; but if men continue long in the first posts of honour, half of us grow weary of them, look for their faults, and, if we can find none, we suppose they hide them, and it is much if the greatest part of us do not wish them discarded. This foul play, the best of men ought ever to apprehend from all who are not their immediate friends or acquaintance, because nothing is more tiresome to us, than the repetition of praises we have no manner of share in. The more a passion is a compound of many others, the more difficult it is to define it; and the more it is tormenting to those that labour under it, the greater cruelty it is capable of inspiring them with against others: Therefore nothing is more whimsical or mischievous than jealousy, which is made up of love, hope, fear, and a great deal of envy: The last has been sufficiently treated of already; and what I have to say of fear, the reader will find under Remark on l. 321. So that the better to explain and illustrate this odd mixture, the ingredients I shall further speak of in this place, are hope and love. Hoping is wishing with some degree of confidence, that the thing wished for will come to pass. The firmness and imbecility of our hope depend entirely on the greater or lesser degree of our confidence, and all hope includes doubt; for when our confidence is arrived to that height, as to exclude all doubts, it becomes a certainty, and we take for granted what we only hoped for before. A silver inkhorn may pass in speech, because every body knows what we mean by it, but a certain hope cannot: For a man who makes use of an epithet that destroys the essence of the substantive he joins it to, can have no meaning at all; and the more clearly we understand the force of the epithet, and the nature of the substantive, the more palpable is the nonsense of the heterogeneous compound. The reason, therefore, why it is not so shocking to some to hear a man speak of certain hope, as if he should talk of hot ice, or liquid oak, is not because there is less nonsense contained in the first, than there is in either of the latter; but because the word hope, I mean the essence of it, is not so clearly understood by the generality of the people, as the words and essence of ice and oak are. Love, in the first place, signifies affection, such as parents and nurses bear to children, and friends to one another; it consists in a liking and well-wishing to the person beloved. We give an easy construction to his words and actions, and feel a proneness to excuse and forgive his faults, if we see any; his interest we make on all accounts our own, even to our prejudice, and receive an inward satisfaction for sympathising with him in his sorrows, as well as joys. What I said last is not impossible, whatever it may seem to be; for, when we are sincere in sharing with one another in his misfortunes, self-love makes us believe, that the sufferings we feel must alleviate and lessen those of our friend; and while this fond reflection is soothing our pain, a secret pleasure arises from our grieving for the person we love. Secondly, by love we understand a strong inclination, in its nature distinct from all other affections of friendship, gratitude, and consanguinity, that persons of different sexes, after liking, bear to one another: it is in this signification, that love enters into the compound of jealousy, and is the effect as well as happy disguise of that passion that prompts us to labour for the preservation of our species. This latter appetite is innate both in men and women, who are not defective in their formation, as much as hunger or thirst, though they are seldom affected with it before the years of puberty. Could we undress nature, and pry into her deepest recesses, we should discover the seeds of this passion before it exerts itself, as plainly as we see the teeth in an embryo, before the gums are formed. There are few healthy people of either sex, whom it has made no impression on before twenty: yet, as the peace and happiness of the civil society require that this should be kept a secret, never to be talked of in public; so, among well-bred people, it is counted highly criminal to mention, before company, any thing in plain words, that is, relating to this mystery of succession: by which means, the very name of the appetite, though the most necessary for the continuance of mankind, is become odious, and the proper epithets commonly joined to lust, are filthy and abominable. This impulse of nature in people of strict morals, and rigid modesty, often disturbs the body for a considerable time before it is understood or known to be what it is, and it is remarkable, that the most polished, and best instructed, are generally the most ignorant as to this affair; and here I can but observe the difference between man in the wild state of nature, and the same creature in the civil society. In the first, men and women, if left rude and untaught in the sciences of modes and manners, would quickly find out the cause of that disturbance, and be at a loss no more than other animals for a present remedy: besides, that it is not probable they would want either precept or example from the more experienced. But, in the second, where the rules of religion, law, and decency, are to be followed, and obeyed, before any dictates of nature, the youth of both sexes are to be armed and fortified against this impulse, and from their infancy artfully frightened from the most remote approaches of it. The appetite itself, and all the symptoms of it, though they are plainly felt and understood, are to be stifled with care and severity, and, in women, flatly disowned, and if there be occasion, with obstinacy denied, even when themselves are affected by them. If it throws them into distempers, they must be cured by physic, or else patiently bear them in silence; and it is the interest of the society to preserve decency and politeness; that women should linger, waste, and die, rather than relieve themselves in an unlawful manner; and among the fashionable part of mankind, the people of birth and fortune, it is expected that matrimony should never be entered upon without a curious regard to family, estate, and reputation, and, in the making of matches, the call of nature be the very last consideration. Those, then, who would make love and lust synonymous, confound the effect with the cause of it: yet such is the force of education, and a habit of thinking, as we are taught, that sometimes persons of either sex are actually in love without feeling any carnal desires, or penetrating into the intentions of nature, the end proposed by her, without which they could never have been affected with that sort of passion. That there are such is certain, but many more whose pretences to those refined notions are only upheld by art and dissimulation. Those, who are really such Platonic lovers, are commonly the pale-faced weakly people, of cold and phlegmatic constitutions in either sex; the hale and robust, of bilious temperament, and a sanguine complexion, never entertain any love so spiritual as to exclude all thoughts and wishes that relate to the body; but if the most seraphic lovers would know the original of their inclination, let them but suppose that another should have the corporal enjoyment of the person beloved, and by the tortures they will suffer from that reflection they will soon discover the nature of their passions: whereas, on the contrary, parents and friends receive a satisfaction in reflecting on the joys and comforts of a happy marriage, to be tasted by those they wish well to. The curious, that are skilled in anatomizing the invisible part of man, will observe that the more sublime and exempt this love is from all thoughts of sensuality, the more spurious it is, and the more it degenerates from its honest original and primitive simplicity. The power and sagacity as well as labour and care of the politician in civilizing the society, has been no where more conspicuous, than in the happy contrivance of playing our passions against one another. By flattering our pride, and still increasing the good opinion we have of ourselves on the one hand, and inspiring us on the other with a superlative dread and mortal aversion against shame, the artful moralists have taught us cheerfully to encounter ourselves, and if not subdue, at least, so to conceal and disguise our darling passion, lust, that we scarce know it when we meet with it in our breasts: Oh! the mighty prize we have in view for all our self-denial! can any man be so serious as to abstain from laughter, when he considers, that for so much deceit and insincerity practiced upon ourselves as well as others, we have no other recompense than the vain satisfaction of making our species appear more exalted and remote from that of other animals, than it really is; and we, in our consciences, know it to be? yet this is fact, and in it we plainly perceive the reason why it was necessary to render odious every word or action by which we might discover the innate desire we feel to perpetuate our kind; and why tamely to submit to the violence of a furious appetite (which is painful to resist) and innocently to obey the most pressing demand of nature without guile or hypocrisy, like other creatures, should be branded with the ignominious name of brutality. What we call love, then, is not a genuine, but an adulterated appetite, or rather a compound, a heap of several contradictory passions blended in one. As it is a product of nature warped by custom and education, so the true origin and first motive of it, as I have hinted already, is stifled in well-bred people, and concealed from themselves: all which is the reason, that, as those affected with it, vary in age, strength, resolution, temper, circumstances, and manners, the effects of it are so different, whimsical, surprising, and unaccountable. It is this passion that makes jealousy so troublesome, and the envy of it often so fatal: those who imagine that there may be jealousy without love, do not understand that passion. Men may not have the least affection for their wives, and yet be angry with them for their conduct, and suspicious of them either with or without a cause: but what in such cases affects them is their pride, the concern for their reputation. They feel a hatred against them without remorse; when they are outrageous, they can beat them and go to sleep contentedly: such husbands may watch their dames themselves, and have them observed by others; but their vigilance is not so intense; they are not so inquisitive or industrious in their searches, neither do they feel that anxiety of heart at the fear of a discovery, as when love is mixed with the passions. What confirms me in this opinion is, that we never observe this behaviour between a man and his mistress; for when his love is gone and he suspects her to be false, he leaves her, and troubles his head no more about her: whereas, it is the greatest difficulty imaginable, even to a man of sense, to part with his mistress as long as he loves her, whatever faults she may be guilty of. If in his anger he strikes her, he is uneasy after it; his love makes him reflect on the hurt he has done her, and he wants to be reconciled to her again. He may talk of hating her, and many times from his heart wish her hanged, but if he cannot get entirely rid of his frailty, he can never disentangle himself from her: though she is represented in the most monstrous guilt to his imagination, and he has resolved and swore a thousand times never to come near her again, there is no trusting him, even when he is fully convinced of her infidelity, if his love continues, his despair is never so lasting, but between the blackest fits of it he relents, and finds lucid intervals of hope; he forms excuses for her, thinks of pardoning, and in order to it racks his invention for possibilities that may make her appear less criminal. Line 200. Real pleasures, comforts, ease. That the highest good consisted in pleasure, was the doctrine of Epicurus, who yet led a life exemplary for continence, sobriety, and other virtues, which made people of the succeeding ages quarrel about the signification of pleasure. Those who argued from the temperance of the philosopher, said, That the delight Epicurus meant, was being virtuous; so Erasmus in his Colloquies tells us, that there are no greater Epicures than pious Christians. Others that reflected on the dissolute manners of the greatest part of his followers, would have it, that by pleasures he could have understood nothing but sensual ones, and the gratification of our passions. I shall not decide their quarrel, but am of opinion, that whether men be good or bad, what they take delight in is their pleasure; and not to look out for any further etymology from the learned languages, I believe an Englishman may justly call everything a pleasure that pleases him, and according to this definition, we ought to dispute no more about men's pleasures than their tastes: Trahit sua quemque voluptas. The worldly-minded, voluptuous, and ambitious man, notwithstanding he is void of merit, covets precedence every where, and desires to be dignified above his betters: he aims at spacious palaces, and delicious gardens; his chief delight is in excelling others in stately horses, magnificent coaches, a numerous attendance, and dear-bought furniture. To gratify his lust, he wishes for genteel, young, beautiful women of different charms and complexions, that shall adore his greatness, and be really in love with his person: his cellars he would have stored with the flower of every country that produces excellent wines: his tables he desires may be served with many courses, and each of them contain a choice variety of dainties not easily purchased, and ample evidences of elaborate and judicious cookery; while harmonious music, and well-couched flattery, entertain his hearing by turns. He employs even in the meanest trifles, none but the ablest and most ingenious workmen, that his judgment and fancy may as evidently appear in the least things that belong to him as his wealth and quality are manifested in those of greater value. He desires to have several sets of witty, facetious, and polite people to converse with, and among them he would have some famous for learning and universal knowledge: for his serious affairs, he wishes to find men of parts and experience, that should be diligent and faithful. Those that are to wait on him he would have handy, mannerly, and discreet, of comely aspect, and a graceful mien: what he requires in them besides, is a respectful care of every thing that is his, nimbleness without hurry, dispatch without noise, and an unlimited obedience to his orders: nothing he thinks more troublesome than speaking to servants; wherefore he will only be attended by such, as by observing his looks have learned to interpret his will from the slightest motions. He loves to see an elegant nicety in every thing that approaches him, and in what is to be employed about his person, he desires a superlative cleanliness to be religiously observed. The chief officers of his household he would have to be men of birth, honour and distinction, as well as order, contrivance, and economy; for though he loves to be honoured by every body, and receives the respects of the common people with joy, yet the homage that is paid him by persons of quality is ravishing to him in a more transcendent manner. While thus wallowing in a sea of lust and vanity, he is wholly employed in provoking and indulging his appetites, he desires the world should think him altogether free from pride and sensuality, and put a favourable construction upon his most glaring vices: nay, if his authority can purchase it, he covets to be thought wise, brave, generous, good-natured, and endued with the virtues he thinks worth having. He would have us believe that the pomp and luxury he is served with are as many tiresome plagues to him; and all the grandeur he appears in is an ungrateful burden, which, to his sorrow, is inseparable from the high sphere he moves in; that his noble mind, so much exalted above vulgar capacities, aims at higher ends, and cannot relish such worthless enjoyments; that the highest of his ambition is to promote the public welfare, and his greatest pleasure to see his country flourish, and every body in it made happy. These are called real pleasures by the vicious and earthly-minded, and whoever is able, either by his skill or fortune, after this refined manner at once to enjoy the world, and the good opinion of it, is counted extremely happy by all the most fashionable part of the people. But, on the other side, most of the ancient philosophers and grave moralists, especially the Stoics, would not allow any thing to be a real good that was liable to be taken from them by others. They wisely considered the instability of fortune, and the favour of princes; the vanity of honour, and popular applause; the precariousness of riches, and all earthly possessions; and therefore placed true happiness in the calm serenity of a contented mind, free from guilt and ambition; a mind that, having subdued every sensual appetite, despises the smiles as well as frowns of fortune, and taking no delight but in contemplation, desires nothing but what every body is able to give to himself: a mind that, armed with fortitude and resolution, has learned to sustain the greatest losses without concern, to endure pain without affliction, and to bear injuries without resentment. Many have owned themselves arrived to this height of self-denial, and then, if we may believe them, they were raised above common mortals, and their strength extended vastly beyond the pitch of their first nature: they could behold the anger of threatening tyrants and the most imminent dangers without terror, and preserved their tranquillity in the midst of torments: death itself they could meet with intrepidity, and left the world with no greater reluctance than they had showed fondness at their entrance into it. These among the ancients have always bore the greatest sway; yet others that were no fools neither, have exploded those precepts as impracticable, called their notions romantic, and endeavoured to prove, that what these Stoics asserted of themselves, exceeded all human force and possibility; and that therefore the virtues they boasted of could be nothing but haughty pretence, full of arrogance and hypocrisy; yet notwithstanding these censures, the serious part of the world, and the generality of wise men that have lived ever since to this day, agree with the Stoics in the most material points; as that there can be no true felicity in what depends on things perishable; that peace within is the greatest blessing, and no conquest like that of our passions; that knowledge, temperance, fortitude, humility, and other embellishments of the mind are the most valuable acquisitions; that no man can be happy but he that is good: and that the virtuous are only capable of enjoying real pleasures. I expect to be asked, why in the fable I have called those pleasures real, that are directly opposite to those which I own the wise men of all ages have extolled as the most valuable? My answer is, because I do not call things pleasures which men say are best, but such as they seem to be most pleased with; how can I believe that a mans chief delight is in the embellishment of the mind, when I see him ever employed about, and daily pursue the pleasures that are contrary to them? John never cuts any pudding, but just enough that you cannot say he took none: this little bit, after much chomping and chewing, you see goes down with him like chopped hay; after that he falls upon the beef with a voracious appetite, and crams himself up to his throat. Is it not provoking, to hear John cry every day that pudding is all his delight, and that he does not value the beef of a farthing. I could swagger about fortitude and the contempt of riches as much as Seneca himself, and would undertake to write twice as much in behalf of poverty as ever he did; for the tenth part of his estate, I could teach the way to his summum bonum as exactly as I know my way home: I could tell people to extricate themselves from all worldly engagements, and to purify the mind, they must divest themselves of their passions, as men take out the furniture when they would clean a room thoroughly; and I am clearly of the opinion, that the malice and most severe strokes of fortune, can do no more injury to a mind thus stripped of all fears, wishes, and inclinations, than a blind horse can do in an empty barn. In the theory of all this I am very perfect, but the practice is very difficult; and if you went about picking my pocket, offered to take the victuals from before me when I am hungry, or made but the least motion of spitting in my face, I dare not promise how philosophically I should behave myself. But that I am forced to submit to every caprice of my unruly nature, you will say, is no argument, that others are as little masters of theirs, and therefore, I am willing to pay adoration to virtue wherever I can meet with it, with a proviso that I shall not be obliged to admit any as such, where I can see no self-denial, or to judge of mens sentiments from their words, where I have their lives before me. I have searched through every degree and station of men, and confess, that I have found no where more austerity of manners, or greater contempt of earthly pleasures, than in some religious houses, where people freely resigning and retiring from the world to combat themselves, have no other business but subdue their appetites. What can be a greater evidence of perfect chastity, and a superlative love, to immaculate purity in men and women, than that in the prime of their age, when lust is most raging, they should actually seclude themselves from each others company, and by a voluntary renunciation debar themselves for life, not only from uncleanness, but even the most lawful embraces? those that abstain from flesh, and often all manner of food, one would think in the right way, to conquer all carnal desires; and I could almost swear, that he does not consult his ease, who daily mauls his bare back and shoulders with unconscionable stripes, and constantly roused at night from his sleep, leaves his bed for his devotion. Who can despise riches more, or show himself less avaricious than he, who will not so much as touch gold or silver, no not with his feet? Or can any mortal show himself less luxurious or more humble than the man, that making poverty his choice, contents himself with scraps and fragments, and refuses to eat any bread but what is bestowed upon him by the charity of others. Such fair instances of self-denial, would make me bow down to virtue, if I was not deterred and warned from it by so many persons of eminence and learning, who unanimously tell me that I am mistaken, and all I have seen is farce and hypocrisy; that what seraphic love they may pretend to, there is nothing but discord among them; and that how penitential the nuns and friars may appear in their several convents, they none of them sacrifice their darling lusts: that among the women, they are not all virgins that pass for such, and that if I was to be let into their secrets, and examine some of their subterraneous privacies, I should soon be convinced by scenes of horror, that some of them must have been mothers. That among the men I should find calumny, envy, and ill nature, in the highest degree, or else gluttony, drunkenness, and impurities of a more execrable kind than adultery itself: and as for the mendicant orders, that they fer in nothing but their habits from other sturdy beggars, who deceive people with a pitiful tone, and an outward show of misery, and as soon as they are out of sight, lay by their cant, indulge their appetites, and enjoy one another. If the strict rules, and so many outward signs of devotion observed among those religious orders, deserve such harsh censures, we may well despair of meeting with virtue any where else; for if we look into the actions of the antagonists and greatest accusers of those votaries, we shall not find so much as the appearance of self-denial. The reverend divines of all sects, even of the most reformed churches in all countries, take care with the Cyclops Evangeliphorus first; ut ventri bene sit, and afterwards, ne quid desit iis quæ sub ventre sunt. To these they will desire you to add convenient houses, handsome furniture, good fires in winter, pleasant gardens in summer, neat clothes, and money enough to bring up their children; precedency in all companies, respect from every body, and then as much religion as you please. The things I have named are the necessary comforts of life, which the most modest are not ashamed to claim, and which they are very uneasy without. They are, it is true, made of the same mould, and have the same corrupt nature with other men, born with the same infirmities, subject to the same passions, and liable to the same temptations, and therefore if they are diligent in their calling, and can but abstain from murder, adultery, swearing, drunkenness, and other heinous vices, their lives are all called unblemished, and their reputations unspotted; their function renders them holy, and the gratification of so many carnal appetites, and the enjoyment of so much luxurious ease notwithstanding, they may set upon themselves what value their pride and parts will allow them. All this I have nothing against, but I see no self-denial, without which there can be no virtue. Is it such a mortification not to desire a greater share of worldly blessings, than what every reasonable man ought to be satisfied with? Or, is there any mighty merit in not being flagitious, and forbearing indecencies that are repugnant to good manners, and which no prudent man would be guilty of, though he had no religion at all? I know I shall be told, that the reason why the clergy are so violent in their resentments, when at any time they are but in the least affronted, and show themselves so void of all patience when their rights are invaded, is their great care to preserve their calling, their profession from contempt, not for their own sakes, but to be more serviceable to others. It is the same reason that makes them solicitous about the comforts and conveniences of life; for should they suffer themselves to be insulted over, be content with a coarser diet, and wear more ordinary clothes than other people, the multitude, who judge from outward appearances, would be apt to think that the clergy was no more the immediate care of Providence than other folks, and so not only undervalue their persons, but despise likewise all the reproofs and instructions that came from them. This is an admirable plea, and as it is much made use of, I will try the worth of it. I am not of the learned Dr. Echard's opinion, that poverty is one of those things that bring the clergy into contempt, any further than as it may be an occasion of discovering their blind side: for when men are always struggling with their low condition, and are unable to bear the burden of it without reluctancy, it is then they show how uneasy their poverty sits upon them, how glad they would be to have their circumstances meliorated, and what a real value they have for the good things of this world. He that harangues on the contempt of riches, and the vanity of earthly enjoyments, in a rusty threadbare gown, because he has no other, and would wear his old greasy hat no longer if any body would give him a better; that drinks small beer at home with a heavy countenance, but leaps at a glass of wine if he can catch it abroad; that with little appetite feeds upon his own coarse mess, but falls to greedily where he can please his palate, and expresses an uncommon joy at an invitation to a splendid dinner: it is he that is despised, not because he is poor, but because he knows not how to be so, with that content and resignation which he preaches to others, and so discovers his inclinations to be contrary to his doctrine. But, when a man from the greatness of his soul (or an obstinate vanity, which will do as well) resolving to subdue his appetites in good earnest, refuses all the offers of ease and luxury that can be made to him, and embracing a voluntary poverty with cheerfulness, rejects whatever may gratify the senses, and actually sacrifices all his passions to his pride, in acting this part, the vulgar, far from contemning, will be ready to deify and adore him. How famous have the Cynic philosophers made themselves, only by refusing to dissimulate and make use of superfluities? Did not the most ambitious monarch the world ever bore, condescend to visit Diogenes in his tub, and return to a studied incivility, the highest compliment a man of his pride was able to make? Mankind are very willing to take one another's word, when they see some circumstances that corroborate what is told them; but when our actions directly contradict what we say, it is counted impudence to desire belief. If a jolly hale fellow, with glowing cheeks and warm hands, newly returned from some smart exercise, or else the cold bath, tells us in frosty weather, that he cares not for the fire, we are easily induced to believe him, especially if he actually turns from it, and we know by his circumstances, that he wants neither fuel nor clothes: but if we should hear the same from the mouth of a poor starved wretch, with swelled hands, and a livid countenance, in a thin ragged garment, we should not believe a word of what he said, especially if we saw him shaking and shivering, creep toward the sunny bank; and we would conclude, let him say what he could, that warm clothes, and a good fire, would be very acceptable to him. The application is easy, and therefore if there be any clergy upon earth that would be thought not to care for the world, and to value the soul above the body, let them only forbear showing a greater concern for their sensual pleasures than they generally do for their spiritual ones, and they may rest satisfied, that no poverty, while they bear it with fortitude, will ever bring them into contempt, how mean soever their circumstances may be. Let us suppose a pastor that has a little flock intrusted to him, of which he is very careful: He preaches, visits, exhorts, reproves among his people with zeal and prudence, and does them all the kind offices that lie in his power to make them happy. There is no doubt but those under his care must be very much obliged to him. Now, we shall suppose once more, that this good man, by the help of a little self-denial, is contented to live upon half his income, accepting only of twenty pounds a-year instead of forty, which he could claim; and moreover, that he loves his parishioners so well, that he will never leave them for any preferment whatever, no not a bishoprick, though it be offered. I cannot see but all this might be an easy task to a man who professes mortification, and has no value for worldly pleasures; yet such a disinterested divine, I dare promise, notwithstanding the degeneracy of mankind, will be loved, esteemed, and have every body's good word; nay, I would swear, that though he should yet further exert himself, give above half of his small revenue to the poor, live upon nothing but oatmeal and water, lie upon straw, and wear the coarsest cloth that could be made, his mean way of living would never be reflected on, or be a disparagement either to himself or the order he belonged to; but that on the contrary his poverty would never be mentioned but to his glory, as long as his memory should last. But (says a charitable young gentlewoman) though you have the heart to starve your parson, have you no bowels of compassion for his wife and children? pray what must remain of forty pounds a year, after it has been twice so unmercifully split? or would you have the poor woman and the innocent babes likewise live upon oatmeal and water, and lie upon straw, you unconscionable wretch, with all your suppositions and self-denials; nay, is it possible, though they should all live at your own murdering rate, that less than ten pounds a-year could maintain a family?----Do not be in a passion, good Mrs. Abigail, I have a greater regard for your sex than to prescribe such a lean diet to married men; but I confess I forgot the wives and children: The main reason was, because I thought poor priests could have no occasion for them. Who could imagine, that the parson who is to teach others by example as well as precept, was not able to withstand those desires which the wicked world itself calls unreasonable? What is the reason when an apprentice marries before he is out of his time, that unless he meets with a good fortune, all his relations are angry with him, and every body blames him? Nothing else, but because at that time he has no money at his disposal, and being bound to his master's service, has no leisure, and perhaps little capacity to provide for a family. What must we say to a parson that has twenty, or, if you will, forty pounds a-year, that being bound more strictly to all the services a parish and his duty require, has little time, and generally much less ability to get any more? Is it not very reasonable he should marry? But why should a sober young man, who is guilty of no vice, be debarred from lawful enjoyments? Right; marriage is lawful, and so is a coach; but what is that to people that have not money enough to keep one? If he must have a wife, let him look out for money, or wait for a greater benefice, or something else to maintain her handsomely, and bear all incident charges. But nobody that has any thing herself will have him, and he cannot stay: He has a very good stomach, and all the symptoms of health; it is not every body that can live without a woman; it is better to marry than burn.----What a world of self-denial is here? The sober young man is very willing to be virtuous, but you must not cross his inclinations; he promises never to be a deer-stealer, upon condition that he shall have venison of his own, and no body must doubt, but that if it come to the push, he is qualified to suffer martyrdom, though he owns that he has not strength enough, patiently to bear a scratched finger. When we see so many of the clergy, to indulge their lust, a brutish appetite, run themselves after this manner upon an inevitable poverty, which, unless they could bear it with greater fortitude, than they discover in all their actions, must of necessity make them contemptible to all the world, what credit must we give them, when they pretend that they conform themselves to the world, not because they take delight in the several decencies, conveniences, and ornaments of it, but only to preserve their function from contempt, in order to be more useful to others? Have we not reason to believe, that what they say is full of hypocrisy and falsehood, and that concupiscence is not the only appetite they want to gratify; that the haughty airs and quick sense of injuries, the curious elegance in dress, and niceness of palate, to be observed in most of them that are able to show them, are the results of pride and luxury in them, as they are in other people, and that the clergy are not possessed of more intrinsic virtue than any other profession? I am afraid, by this time I have given many of my readers a real displeasure, by dwelling so long upon the reality of pleasure; but I cannot help it, there is one thing comes into my head to corroborate what I have urged already, which I cannot forbear mentioning: It is this: Those who govern others throughout the world, are at least as wise as the people that are governed by them, generally speaking: If, for this reason, we would take pattern from our superiors, we have but to cast our eyes on all the courts and governments in the universe, and we shall soon perceive from the actions of the great ones, which opinion they side with, and what pleasures those in the highest stations of all seem to be most fond of: For, if it be allowable at all to judge of people's inclinations, from their manner of living, none can be less injured by it, than those who are the most at liberty to do as they please. If the great ones of the clergy, as well as the laity of any country whatever, had no value for earthly pleasures, and did not endeavour to gratify their appetites, why are envy and revenge so raging among them, and all the other passions improved and refined upon in courts of princes more than any where else, and why are their repasts, their recreations, and whole manner of living always such as are approved of, coveted, and imitated by the most sensual people of that same country? If despising all visible decorations they were only in love with the embellishments of the mind, why should they borrow so many of the implements, and make use of the most darling toys of the luxurious? Why should a lord treasurer, or a bishop, or even the grand signior, or the pope of Rome, to be good and virtuous, and endeavour the conquest of his passions, have occasion for greater revenues, richer furniture, or a more numerous attention, as to personal service, than a private man? What virtue is it the exercise of which requires so much pomp and superfluity, as are to be seen by all men in power? A man has as much opportunity to practise temperance, that has but one dish at a meal, as he that is constantly served with three courses, and a dozen dishes in each: One may exercise as much patience, and be as full of self-denial on a few flocks, without curtains or tester, as in a velvet bed that is sixteen foot high. The virtuous possessions of the mind are neither charge nor burden: A man may bear misfortunes with fortitude in a garret, forgive injuries a-foot, and be chaste, though he has not a shirt to his back: and therefore I shall never believe, but that an indifferent sculler, if he was intrusted with it, might carry all the learning and religion that one man can contain, as well as a barge with six oars, especially if it was but to cross from Lambeth to Westminster; or that humility is so ponderous a virtue, that it requires six horses to draw it. To say that men not being so easily governed by their equals as by their superiors, it is necessary, that to keep the multitude in awe, those who rule over us should excel others in outward appearance, and consequently, that all in high stations should have badges of honour, and ensigns of power to be distinguished from the vulgar, is a frivolous objection. This, in the first place, can only be of use to poor princes, and weak and precarious governments, that being actually unable to maintain the public peace, are obliged with a pageant show to make up what they want in real power: so the governor of Batavia, in the East Indies, is forced to keep up a grandeur, and live in a magnificence above his quality, to strike a terror in the natives of Java, who, if they had skill and conduct, are strong enough to destroy ten times the number of their masters; but great princes and states that keep large fleets at sea, and numerous armies in the field, have no occasion for such stratagems; for what makes them formidable abroad, will never fail to be their security at home. Secondly, what must protect the lives and wealth of people from the attempts of wicked men in all societies, is the severity of the laws, and diligent administration of impartial justice. Theft, house-breaking, and murder, are not to be prevented by the scarlet gowns of the aldermen, the gold chains of the sheriffs, the fine trappings of their horses, or any gaudy show whatever: Those pageant ornaments are beneficial another way; they are eloquent lectures to apprentices, and the use of them is to animate, not to deter: but men of abandoned principles must be awed by rugged officers, strong prisons, watchful jailors, the hangman, and the gallows. If London was to be one week destitute of constables and watchmen to guard the houses a-nights, half the bankers would be ruined in that time, and if my lord mayor had nothing to defend himself but his great two handed sword, the huge cap of maintenance, and his gilded mace, he would soon be stripped, in the very streets to the city, of all his finery in his stately coach. But let us grant that the eyes of the mobility are to be dazzled with a gaudy outside; if virtue was the chief delight of great men, why should their extravagance be extended to things not understood by the mob, and wholly removed from public view, I mean their private diversions, the pomp and luxury of the dining-room and the bed-chamber, and the curiosities of the closet? few of the vulgar know that there is wine of a guinea the bottle, that birds, no bigger than larks, are often sold for half-a-guinea a-piece, or that a single picture may be worth several thousand pounds: besides, is it to be imagined, that unless it was to please their own appetites, men should put themselves to such vast expences for a political show, and be so solicitous to gain the esteem of those whom they so much despise in every thing else? if we allow that the splendor and all the elegancy of a court insipid, and only tiresome to the prince himself, and are altogether made use of to preserve royal majesty from contempt, can we say the same of half a dozen illegitimate children, most of them the offspring of adultery, by the same majesty, got, educated, and made princes at the expence of the nation! therefore, it is evident, that this awing of the multitude, by a distinguished manner of living, is only a cloak and pretence, under which, great men would shelter their vanity, and indulge every appetite about them without reproach. A burgomaster of Amsterdam, in his plain black suit, followed perhaps by one footman, is fully as much respected, and better obeyed, than a lord mayor of London, with all his splendid equipage, and great train of attendance. Where there is a real power, it is ridiculous to think that any temperance or austerity of life should ever render the person, in whom that power is lodged, contemptible in his office, from an emperor to the beadle of a parish. Cato, in his government of Spain, in which he acquitted himself with so much glory, had only three servants to attend him; do we hear that any of his orders were ever slighted for this, notwithstanding that he loved his bottle? and when that great man marched on foot through the scorching sands of Libya, and parched up with thirst, refused to touch the water that was brought him, before all his soldiers had drank, do we ever read that this heroic forbearance weakened his authority, or lessened him in the esteem of his army? but what need we go so far off? there has not, for these many ages, been a prince less inclined to pomp and luxury than the [2] present king of Sweden, who, enamoured with the title of hero, has not only sacrificed the lives of his subjects, and welfare of his dominions, but (what is more uncommon in sovereigns) his own ease, and all the comforts of life, to an implacable spirit of revenge; yet he is obeyed to the ruin of his people, in obstinately maintaining a war that has almost utterly destroyed his kingdom. Thus I have proved, that the real pleasures of all men in nature are worldly and sensual, if we judge from their practice; I say all men in nature, because devout Christians, who alone are to be excepted here, being regenerated, and preternaturally assisted by the Divine grace, cannot be said to be in nature. How strange it is, that they should all so unanimously deny it! ask not only the divines and moralists of every nation, but likewise all that are rich and powerful, about real pleasure, and they will tell you, with the Stoics, that there can be no true felicity in things mundane and corruptible: but then look upon their lives, and you will find they take delight in no other. What must we do in this dilemma? shall we be so uncharitable, as judging from mens actions, to say, that all the world prevaricates, and that this is not their opinion, let them talk what they will? or shall we be so silly, as relying on what they say, to think them sincere in their sentiments, and so not believe our own eyes? or shall we rather endeavour to believe ourselves and them too, and say with Montaigne, that they imagine, and are fully persuaded, that they believe what they do not believe? these are his words: "some impose on the world, and would be thought to believe what they really do not: but much the greater number impose upon themselves, not considering, nor thoroughly apprehending what it is to believe." But this is making all mankind either fools or impostors, which, to avoid, there is nothing left us, but to say what Mr. Bayle has endeavoured to prove at large in his Reflections on Comets: "that man is so unaccountable a creature as to act most commonly against his principle;" and this is so far from being injurious, that it is a compliment to human nature, for we must see either this or worse. This contradiction in the frame of man is the reason that the theory of virtue is so well understood, and the practice of it so rarely to be met with. If you ask me where to look for those beautiful shining qualities of prime ministers, and the great favourites of princes that are so finely painted in dedications, addresses, epitaphs, funeral sermons, and inscriptions, I answer, there, and no where else. Where would you look for the excellency of a statue, but in that part which you see of it? It is the polished outside only that has the skill and labour of the sculptor to boast of; what is out of sight is untouched. Would you break the head, or cut open the breast to look for the brains or the heart, you would only show your ignorance, and destroy the workmanship. This has often made me compare the virtues of great men to your large China jars: they make a fine show, and are ornamental even to a chimney; one would, by the bulk they appear in, and the value that is set upon them, think they might be very useful, but look into a thousand of them, and you will find nothing in them but dust and cobwebs. Line 201. ----The very poor Liv'd better than the rich before. If we trace the most flourishing nations in their origin, we shall find, that in the remote beginnings of every society, the richest and most considerable men among them were a great while destitute of a great many comforts of life that are now enjoyed by the meanest and most humble wretches: so that many things which were once looked upon as the invention of luxury, are now allowed, even to those that are so miserably poor as to become the objects of public charity, nay, counted so necessary, that we think no human creature ought to want them. In the first ages, man, without doubt, fed on the fruits of the earth, without any previous preparation, and reposed himself naked like other animals on the lap of their common parent: whatever has contributed since to make life more comfortable, as it must have been the result of thought, experience, and some labour, so it more or less deserves the name of luxury, the more or less trouble it required, and deviated from the primitive simplicity. Our admiration is extended no farther than to what is new to us, and we all overlook the excellency of things we are used to, be they never so curious. A man would be laughed at, that should discover luxury in the plain dress of a poor creature, that walks along in a thick parish gown, and a coarse shirt underneath it; and yet what a number of people, how many different trades, and what a variety of skill and tools must be employed to have the most ordinary Yorkshire cloth? What depth of thought and ingenuity, what toil and labour, and what length of time must it have cost, before man could learn from a seed, to raise and prepare so useful a product as linen. Must that society not be vainly curious, among whom this admirable commodity, after it is made, shall not be thought fit to be used even by the poorest of all, before it is brought to a perfect whiteness, which is not to be procured but by the assistance of all the elements, joined to a world of industry and patience? I have not done yet: can we reflect not only on the cost laid out upon this luxurious invention, but likewise on the little time the whiteness of it continues, in which part of its beauty consists, that every six or seven days at farthest it wants cleaning, and while it lasts is a continual charge to the wearer; can we, I say, reflect on all this, and not think it an extravagant piece of nicety, that even those who receive alms of the parish, should not only have whole garments made of this operose manufacture, but likewise that as soon as they are soiled, to restore them to their pristine purity, they should make use of one of the most judicious as well as difficult compositions that chemistry can boast of; with which, dissolved in water by the help of fire, the most detersive, and yet innocent lixivium is prepared that human industry has hitherto been able to invent? It is certain, time was that the things I speak of would have bore those lofty expressions, and in which every body would have reasoned after the same manner; but the age we live in would call a man fool, who should talk of extravagance and nicety, if he saw a poor woman, after having wore her crown cloth smock a whole week, wash it with a bit of stinking soap of a groat a pound. The arts of brewing, and making bread, have by slow degrees been brought to the perfection they now are in, but to have invented them at once, and à priori, would have required more knowledge and a deeper insight into the nature of fermentation, than the greatest philosopher has hitherto been endowed with; yet the fruits of both are now enjoyed by the meanest of our species, and a starving wretch knows not how to make a more humble, or a more modest petition, than by asking for a bit of bread, or a draught of small beer. Man has learned by experience, that nothing was softer than the small plumes and down of birds, and found that heaped together, they would by their elasticity, gently resist any incumbent weight, and heave up again of themselves as soon as the pressure is over. To make use of them to sleep upon was, no doubt, first invented to compliment the vanity as well as ease of the wealthy and potent; but they are long since become so common, that almost every body lies upon featherbeds, and to substitute flocks in the room of them is counted a miserable shift of the most necessitous. What a vast height must luxury have been arrived to, before it could be reckoned a hardship to repose upon the soft wool of animals! From caves, huts, hovels, tents, and barracks, with which mankind took up at first, we are come to warm and well-wrought houses, and the meanest habitations to be seen in cities, are regular buildings, contrived by persons skilled in proportions and architecture. If the ancient Britons and Gauls should come out of their graves, with what amazement would they gaze on the mighty structures every where raised for the poor! Should they behold the magnificence of a Chelsey-College, a Greenwich-Hospital, or what surpasses all them, a Des Invalides at Paris, and see the care, the plenty, the superfluities and pomp, which people that have no possessions at all are treated with in those stately palaces, those who were once the greatest and richest of the land would have reason to envy the most reduced of our species now. Another piece of luxury the poor enjoy, that is not looked upon as such, and which there is no doubt but the wealthiest in a golden age would abstain from, is their making use of the flesh of animals to eat. In what concerns the fashions and manners of the ages men live in, they never examine into the real worth or merit of the cause, and generally judge of things not as their reason, but custom direct them. Time was when the funeral rites in the disposing of the dead, were performed by fire, and the cadavers of the greatest emperors were burnt to ashes. Then burying the corps in the ground was a funeral for slaves, or made a punishment for the worst of malefactors. Now nothing is decent or honourable but interring; and burning the body is reserved for crimes of the blackest dye. At some times we look upon trifles with horror, at other times we can behold enormities without concern. If we see a man walk with his hat on in a church, though out of service time, it shocks us; but if on a Sunday night we meet half a dozen fellows drunk in the street, the sight makes little or no impression upon us. If a woman at a merry-making dresses in man's clothes, it is reckoned a frolic amongst friends, and he that finds too much fault with it is counted censorious: upon the stage it is done without reproach, and the most virtuous ladies will dispense with it in an actress, though every body has a full view of her legs and thighs; but if the same woman, as soon as she has petticoats on again, should show her leg to a man as high as her knee, it would be a very immodest action, and every body will call her impudent for it. I have often thought, if it was not for this tyranny which custom usurps over us, that men of any tolerable good-nature could never be reconciled to the killing of so many animals, for their daily food, as long as the bountiful earth so plentifully provides them with varieties of vegetable dainties. I know that reason excites our compassion but faintly, and therefore I would not wonder how men should so little commiserate such imperfect creatures as crayfish, oysters, cockles, and indeed all fish in general: as they are mute, and their inward formation, as well as outward figure, vastly different from ours, they express themselves unintelligibly to us, and therefore it is not strange that their grief should not affect our understanding which it cannot reach; for nothing stirs us to pity so effectually, as when the symptoms of misery strike immediately upon our senses, and I have seen people moved at the noise a live lobster makes upon the spit, that could have killed half a dozen fowls with pleasure. But in such perfect animals as sheep and oxen, in whom the heart, the brain and nerves differ so little from ours, and in whom the separation of the spirits from the blood, the organs of sense, and consequently feeling itself, are the same as they are in human creatures; I cannot imagine how a man not hardened in blood and massacre, is able to see a violent death, and the pangs of it, without concern. In answer to this, most people will think it sufficient to say, that all things being allowed to be made for the service of man, there can be no cruelty in putting creatures to the use they were designed for; but I have heard men make this reply, while their nature within them has reproached them with the falsehood of the assertion. There is of all the multitude not one man in ten but what will own (if he was not brought up in a slaughter-house), that of all trades he could never have been a butcher; and I question whether ever any body so much as killed a chicken without reluctancy the first time. Some people are not to be persuaded to taste of any creatures they have daily seen and been acquainted with, while they were alive; others extend their scruple no further than to their own poultry, and refuse to eat what they fed and took care of themselves; yet all of them will feed heartily and without remorse on beef, mutton, and fowls, when they are bought in the market. In this behaviour, methinks, there appears something like a consciousness of guilt, it looks as if they endeavoured to save themselves from the imputation of a crime (which they know sticks somewhere) by removing the cause of it as far as they can from themselves; and I can discover in it some strong remains of primitive pity and innocence, which all the arbitrary power of custom, and the violence of luxury, have not yet been able to conquer. What I build upon I shall be told is a folly that wise men are not guilty of: I own it; but while it proceeds from a real passion inherent in our nature, it is sufficient to demonstrate, that we are born with a repugnancy to the killing, and consequently the eating of animals; for it is impossible that a natural appetite should ever prompt us to act, or desire others to do, what we have an aversion to, be it as foolish as it will. Every body knows, that surgeons, in the cure of dangerous wounds and fractures, the extirpations of limbs, and other dreadful operations, are often compelled to put their patients to extraordinary torments, and that the more desperate and calamitous cases occur to them, the more the outcries and bodily sufferings of others must become familiar to them; for this reason, our English law, out of a most affectionate regard to the lives of the subject, allows them not to be of any jury upon life and death, as supposing that their practice itself is sufficient to harden and extinguish in them that tenderness, without which no man is capable of setting a true value upon the lives of his fellow-creatures. Now, if we ought to have no concern for what we do to brute beasts, and there was not imagined to be any cruelty in killing them, why should of all callings butchers, and only they, jointly with surgeons, be excluded from being jurymen by the same law? I shall urge nothing of what Pythagoras and many other wise men have said concerning this barbarity of eating flesh; I have gone too much out of my way already, and shall therefore beg the reader, if he would have any more of this, to run over the following fable, or else, if he be tired, to let it alone, with an assurance that in doing of either he shall equally oblige me. A Roman merchant, in one of the Carthaginian wars, was cast away upon the coast of Afric: himself and his slave with great difficulty got safe ashore; but going in quest of relief, were met by a lion of a mighty size. It happened to be one of the breed that ranged in �sop's days, and one that could not only speak several languages, but seemed, moreover, very well acquainted with human affairs. The slave got upon a tree, but his master not thinking himself safe there, and having heard much of the generosity of lions, fell down prostrate before him, with all the signs of fear and submission. The lion who had lately filled his belly, bids him rise, and for a while lay by his fears, assuring him withal, that he should not be touched, if he could give him any tolerable reasons why he should not be devoured. The merchant obeyed; and having now received some glimmering hopes of safety, gave a dismal account of the shipwreck he had suffered, and endeavouring from thence to raise the lion's pity, pleaded his cause with abundance of good rhetoric; but observing by the countenance of the beast, that flattery and fine words made very little impression, he betook himself to arguments of greater solidity, and reasoning from the excellency of man's nature and abilities, remonstrated how improbable it was that the gods should not have designed him for a better use, than to be eat by savage beasts. Upon this the lion became more attentive, and vouchsafed now and then a reply, till at last the following dialogue ensued between them. Oh vain and covetous animal (said the lion), whose pride and avarice can make him leave his native soil, where his natural wants might be plentifully supplied, and try rough seas and dangerous mountains to find out superfluities, why should you esteem your species above ours? And if the gods have given you a superiority over all creatures, then why beg you of an inferior? Our superiority (answered the merchant) consists not in bodily force, but strength of understanding; the gods have endued us with a rational soul, which, though invisible, is much the better part of us. I desire to touch nothing of you but what is good to eat; but why do you value yourself so much upon that part which is invisible? Because it is immortal, and shall meet with rewards after death for the actions of this life, and the just shall enjoy eternal bliss and tranquillity with the heroes and demi-gods in the Elysian fields. What life have you led? I have honoured the gods, and studied to be beneficial to man. Then why do you fear death, if you think the gods as just as you have been? I have a wife and five small children that must come to want if they lose me. I have two whelps that are not big enough to shift for themselves, that are in want now, and must actually be starved if I can provide nothing for them: Your children will be provided for one way or other; at least as well when I have eat you, as if you had been drowned. As to the excellency of either species, the value of things among you has ever increased with the scarcity of them, and to a million of men there is hardly one lion; besides that, in the great veneration man pretends to have for his kind, there is little sincerity farther than it concerns the share which every one's pride has in it for himself; it is a folly to boast of the tenderness shown, and attendance given to your young ones, or the excessive and lasting trouble bestowed in the education of them: Man being born the most necessitous and most helpless animal, this is only an instinct of nature, which, in all creatures, has ever proportioned the care of the parents to the wants and imbecilities of the offspring. But if a man had a real value for his kind, how is it possible that often ten thousand of them, and sometimes ten times as many, should be destroyed in few hours, for the caprice of two? All degrees of men despise those that are inferior to them, and if you could enter into the hearts of kings and princes, you would hardly find any but what have less value for the greatest part of the multitudes they rule over, than those have for the cattle that belong to them. Why should so many pretend to derive their race, though but spuriously, from the immortal gods; why should all of them suffer others to kneel down before them, and more or less take delight in having divine honours paid them, but to insinuate that themselves are of a more exalted nature, and a species superior to that of their subjects? Savage I am, but no creature can be called cruel, but what either by malice or insensibility extinguishes his natural pity: The lion was born without compassion; we follow the instinct of our nature; the gods have appointed us to live upon the waste and spoil of other animals, and as long as we can meet with dead ones, we never hunt after the living. It is only man, mischievous man, that can make death a sport. Nature taught your stomach to crave nothing but vegetables; but your violent fondness to change, and great eagerness after novelties, have prompted you to the destruction of animals without justice or necessity, perverted your nature, and warped your appetites which way soever your pride or luxury have called them. The lion has a ferment within him that consumes the toughest skin and hardest bones, as well as the flesh of all animals without exception: Your squeamish stomach, in which the digestive heat is weak and inconsiderable, will not so much as admit of the most tender parts of them, unless above half the concoction has been performed by artificial fire before hand; and yet what animal have you spared to satisfy the caprices of a languid appetite? Languid I say; for what is man's hunger, if compared to the lion's? Yours, when it is at the worst, makes you faint, mine makes me mad: Oft have I tried with roots and herbs to allay the violence of it, but in vain; nothing but large quantities of flesh can anywise appease it. Yet the fierceness of our hunger notwithstanding, lions have often requited benefits received; but ungrateful and perfidious man feeds on the sheep that clothes him, and spares not her innocent young ones, whom he has taken into his care and custody. If you tell me the gods made man master over all other creatures, what tyranny was it then to destroy them out of wantonness? No, fickle, timorous animal, the gods have made you for society, and designed that millions of you, when well joined together, should compose the strong Leviathan. A single lion bears some sway in the creation, but what is single man? A small and inconsiderable part, a trifling atom of one great beast. What nature designs, she executes; and it is not safe to judge of what she purposed, but from the effects she shows: If she had intended that man, as man from a superiority of species, should lord it over all other animals, the tiger, nay, the whale and eagle would have obeyed his voice. But if your wit and understanding exceeds ours, ought not the lion, in deference to that superiority, to follow the maxims of men, with whom nothing is more sacred, than that the reason of the strongest is ever the most prevalent? Whole multitudes of you have conspired and compassed the destruction of one, after they had owned the gods had made him their superior; and one has often ruined and cut off whole multitudes, whom, by the same gods, he had sworn to defend and maintain. Man never acknowledged superiority without power, and why should I? The excellence I boast of is visible, all animals tremble at the sight of the lion, not out of panic fear. The gods have given me swiftness to overtake, and strength to conquer whatever comes near me. Where is there a creature that has teeth and claws like mine, behold the thickness of these massy jaw-bones, consider the width of them, and feel the firmness of this brawny neck. The nimblest deer, the wildest boar, the stoutest horse, and strongest bull, are my prey wherever I meet them. Thus spoke the lion, and the merchant fainted away. The lion, in my opinion, has stretched the point too far; yet, when to soften the flesh of male animals, we have by castration prevented the firmness their tendons, and every fibre would have come to, without it, I confess, I think it ought to move a human creature, when he reflects upon the cruel care with which they are fattened for destruction. When a large and gentle bullock, after having resisted a ten times greater force of blows than would have killed his murderer, falls stunned at last, and his armed head is fastened to the ground with cords; as soon as the wide wound is made, and the jugulars are cut asunder, what mortal can, without compassion, hear the painful bellowings intercepted by his blood, the bitter sighs that speak the sharpness of his anguish, and the deep sounding groans, with loud anxiety, fetched from the bottom of his strong and palpitating heart; look on the trembling and violent convulsions of his limbs; see, while his reeking gore streams from him, his eyes become dim and languid, and behold his strugglings, gasps, and last efforts for life, the certain signs of his approaching fate? When a creature has given such convincing and undeniable proofs of the terrors upon him, and the pains and agonies he feels, is there a follower of Descartes so inured to blood, as not to refute, by his commiseration, the philosophy of that vain reasoner? Line 307. ----For frugally They now liv'd 'on their salary. When people have small comings in, and are honest withal, it is then that the generality of them begin to be frugal, and not before. Frugality in ethics is called that virtue, from the principle of which men abstain from superfluities, and, despising the operose contrivances of art to procure either ease or pleasure, content themselves with the natural simplicity of things, and are carefully temperate in the enjoyment of them, without any tincture of covetousness. Frugality thus limited, is perhaps scarcer than many may imagine; but what is generally understood by it, is a quality more often to be met with, and consists in a medium between profuseness and avarice, rather leaning to the latter. As this prudent economy, which some people call saving is in private families the most certain method to increase an estate. So some imagine, that whether a country be barren or fruitful, the same method, if generally pursued (which they think practicable), will have the same effect upon a whole nation, and that, for example, the English might be much richer than they are, if they would be as frugal as some of their neighbours. This, I think, is an error, which to prove, I shall first refer the reader to what has been said upon this head in Remark on l. 180. and then go on thus. Experience teaches us first, that as people differ in their views and perceptions of things, so they vary in their inclinations; one man is given to covetousness, another to prodigality, and a third is only saving. Secondly, that men are never, or at least very seldom, reclaimed from their darling passions, either by reason or precept, and that if any thing ever draws them from what they are naturally propense to, it must be a change in their circumstances or their fortunes. If we reflect upon these observations, we shall find, that to render the generality of a nation lavish, the product of the country must be considerable, in proportion to the inhabitants, and what they are profuse of cheap; that, on the contrary, to make a nation generally frugal, the necessaries of life must be scarce, and consequently dear; and that, therefore, let the best politician do what he can, the profuseness or frugality of a people in general, must always depend upon, and will, in spite of his teeth, be ever proportioned to the fruitfulness and product of the country, the number of inhabitants, and the taxes they are to bear. If any body would refute what I have said, let them only prove from history, that there ever was in any country a national frugality without a national necessity. Let us examine then what things are requisite to aggrandize and enrich a nation. The first desirable blessings for any society of men, are a fertile soil, and a happy climate, a mild government, and more land than people. These things will render man easy, loving, honest, and sincere. In this condition they may be as virtuous as they can, without the least injury to the public, and consequently as happy as they please themselves. But they shall have no arts or sciences, or be quiet longer than their neighbours will let them; they must be poor, ignorant, and almost wholly destitute of what we call the comforts of life, and all the cardinal virtues together would not so much as procure a tolerable coat or a porridge-pot among them: for in this state of slothful ease and stupid innocence, as you need not fear great vices, so you must not expect any considerable virtues. Man never exerts himself but when he is roused by his desires: while they lie dormant, and there is nothing to raise them, his excellence and abilities will be for ever undiscovered, and the lumpish machine, without the influence of his passions, may be justly compared to a huge wind-mill without a breath of air. Would you render a society of men strong and powerful, you must touch their passions. Divide the land, though there be never so much to spare, and their possessions will make them covetous: rouse them, though but in jest, from their idleness with praises, and pride will set them to work in earnest: teach them trades and handicrafts, and you will bring envy and emulation among them: to increase their numbers, set up a variety of manufactures, and leave no ground uncultivated; let property be inviolably secured, and privileges equal to all men; suffer nobody to act but what is lawful, and every body to think what he pleases; for a country where every body may be maintained that will be employed, and the other maxims are observed, must always be thronged, and can never want people, as long as there is any in the world. Would you have them bold and warlike, turn to military discipline, make good use of their fear, and flatter their vanity with art and assiduity: but would you, moreover, render them an opulent, knowing, and polite nation, teach them commerce with foreign countries, and, if possible, get into the sea, which to compass spare no labour nor industry, and let no difficulty deter you from it; then promote navigation, cherish the merchant, and encourage trade in every branch of it; this will bring riches, and where they are, arts and sciences will soon follow: and by the help of what I have named and good management, it is that politicians can make a people potent, renowned, and flourishing. But would you have a frugal and honest society, the best policy is to preserve men in their native simplicity, strive not to increase their numbers; let them never be acquainted with strangers or superfluities, but remove, and keep from them every thing that might raise their desires, or improve their understanding. Great wealth, and foreign treasure, will ever scorn to come among men, unless you will admit their inseparable companions, avarice and luxury: where trade is considerable, fraud will intrude. To be at once well-bred and sincere, is no less than a contradiction; and, therefore, while man advances in knowledge, and his manners are polished, we must expect to see, at the same time, his desires enlarged, his appetites refined, and his vices increased. The Dutch may ascribe their present grandeur to the virtue and frugality of their ancestors as they please; but what made that contemptible spot of ground so considerable among the principal powers of Europe, has been their political wisdom in postponing every thing to merchandise and navigation, the unlimited liberty of conscience that is enjoyed among them, and the unwearied application with which they have always made use of the most effectual means to encourage and increase trade in general. They never were noted for frugality before Philip II. of Spain began to rage over them with that unheard of tyranny. Their laws were trampled upon, their rights and large immunities taken from them, and their constitution torn to pieces. Several of their chief nobles were condemned and executed without legal form of process. Complaints and remonstrances were punished as severely as resistance, and those that escaped being massacred, were plundered by ravenous soldiers. As this was intolerable to a people that had always been used to the mildest of governments, and enjoyed greater privileges than any of the neighbouring nations, so they chose rather to die in arms than perish by cruel executioners. If we consider the strength Spain had then, and the low circumstances those distressed states were in, there never was heard of a more unequal strife; yet, such was their fortitude and resolution, that only seven of those provinces, uniting themselves together, maintained against the greatest and best disciplined nation in Europe, the most tedious and bloody war, that is to be met with in ancient or modern history. Rather than to become a victim to the Spanish fury, they were contented to live upon a third part of their revenues, and lay out far the greatest part of their income in defending themselves against their merciless enemies. These hardships and calamities of a war within their bowels, first put them upon that extraordinary frugality; and the continuance under the same difficulties for above fourscore years, could not but render it customary and habitual to them. But all their arts of saving, and penurious way of living, could never have enabled them to make head against so potent an enemy, if their industry in promoting their fishery and navigation in general, had not helped to supply the natural wants and disadvantages they laboured under. The country is so small and so populous, that there is not land enough (though hardly an inch of it is unimproved) to feed the tenth part of the inhabitants. Holland itself is full of large rivers, and lies lower than the sea, which would run over it every tide, and wash it away in one winter, if it was not kept out by vast banks and huge walls: the repairs of those, as well as their sluices, quays, mills, and other necessaries they are forced to make use of to keep themselves from being drowned, are a greater expence to them, one year with another, than could be raised by a general land tax of four shillings in the pound, if to be deducted from the neat produce of the landlord's revenue. Is it a wonder, that people, under such circumstances, and loaden with greater taxes, besides, than any other nation, should be obliged to be saving? but why must they be a pattern to others, who, besides, that they are more happily situated, are much richer within themselves, and have, to the same number of people, above ten times the extent of ground? The Dutch and we often buy and sell at the same markets, and so far our views may be said to be the same: otherwise the interests and political reasons of the two nations, as to the private economy of either, are very different. It is their interest to be frugal, and spend little; because they must have every thing from abroad, except butter, cheese, and fish, and therefore of them, especially the latter, they consume three times the quantity, which the same number of people do here. It is our interest to eat plenty of beef and mutton to maintain the farmer, and further improve our land, of which we have enough to feed ourselves, and as many more, if it was better cultivated. The Dutch perhaps have more shipping, and more ready money than we, but then those are only to be considered as the tools they work with. So a carrier may have more horses than a man of ten times his worth, and a banker that has not above fifteen or sixteen hundred pounds in the world, may have generally more ready cash by him, than a gentleman of two thousand a-year. He that keeps three or four stage-coaches to get his bread, is to a gentleman that keeps a coach for his pleasure, what the Dutch are in comparison to us; having nothing of their own but fish, they are carriers and freighters to the rest of the world, while the basis of our trade chiefly depends upon our own product. Another instance, that what makes the bulk of the people saving, are heavy taxes, scarcity of land, and such things that occasion a dearth of provisions, may be given from what is observable among the Dutch themselves. In the province of Holland there is a vast trade, and an unconceivable treasure of money. The land is almost as rich as dung itself, and (as I have said once already) not an inch of it unimproved. In Gelderland, and Overyssel, there is hardly any trade, and very little money: the soil is very indifferent, and abundance of ground lies waste. Then, what is the reason that the same Dutch, in the two latter provinces, though poorer than the first, are yet less stingy and more hospitable? Nothing but that their taxes in most things are less extravagant, and in proportion to the number of people, they have a great deal more ground. What they save in Holland, they save out of their bellies; it is eatables, drinkables, and fuel, that their heaviest taxes are upon, but they wear better clothes, and have richer furniture, than you will find in the other provinces. Those that are frugal by principle, are so in every thing; but in Holland the people are only sparing in such things as are daily wanted, and soon consumed; in what is lasting they are quite otherwise: in pictures and marble they are profuse; in their buildings and gardens they are extravagant to folly. In other countries, you may meet with stately courts and palaces of great extent, that belong to princes, which nobody can expect in a commonwealth, where so much equality is observed as there is in this; but in all Europe you shall find no private buildings so sumptuously magnificent, as a great many of the merchants and other gentlemen's houses are in Amsterdam, and some other great cities of that small province; and the generality of those that build there, lay out a greater proportion of their estates on houses they dwell in, than any people upon the earth. The nation I speak of was never in greater straits, nor their affairs in a more dismal posture since they were a republic, than in the year 1671, and the beginning of 1672. What we know of their economy and constitution with any certainty, has been chiefly owing to Sir William Temple, whose observations upon their manners and government, it is evident from several passages in his memoirs, were made about that time. The Dutch, indeed, were then very frugal; but since those days, and that their calamities have not been so pressing (though the common people, on whom the principal burden of all excises and impositions lies, are perhaps much as they were), a great alteration has been made among the better sort of people in their equipages, entertainments, and whole manner of living. Those who would have it, that the frugality of that nation flows not so much from necessity, as a general aversion to vice and luxury, will put us in mind of their public administration, and smallness of salaries, their prudence in bargaining for, and buying stores and other necessaries, the great care they take not to be imposed upon by those that serve them, and their severity against them that break their contracts. But what they would ascribe to the virtue and honesty of ministers, is wholly due to their strict regulations, concerning the management of the public treasure, from which their admirable form of government will not suffer them to depart; and indeed one good man may take another's word, if they so agree, but a whole nation ought never to trust to any honesty, but what is built upon necessity; for unhappy is the people, and their constitution will be ever precarious, whose welfare must depend upon the virtues and consciences of ministers and politicians. The Dutch generally endeavour to promote as much frugality among their subjects as it is possible, not because it is a virtue, but because it is, generally speaking, their interest, as I have shown before; for, as this latter changes, so they alter their maxims, as will be plain in the following instance. As soon as their East India ships come home, the Company pays off the men, and many of them receive the greatest part of what they have been earning in seven or eight, or some fifteen or sixteen years time. These poor fellows are encouraged to spend their money with all profuseness imaginable; and considering that most of them, when they set out first, were reprobates, that under the tuition of a strict discipline, and a miserable diet, have been so long kept at hard labour without money, in the midst of danger, it cannot be difficult to make them lavish, as soon as they have plenty. They squander away in wine, women, and music, as much as people of their taste and education are well capable of, and are suffered (so they but abstain from doing of mischief), to revel and riot with greater licentiousness than is customary to be allowed to others. You may in some cities see them accompanied with three or four lewd women, few of them sober, run roaring through the streets by broad day-light with a fiddler before them: And if the money, to their thinking, goes not fast enough these ways, they will find out others, and sometimes fling it among the mob by handfuls. This madness continues in most of them while they have any thing left, which never lasts long, and for this reason, by a nick-name, they are called, Lords of six Weeks, that being generally the time by which the Company has other ships ready to depart; where these infatuated wretches (their money being gone) are forced to enter themselves again, and may have leisure to repent their folly. In this stratagem there is a double policy: First, if the sailors that have been inured to the hot climates and unwholesome air and diet, should be frugal, and stay in their own country, the Company would be continually obliged to employ fresh men, of which (besides that they are not so fit for their business), hardly one in two ever lives in some places of the East Indies, which often would prove great charge as well as disappointment to them. The second is, that the large sums so often distributed among those sailors, are by this means made immediately to circulate throughout the country, from whence, by heavy excises, and other impositions, the greatest part of it is soon drawn back into the public treasure. To convince the champions for national frugality by another argument, that what they urge is impracticable, we will suppose that I am mistaken in every thing which in Remark, l. 180, I have said in behalf of luxury, and the necessity of it to maintain trade: after that let us examine what a general frugality, if it was by art and management to be forced upon people whether they have occasion for it or not, would produce in such a nation as ours. We will grant, then, that all the people in Great Britain shall consume but four-fifths of what they do now, and so lay by one-fifth part of their income; I shall not speak of what influence this would have upon almost every trade, as well as the farmer, the grazier, and the landlord, but favourably suppose (what is yet impossible), that the same work shall be done, and consequently the same handicrafts be employed as there are now. The consequence would be, that unless money should all at once fall prodigiously in value, and every thing else, contrary to reason, grow very dear, at the five years end all the working people, and the poorest of labourers (for I would not meddle with any of the rest), would be worth in ready cash as much as they now spend in a whole year; which, by the bye, would be more money than ever the nation had at once. Let us now, overjoyed with this increase of wealth, take a view of the condition the working people would be in, and, reasoning from experience, and what we daily observe of them, judge what their behaviour would be in such a case. Every body knows that there is a vast number of journeymen weavers, tailors, clothworkers, and twenty other handicrafts, who, if by four days labour in a week they can maintain themselves, will hardly be persuaded to work the fifth; and that there are thousands of labouring men of all sorts, who will, though they can hardly subsist, put themselves to fifty inconveniences, disoblige their masters, pinch their bellies, and run in debt to make holidays. When men show such an extraordinary proclivity to idleness and pleasure, what reason have we to think that they would ever work, unless they were obliged to it by immediate necessity? When we see an artificer that cannot be drove to his work before Tuesday, because the Monday morning he has two shillings left of his last week's pay; why should we imagine he would go to it at all, if he had fifteen or twenty pounds in his pocket? What would, at this rate, become of our manufactures? If the merchant would send cloth abroad, he must make it himself, for the clothier cannot get one man out of twelve that used to work for him. If what I speak of was only to befal the journeymen shoemakers, and nobody else, in less than a twelvemonth, half of us would go barefoot. The chief and most pressing use there is for money in a nation, is to pay the labour of the poor, and when there is a real scarcity of it, those who have a great many workmen to pay, will always feel it first; yet notwithstanding this great necessity of coin, it would be easier, where property was well secured, to live without money, than without poor; for who would do the work? For this reason the quantity of circulating coin in a country, ought always to be proportioned to the number of hands that are employed; and the wages of labourers to the price of provisions. From whence it is demonstrable, that whatever procures plenty, makes labourers cheap, where the poor are well managed; who as they ought to be kept from starving, so they should receive nothing worth saving. If here and there one of the lowest class by uncommon industry, and pinching his belly, lifts himself above the condition he was brought up in, nobody ought to hinder him; nay, it is undeniably the wisest course for every person in the society, and for every private family to be frugal; but it is the interest of all rich nations, that the greatest part of the poor should almost never be idle, and yet continually spend what they get. All men, as Sir William Temple observes very well, are more prone to ease and pleasure than they are to labour, when they are not prompted to it by pride and avarice, and those that get their living by their daily labour, are seldom powerfully influenced by either: so that they have nothing to stir them up to be serviceable but their wants, which it is prudence to relieve, but folly to cure. The only thing, then, that can render the labouring man industrious, is a moderate quantity of money; for as too little will, according as his temper is, either dispirit or make him desperate, so too much will make him insolent and lazy. A man would be laughed at by most people, who should maintain that too much money could undo a nation: yet this has been the fate of Spain; to this the learned Don Diego Savedra ascribes the ruin of his country. The fruits of the earth in former ages had made Spain so rich, that King Lewis XI. of France being come to the court of Toledo, was astonished at its splendour, and said, that he had never seen any thing to be compared to it, either in Europe or Asia; he that in his travels to the Holy Land had run through every province of them. In the kingdom of Castile alone (if we may believe some writers), there were for the holy war, from all parts of the world got together one hundred thousand foot, ten thousand horse, and sixty thousand carriages for baggage, which Alonso III. maintained at his own charge, and paid every day, as well soldiers as officers and princes, every one according to his rank and dignity: nay, down to the reign of Ferdinand and Isabella (who equipped Columbus), and some time after, Spain was a fertile country, where trade and manufactures flourished, and had a knowing industrious people to boast of. But as soon as that mighty treasure, that was obtained with more hazard and cruelty than the world until then had known, and which to come at, by the Spaniard's own confession, had cost the lives of twenty millions of Indians; as soon, I say, as that ocean of treasure came rolling in upon them, it took away their senses, and their industry forsook them. The farmer left his plough, the mechanic his tools, the merchant his compting-house, and every body scorning to work, took his pleasure and turned gentleman. They thought they had reason to value themselves above all their neighbours, and now nothing but the conquest of the world would serve them. The consequence of this has been, that other nations have supplied what their own sloth and pride denied them; and when every body saw, that notwithstanding all the prohibitions the government could make against the exportation of bullion, the Spaniard would part with his money, and bring it you aboard himself at the hazard of his neck, all the world endeavoured to work for Spain. Gold and silver being by this means yearly divided and shared among all the trading countries, have made all things dear, and most nations of Europe industrious, except their owners, who, ever since their mighty acquisitions, sit with their arms across, and wait every year with impatience and anxiety, the arrival of their revenues from abroad, to pay others for what they have spent already: and thus by too much money, the making of colonies and other mismanagements, of which it was the occasion, Spain is, from a fruitful and well-peopled country, with all its mighty titles and possessions, made a barren and empty thoroughfare through which gold and silver pass from America to the rest of the world; and the nation, from a rich, acute, diligent, and laborious, become a slow, idle, proud, and beggarly people: So much for Spain. The next country where money is called the product, is Portugal, and the figure which that kingdom with all its gold makes in Europe, I think is not much to be envied. The great art then to make a nation happy, and what we call flourishing, consists in giving every body an opportunity of being employed; which to compass, let a government's first care be to promote as great a variety of manufactures, arts, and handicrafts, as human wit can invent; and the second, to encourage agriculture and fishery in all their branches, that the whole earth may be forced to exert itself as well as man; for as the one is an infallible maxim to draw vast multitudes of people into a nation, so the other is the only method to maintain them. It is from this policy, and not the trifling regulations of lavishness and frugality (which will ever take their own course, according to the circumstances of the people), that the greatness and felicity of nations must be expected; for let the value of gold and silver either rise or fall, the enjoyment of all societies will ever depend upon the fruits of the earth, and the labour of the people; both which joined together are a more certain, a more inexhaustible, and a more real treasure, than the gold of Brazil, or the silver of Potosi. Line 321. No honour now, &c. Honour, in its figurative sense, is a chimera without truth or being, an invention of moralists and politicians, and signifies a certain principle of virtue not related to religion, found in some men that keeps them close to their duty and engagements whatever they be; as for example, a man of honour enters into a conspiracy with others to murder a king; he is obliged to go thorough stitch with it; and if overcome by remorse or good nature, he startles at the enormity of his purpose, discovers the plot, and turns a witness against his accomplices, he then forfeits his honour, at least among the party he belonged to. The excellency of this principle is, that the vulgar are destitute of it, and it is only to be met with in people of the better sort, as some oranges have kernels, and others not, though the outside be the same. In great families it is like the gout, generally counted hereditary, and all the lords children are born with it. In some that never felt any thing of it, it is acquired by conversation and reading (especially of romances), in others by preferment; but there is nothing that encourages the growth of it more than a sword, and upon the first wearing of one, some people have felt considerable shoots of it in four and twenty hours. The chief and most important care a man of honour ought to have, is the preservation of this principle, and rather than forfeit it, he must lose his employments and estate, nay, life itself; for which reason, whatever humility he may show by way of good-breeding, he is allowed to put an inestimable value upon himself, as a possessor of this invisible ornament. The only method to preserve this principle, is to live up to the rules of honour, which are laws he is to walk by: himself is obliged always to be faithful to his trust, to prefer the public interest to his own, not to tell lies, nor defraud or wrong any body, and from others to suffer no affront, which is a term of art for every action designedly done to undervalue him. The men of ancient honour, of which I reckon Don Quixote to have been the last upon record, were very nice observers of all these laws, and a great many more than I have named; but the moderns seem to be more remiss: they have a profound veneration for the last of them, but they pay not an equal obedience to any of the other; and whoever will but strictly comply with that I hint at, shall have abundance of trespasses against all the rest connived at. A man of honour is always counted impartial, and a man of sense of course; for nobody never heard of a man of honour that was a fool: for this reason, he has nothing to do with the law, and is always allowed to be a judge in his own case; and if the least injury be done either to himself or his friend, his relation, his servant, his dog, or any thing which he is pleased to take under his honourable protection, satisfaction must be forthwith demanded; and if it proves an affront, and he that gave it like wise a man of honour, a battle must ensue. From all this it is evident, that a man of honour must be possessed of courage, and that without it his other principle would be no more than a sword without a point. Let us, therefore, examine what courage consists in, and whether it be, as most people will have it, a real something that valiant men have in their nature distinct from all their other qualities or not. There is nothing so universally sincere upon earth, as the love which all creatures, that are capable of any, bear to themselves; and as there is no love but what implies a care to preserve the thing beloved, so there is nothing more sincere in any creature than his will, wishes, and endeavours, to preserve himself. This is the law of nature, by which no creature is endued with any appetite or passion, but what either directly or indirectly tends to the preservation either of himself or his species. The means by which nature obliges every creature continually to stir in this business of self-preservation, are grafted in him, and, in man, called desires, which either compel him to crave what he thinks will sustain or please him, or command him to avoid what he imagines might displease, hurt, or destroy him. These desires or passions have all their different symptoms by which they manifest themselves to those they disturb, and from that variety of disturbances they make within us, their various denominations have been given them, as has been shown already in pride and shame. The passion that is raised in us when we apprehend that mischief is approaching us, is called fear: the disturbance it makes within us is always more or less violent in proportion, not of the danger, but our apprehension of the mischief dreaded, whether real or imaginary. Our fear then being always proportioned to the apprehension we have of the danger, it follows, that while that apprehension lasts, a man can no more shake off his fear than he can a leg or an arm. In a fright, it is true, the apprehension of danger is so sudden, and attacks us so lively (as sometimes to take away reason and senses), that when it is over we often do not remember we had any apprehension at all; but, from the event, it is plain we had it, for how could we have been frightened if we had not apprehended that some evil or other was coming upon us? Most people are of opinion, that this apprehension is to be conquered by reason, but I confess I am not: Those that have been frightened will tell you, that as soon as they could recollect themselves, that is, make use of their reason, their apprehension was conquered. But this is no conquest at all, for in a fright the danger was either altogether imaginary, or else it is past by that time they can make use of their reason; and therefore if they find there is no danger, it is no wonder that they should not apprehend any: but, when the danger is permanent, let them then make use of their reason, and they will find that it may serve them to examine the greatness and reality of the danger, and that, if they find it less than they imagined, the apprehension will be lessened accordingly; but, if the danger proves real, and the same in every circumstance as they took it to be at first, then their reason, instead of diminishing, will rather increase their apprehension. While this fear lasts, no creature can fight offensively; and yet we see brutes daily fight obstinately, and worry one another to death; so that some other passion must be able to overcome this fear, and the most contrary to it is anger: which, to trace to the bottom, I must beg leave to make another digression. No creature can subsist without food, nor any species of them (I speak of the more perfect animals) continue long unless young ones are continually born as fast as the old ones die. Therefore the first and fiercest appetite that nature has given them is hunger, the next is lust; the one prompting them to procreate, as the other bids them eat. Now, if we observe that anger is that passion which is raised in us when we are crossed or disturbed in our desires, and that, as it sums up all the strength in creatures, so it was given them, that by it they might exert themselves more vigorously in endeavouring to remove, overcome, or destroy whatever obstructs them in the pursuit of self preservation; we shall find that brutes, unless themselves or what they love, or the liberty of either are threatened or attacked, have nothing worth notice that can move them to anger, but hunger or lust. It is they that make them more fierce, for we must observe, that the appetites of creatures are as actually crossed, while they want and cannot meet with what they desire (though perhaps with less violence) as when hindered from enjoying what they have in view. What I have said will appear more plainly, if we but mind what nobody can be ignorant of, which is this: all creatures upon earth live either upon the fruits and product of it, or else the flesh of other animals, their fellow-creatures. The latter, which we call beasts of prey, nature has armed accordingly, and given them weapons and strength to overcome and tear asunder those whom she has designed for their food, and likewise a much keener appetite than to other animals that live upon herbs, &c. For, as to the first, if a cow loved mutton as well as she does grass, being made as she is, and having no claws or talons, and but one row of teeth before, that are all of an equal length, she would be starved even among a flock of sheep. Secondly, as to their voraciousness, if experience did not teach us, our reason might: in the first place, it is highly probable, that the hunger which can make a creature fatigue, harass and expose himself to danger for every bit he eats, is more piercing than that which only bids him eat what stands before him, and which he may have for stooping down. In the second, it is to be considered, that as beasts of prey have an instinct by which they learn to crave, trace, and discover those creatures that are good food for them; so the others have likewise an instinct that teaches them to shun, conceal themselves, and run away from those that hunt after them: from hence it must follow, that beasts of prey, though they could almost eat forever, go yet more often with empty bellies than other creatures, whose victuals neither fly from nor oppose them. This must perpetuate as well as increase their hunger, which hereby becomes a constant fuel to their anger. If you ask me what stirs up this anger in bulls and cocks that will fight to death, and yet are neither animals of prey, nor very voracious, I answer, lust. Those creatures, whose rage proceeds from hunger, both male and female, attack every thing they can master, and fight obstinately against all: But the animals, whose fury is provoked by a venereal ferment, being generally males, exert themselves chiefly against other males of the same species. They may do mischief by chance to other creatures; but the main objects of their hatred are their rivals, and it is against them only that their prowess and fortitude are shown. We see likewise in all those creatures, of which the male is able to satisfy a great number of females, a more considerable superiority in the male, expressed by nature in his make and features, as well as fierceness, than is observed in other creatures, where the male is contented with one or two females. Dogs, though become domestic animals, are ravenous to a proverb, and those of them that will fight being carnivorous, would soon become beasts of prey, if not fed by us; what we may observe in them is an ample proof of what I have hitherto advanced. Those of a true fighting breed, being voracious creatures, both male and female, will fasten upon any thing, and suffer themselves to be killed before they give over. As the female is rather more salacious than the male; so there is no difference in their make at all, what distinguishes the sexes excepted, and the female is rather the fiercest of the two. A bull is a terrible creature when he is kept up, but where he has twenty or more cows to range among, in a little time he will become as tame as any of them, and a dozen hens will spoil the best game cock in England. Harts and deers are counted chaste and timorous creatures, and so indeed they are almost all the year long, except in rutting time, and then on a sudden they become bold to admiration, and often make at the keepers themselves. That the influence of those two principal appetites, hunger and lust, upon the temper of animals, is not so whimsical as some may imagine, may be partly demonstrated from what is observable in ourselves; for, though our hunger is infinitely less violent than that of wolves and other ravenous creatures, yet we see that people who are in health, and have a tolerable stomach, are more fretful, and sooner put out of humour for trifles when they stay for their victuals beyond their usual hours, than at any other time. And again, though lust in man is not so raging as it is in bulls, and other salacious creatures, yet nothing provokes men and women both sooner, and more violently to anger, than what crosses their amours, when they are heartily in love; and the most fearful and tenderly educated of either sex, have slighted the greatest dangers, and set aside all other considerations, to compass the destruction of a rival. Hitherto I have endeavoured to demonstrate, that no creature can fight offensively as long as his fear lasts; that fear cannot be conquered but by another passion; that the most contrary to it, and most effectual to overcome it, is anger; that the two principal appetites which, disappointed, can stir up this last-named passion, are hunger and lust, and that, in all brute beasts, the proneness to anger and obstinacy in fighting, generally depend upon the violence of either or both those appetites together: From whence it must follow, that what we call prowess, or natural courage in creatures, is nothing but the effect of anger, and that all fierce animals must be either very ravenous, or very lustful, if not both. Let us now examine what by this rule we ought to judge of our own species. From the tenderness of man's skin, and the great care that is required for years together to rear him; from the make of his jaws, the evenness of his teeth, the breadth of his nails, and the slightness of both, it is not probable that nature should have designed him for rapine; for this reason his hunger is not voracious as it is in beasts of prey; neither is he so salacious as other animals that are called so, and being besides very industrious to supply his wants, he can have no reigning appetite to perpetuate his anger, and must consequently be a timorous animal. What I have said last must only be understood of man in his savage state; for, if we examine him as a member of a society, and a taught animal, we shall find him quite another creature: As soon as his pride has room to play, and envy, avarice, and ambition begin to catch hold of him, he is roused from his natural innocence and stupidity. As his knowledge increases, his desires are enlarged, and consequently his wants and appetites are multiplied: Hence it must follow, that he will often be crossed in the pursuit of them, and meet with abundance more disappointment to stir up his anger in this than his former condition, and man would in a little time become the most hurtful and obnoxious creature in the world, if let alone, whenever he could over-power his adversary, if he had no mischief to fear but from the person that angered him. The first care, therefore, of all governments is, by severe punishments to curb his anger when it does hurt, and so, by increasing his fears, prevent the mischief it might produce. When various laws to restrain him from using force are strictly executed, self-preservation must teach him to be peaceable; and, as it is every body's business to be as little disturbed as is possible, his fears will be continually augmented and enlarged as he advances in experience, understanding, and foresight. The consequence of this must be, that as the provocations he will receive to anger will be infinite in the civilized state, so his fears to damp it will be the same, and thus, in a little time, he will be taught by his fears to destroy his anger, and by art to consult, in an opposite method, the same self-preservation for which nature before had furnished him with anger, as well as the rest of his passions. The only useful passion, then, that man is possessed of toward the peace and quiet of a society, is his fear, and the more you work upon it the more orderly and governable he will be; for how useful soever anger may be to man, as he is a single creature by himself, yet the society has no manner of occasion for it: But nature being always the same, in the formation of animals, produces all creatures as like to those that beget and bear them, as the place she forms them in, and the various influences from without, will give her leave; and consequently all men, whether they are born in courts or forests, are susceptible of anger. When this passion overcomes (as among all degrees of people it sometimes does) the whole set of fears man has, he has true courage, and will fight as boldly as a lion or a tiger, and at no other time; and I shall endeavour to prove, that whatever is called courage in man, when he is not angry, is spurious and artificial. It is possible, by good government, to keep a society always quiet in itself, but nobody can ensure peace from without for ever. The society may have occasion to extend their limits further, and enlarge their territories, or others may invade theirs, or something else will happen that man must be brought to fight; for how civilized soever men may be, they never forget that force goes beyond reason: The politician now must alter his measures, and take off some of man's fears; he must strive to persuade him, that all what was told him before of the barbarity of killing men ceases, as soon as these men are enemies to the public, and that their adversaries are neither so good nor so strong as themselves. These things well managed will seldom fail of drawing the hardiest, the most quarrelsome, and the most mischievous into combat; but unless they are better qualified, I will not answer for their behaviour there: If once you can make them undervalue their enemies, you may soon stir them up to anger, and while that lasts they will fight with greater obstinacy than any disciplined troops: But if any thing happens that was unforeseen, and a sudden great noise, a tempest, or any strange or uncommon accident that seems to threaten them, intervenes, fear seizes them, disarms their anger, and makes them run away to a man. This natural courage, therefore, as soon as people begin to have more wit, must be soon exploded. In the first place, those that have felt the smart of the enemy's blows, will not always believe what is said to undervalue him, and are often not easily provoked to anger. Secondly, anger consisting in an ebullition of the spirits, is a passion of no long continuance (ira furor brevis est), and the enemies, if they withstand the first shock of these angry people, have commonly the better of it. Thirdly, as long as people are angry, all counsel and discipline are lost upon them, and they can never be brought to use art or conduct in their battles. Anger then, without which no creature has natural courage, being altogether useless in a war to be managed by stratagem, and brought into a regular art, the government must find out an equivalent for courage that will make men fight. Whoever would civilize men, and establish them into a body politic, must be thoroughly acquainted with all the passions and appetites, strength and weaknesses of their frame, and understand how to turn their greatest frailties to the advantage of the public. In the Inquiry into the Origin of Moral Virtue, I have shown how easily men were induced to believe any thing that is said in their praise. If, therefore, a lawgiver or politician, whom they have a great veneration for, should tell them, that the generality of men had within them a principle of valour distinct from anger, or any other passion, that made them to despise danger, and face death itself with intrepidity, and that they who had the most of it were the most valuable of their kind, it is very likely, considering what has been said, that most of them, though they felt nothing of this principle, would swallow it for truth, and that the proudest, feeling themselves moved at this piece of flattery, and not well versed in distinguishing the passions, might imagine that they felt it heaving in their breasts, by mistaking pride for courage. If but one in ten can be persuaded openly to declare, that he is possessed of this principle, and maintain it against all gainsayers, there will soon be half a dozen that shall assert the same. Whoever has once owned it is engaged, the politician has nothing to do but to take all imaginable care to flatter the pride of those that brag of, and are willing to stand by it a thousand different ways: The same pride that drew him in first will ever after oblige him to defend the assertion, till at last the fear of discovering the reality of his heart, comes to be so great, that it outdoes the fear of death itself. Do but increase man's pride, and his fear of shame will ever be proportioned to it: for the greater value a man sets upon himself, the more pains he will take, and the greater hardships he will undergo, to avoid shame. The great art to make man courageous, is first to make him own this principle of valour within, and afterwards to inspire him with as much horror against shame, as nature has given him against death; and that there are things to which man has, or may have, a stronger aversion than he has to death, is evident from suicide. He that makes death his choice, must look upon it as less terrible than what he shuns by it; for whether the evil dreaded be present or to come, real or imaginary, nobody would kill himself wilfully but to avoid something. Lucretia held out bravely against all the attacks of the ravisher, even when he threatened her life; which shows that she valued her virtue beyond it: but when he threatened her reputation with eternal infamy, she fairly surrendered, and then slew herself; a certain sign that she valued her virtue less than her glory, and her life less than either. The fear of death did not make her yield, for she resolved to die before she did it, and her compliance must only be considered as a bribe, to make Tarquin forbear sullying her reputation; so that life had neither the first nor second place in the esteem of Lucretia. The courage, then, which is only useful to the body politic, and what is generally called true valour, is artificial, and consists in a superlative horror against shame, by flattery infused into men of exalted pride. As soon as the notions of honour and shame are received among a society, it is not difficult to make men fight. First, take care they are persuaded of the justice of their cause; for no man fights heartily that thinks himself in the wrong; then show them that their altars, their possessions, wives, children, and every thing that is near and dear to them, is concerned in the present quarrel, or at least may be influenced by it hereafter; then put feathers in their caps, and distinguish them from others, talk of public-spiritedness, the love of their country, facing an enemy with intrepidity, despising death the bed of honour, and such like high-sounding words, and every proud man will take up arms and fight himself to death before we will turn tail, if it be by daylight. One man in an army is a check upon another, and a hundred of them, that single and without witness, would be all cowards, are, for fear of incurring one another's contempt, made valiant by being together. To continue and heighten this artificial courage, all that run away ought to be punished with ignominy; those that fought well, whether they did beat or were beaten, must be flattered and solemnly commended; those that lost their limbs rewarded; and those that were killed, ought, above all to be taken notice of, artfully lamented, and to have extraordinary encomiums bestowed upon them; for to pay honours to the dead, will ever be a sure method to make bubbles of the living. When I say, that the courage made use of in the wars is artificial, I do not imagine that by the same art, all men may be made equally valiant: as men have not an equal share of pride, and differ from one another in shape and inward structure, it is impossible they should be all equally fit for the same uses. Some men will never be able to learn music, and yet make good mathematicians; others will play excellently well upon the violin, and yet be coxcombs as long as they live, let them converse with whom they please. But to show that there is no evasion, I shall prove, that setting aside what I said of artificial courage already, what the greatest heroe differs in from the rankest coward, is altogether corporeal, and depends upon the inward make of man. What I mean is called constitution; by which is understood the orderly or disorderly mixture of the fluids in our body: that constitution which favours courage, consists in the natural strength, elasticity, and due contexture of the finer spirits, and upon them wholly depends what we call stedfastness, resolution, and obstinacy. It is the only ingredient that is common to natural and artificial bravery, and is to either what size is to white walls, which hinders them from coming off, and makes them lasting. That some people are very much, others very little frightened at things that are strange and sudden to them, is likewise altogether owing to the firmness or imbecility in the tone of the spirits. Pride is of no use in a fright, because while it lasts we cannot think, which, being counted a disgrace, is the reason people is always angry with any thing that frightens them, as soon as the surprise is over; and when at the turn of a battle the conquerors give no quarter, and are very cruel, it is a sign their enemies fought well, and had put them first into great fears. That resolution depends upon this tone of the spirits, appears likewise from the effects of strong liquors, the fiery particles whereof crowding into the brain, strengthen the spirits; their operation imitates that of anger, which I said before was an ebullition of the spirits. It is for this reason, that most people when they are in drink, are sooner touched and more prone to anger, than at other times, and some raving mad without any provocation at all. It is likewise observed, that brandy makes men more quarrelsome at the same pitch of drunkenness than wine; because the spirits of distilled waters have abundance of fiery particles mixed with them, which the other has not. The contexture of spirits is so weak in some, that though they have pride enough, no art can ever make them fight, or overcome their fears; but this is a defect in the principle of the fluids, as other deformities are faults of the solids. These pusillanimous people, are never thoroughly provoked to anger, where there is any danger, and drinking makes them bolder, but seldom so resolute as to attack any, unless they be women or children, or such who they know dare not resist. This constitution is often influenced by health and sickness, and impaired by great losses of blood; sometimes it is corrected by diet; and it is this which the Duke de la Rochefoucauld means, when he says: vanity, shame, and above all constitution, make up very often the courage of men, and virtue of women. There is nothing that more improves the useful martial courage I treat of, and at the same time shows it to be artificial, than practice; for when men are disciplined, come to be acquainted with all the tools of death, and engines of destruction, when the shouts, the outcries, the fire and smoke, the grones of wounded, and ghostly looks of dying men, with all the various scenes of mangled carcases and bloody limbs tore off, begin to be familiar to them, their fear abate apace; not that they are now less afraid to die than before, but being used so often to see the same dangers, they apprehend the reality of them less than they did: as they are deservedly valued for every siege they are at, and every battle they are in, it is impossible but the several actions they share in, must continually become as many solid steps by which their pride mounts up; and thus their fear of shame, as I said before, will always be proportioned to their pride, increasing as the apprehension of the danger decreases, it is no wonder that most of them learn to discover little or no fear: and some great generals are able to preserve a presence of mind, and counterfeit a calm serenity within the midst of all the noise, horror, and confusion, that attend a battle. So silly a creature is man, as that, intoxicated with the fumes of vanity, he can feast on the thoughts of the praises that shall be paid his memory in future ages, with so much ecstacy, as to neglect his present life, nay, court and covet death, if he but imagines that it will add to the glory he had acquired before. There is no pitch of self-denial, that a man of pride and constitution cannot reach, nor any passion so violent but he will sacrifice it to another, which is superior to it; and here I cannot but admire at the simplicity of some good men, who, when they hear of the joy and alacrity with which holy men in persecutions have suffered for their faith, imagine that such constancy must exceed all human force, unless it was supported by some miraculous assistance from Heaven. As most people are willing to acknowledge all the frailties of their species, so they are unacquainted with the strength of our nature, and know not that some men of firm constitution may work themselves up into enthusiasm, by no other help than the violence of their passions; yet, it is certain, that there have been men who only assisted with pride and constitution to maintain the worst of causes, have undergone death and torments, with as much cheerfulness as the best of men, animated with piety and devotion, ever did for the true religion. To prove this assertion, I could produce many instances; but one or two will be sufficient. Jordanus Bruno of Nola, who wrote that silly piece of blasphemy, called Spaccio della Bestia triumphante, and the infamous Vanini, were both executed for openly professing and teaching of atheism: the latter might have been pardoned the moment before the execution, if he would have retracted his doctrine; but rather than recant, he chose to be burnt to ashes. As he went to the stake, he was so far from showing any concern, that he held his hand out to a physician whom he happened to know, desiring him to judge of the calmness of his mind by the regularity of his pulse, and from thence taking an opportunity of making an impious comparison, uttered a sentence too execrable to be mentioned. To these we may join one Mahomet Effendi, who, as Sir Paul Ricaut tells us, was put to death at Constantinople, for having advanced some notions against the existence of a God. He likewise might have saved his life by confessing his error, and renouncing it for the future; but chose rather to persist in his blasphemies, saying, "Though he had no reward to expect, the love of truth constrained him to suffer martyrdom in its defence." I have made this digression chiefly to show the strength of human nature, and what mere man may perform by pride and constitution alone. Man may certainly be as violently roused by his vanity, as a lion is by his anger; and not only this, avarice, revenge, ambition, and almost every passion, pity not excepted, when they are extraordinary, may, by overcoming fear, serve him instead of valour, and be mistaken for it even by himself; as daily experience must teach every body that will examine and look into the motives from which some men act. But that we may more clearly perceive what this pretended principle is really built upon, let us look into the management of military affairs, and we shall find that pride is no where so openly encouraged as there. As for clothes, the very lowest of the commission officers have them richer, or at least more gay and splendid, than are generally wore by other people of four or five times their income. Most of them, and especially those that have families, and can hardly subsist, would be very glad, all Europe over, to be less expensive that way; but it is a force put upon them to uphold their pride, which they do not think on. But the ways and means to rouse man's pride, and catch him by it, are nowhere more grossly conspicuous, than in the treatment which the common soldiers receive, whose vanity is to be worked upon (because there must be so many) at the cheapest rate imaginable. Things we are accustomed to we do not mind, or else what mortal that never had seen a soldier, could look without laughing upon a man accoutred with so much paltry gaudiness, and affected finery? The coarsest manufacture that can be made of wool, dyed of a brickdust colour, goes down with him, because it is in imitation of scarlet or crimson cloth; and to make him think himself as like his officer as it is possible, with little or no cost, instead of silver or gold lace, his hat is trimmed with white or yellow worsted, which in others would deserve bedlam; yet these fine allurements, and the noise made upon a calf's skin, have drawn in, and been the destruction of more men in reality, than all the killing eyes and bewitching voices of women ever slew in jest. To-day the swine herd puts on his red coat, and believes every body in earnest that calls him gentleman; and two days after Serjeant Kite gives him a swinging wrap with his cane, for holding his musket an inch higher than he should do. As to the real dignity of the employment, in the two last wars, officers, when recruits were wanted, were allowed to list fellows that were convicted of burglary and other capital crimes, which shows that to be made a soldier is deemed to be a preferment next to hanging. A trooper is yet worse than a foot soldier; for when he is most at ease, he has the mortification of being groom to a horse, that spends more money than himself. When a man reflects on all this, the usage they generally receive from their officers, their pay, and the care that is taken of them, when they are not wanted, must he not wonder how wretches can be so silly as to be proud of being called gentlemen soldiers? Yet if there were not, no art, discipline, or money, would be capable of making them so brave as thousands of them are. If we will mind what effects man's bravery, without any other qualifications to sweeten him, would have out of an army, we shall find that it would be very pernicious to the civil society; for if man could conquer all his fears, you would hear of nothing but rapes, murders, and violences of all sorts, and valiant men would be like giants in romances: politics, therefore, discovered in men a mixed-metal principle, which was a compound of justice, honesty, and all the moral virtues joined to courage, and all that were possessed of it turned knights-errant of course. They did abundance of good throughout the world, by taming monsters, delivering the distressed, and killing the oppressors: but the wings of all the dragons being clipped, the giants destroyed, and the damsels every where set at liberty, except some few in Spain and Italy, who remained still captivated by their monsters, the order of chivalry, to whom the standard of ancient honour belonged, has been laid aside some time. It was like their armours very massy and heavy; the many virtues about it made it very troublesome, and as ages grew wiser and wiser, the principle of honour in the beginning of the last century was melted over again, and brought to a new standard; they put in the same weight of courage, half the quantity of honesty, and a very little justice, but not a scrap of any other virtue, which has made it very easy and portable to what it was. However, such as it is, there would be no living without it in a large nation; it is the tie of society, and though we are beholden to our frailties for the chief ingredient of it, there is no virtue, at least that I am acquainted with, that has been half so instrumental to the civilizing of mankind, who in great societies would soon degenerate into cruel villains and treacherous slaves, were honour to be removed from among them. As to the duelling part which belongs to it, I pity the unfortunate whose lot it is; but to say, that those who are guilty of it go by false rules, or mistake the notions of honour, is ridiculous; for either there is no honour at all, or it teaches men to resent injuries, and accept of challenges. You may as well deny that it is the fashion what you see every body wear, as to say that demanding and giving satisfaction is against the laws of true honour. Those that rail at duelling do not consider the benefit the society receives from that fashion: if every ill-bred fellow might use what language he pleased, without being called to an account for it, all conversation would be spoiled. Some grave people tell us, that the Greeks and Romans were such valiant men, and yet knew nothing of duelling but in their country's quarrel. This is very true, but, for that reason, the kings and princes in Homer gave one another worse language than our porters and hackney coachmen would be able to bear without resentment. Would you hinder duelling, pardon nobody that offends that way, and make the laws as severe as you can, but do not take away the thing itself, the custom of it. This will not only prevent the frequency of it, but likewise, by rendering the most resolute and most powerful cautious and circumspect in their behaviour, polish and brighten society in general. Nothing civilizes a man equally as his fear, and if not all (as my lord Rochester said), at least most men would be cowards if they durst. The dread of being called to an account keeps abundance in awe; and there are thousands of mannerly and well-accomplished gentlemen in Europe, who would have been insolent and insupportable coxcombs without it: besides, if it was out of fashion to ask satisfaction for injuries which the law cannot take hold of, there would be twenty times the mischief done there is now, or else you must have twenty times the constables and other officers to keep the peace. I confess that though it happens but seldom, it is a calamity to the people, and generally the families it falls upon; but there can be no perfect happiness in this world, and all felicity has an allay. The act itself is uncharitable, but when above thirty in a nation destroy themselves in one year, and not half that number are killed by others, I do not think the people can be said to love their neighbours worse than themselves. It is strange that a nation should grudge to see, perhaps, half-a-dozen men sacrificed in a twelvemonth to obtain so valuable a blessing, as the politeness of manners, the pleasure of conversation, and the happiness of company in general, that is often so willing to expose, and sometimes loses as many thousands in a few hours, without knowing whether it will do any good or not. I would have nobody that reflects on the mean original of honour, complain of being gulled and made a property by cunning politicians, but desire every body to be satisfied, that the governors of societies, and those in high stations, are greater bubbles to pride than any of the rest. If some great men had not a superlative pride, and every body understood the enjoyment of life, who would be a lord chancellor of England, a prime minister of state in France, or what gives more fatigue, and not a sixth part of the profit of either, a grand pensionary of Holland? The reciprocal services which all men pay to one another, are the foundation of the society. The great ones are not flattered with their high birth for nothing: it is to rouse their pride, and excite them to glorious actions, that we extol their race, whether it deserves it or not; and some men have been complimented with the greatness of their family, and the merit of their ancestors, when in the whole generation you could not find two but what were uxorious fools, silly biggots, noted poltrons, or debauched whore-masters. The established pride that is inseparable from those that are possessed of titles already, makes them often strive as much not to seem unworthy of them, as the working ambition of others that are yet without, renders them industrious and indefatigable to deserve them. When a gentleman is made a baron or an earl, it is as great a check upon him in many respects, as a gown and cassock are to a young student that has been newly taken into orders. The only thing of weight that can be said against modern honour is, that it is directly opposite to religion. The one bids you bear injuries with patience; the other tells you if you do not resent them, you are not fit to live. Religion commands you to leave all revenge to God; honour bids you trust your revenge to nobody but yourself, even where the law would do it for you: religion plainly forbids murder; honour openly justifies it: religion bids you not shed blood upon any account whatever; honour bids you fight for the least trifle: religion is built on humility, and honour upon pride: how to reconcile them must be left to wiser heads than mine. The reason why there are so few men of real virtue, and so many of real honour, is, because all the recompence a man has of a virtuous action, is the pleasure of doing it, which most people reckon but poor pay; but the self-denial a man of honour submits to in one appetite, is immediately rewarded by the satisfaction he receives from another, and what he abates of his avarice, or any other passion, is doubly repaid to his pride: besides, honour gives large grains of allowance, and virtue none. A man of honour must not cheat or tell a lie; he must punctually repay what he borrows at play, though the creditor has nothing to show for it; but he may drink, and swear, and owe money to all the tradesmen in town, without taking notice of their dunning. A man of honour must be true to his prince and country, while he is in their service; but if he thinks himself not well used, he may quit it, and do them all the mischief he can. A man of honour must never change his religion for interest; but he may be as debauched as he pleases, and never practise any. He must make no attempts upon his friend's wife, daughter, sister, or any body that is trusted to his care; but he may lie with all the world besides. Line 353. No limner for his art is fam'd, Stone-cutters, carvers are not nam'd. It is, without doubt, that among the consequences of a national honesty and frugality, it would be one not to build any new houses, or use new materials as long as there were old ones enough to serve. By this three parts in four, of masons, carpenters, bricklayers, &c. would want employment; and the building trade being once destroyed, what would become of limning, carving, and other arts that are ministering to luxury, and have been carefully forbid by those lawgivers that preferred a good and honest, to a great and wealthy society, and endeavoured to render their subjects rather virtuous than rich. By a law of Lycurgus, it was enacted, that the ceilings of the Spartan houses should only be wrought by the ax, and their gates and doors only smoothed by the saw; and this, says Plutarch, was not without mystery: for if Epaminondas could say with so good a grace, inviting some of his friends to his table: "Come, gentlemen, be secure, treason would never come to such a poor dinner as this:" Why might not this great lawgiver, in all probability, have thought that such ill-favoured houses would never be capable of receiving luxury and superfluity? It is reported, as the same author tells us, that Leotichidas, the first of that name, was so little used to the sight of carved work, that being entertained at Corinth in a stately room, he was much surprised to see the timber and ceiling so finely wrought, and asked his host whether the trees grew so in his country. The same want of employment would reach innumerable callings; and, among the rest, that of the Weavers that join'd rich silk with plate, And all the trades subordinate, (as the fable has it) would be one of the first that should have reason to complain; for the price of land and houses being, by the removal of the vast numbers that had left the hive, sunk very low on the one side, and every body abhorring all other ways of gain, but such as were strictly honest on the other, it is not probable that many without pride or prodigality should be able to wear cloth of gold and silver, or rich brocades. The consequence of which would be, that not only the weaver, but likewise the silver-spinner, the flatter, the wire-drawer, the bar-man, and the refiner, would, in a little time be affected with this frugality. Line 367. ----To live great, Had made her husband rob the state. What our common rogues, when they are going to be hanged, chiefly complain of, as the cause of their untimely end, is, next to the neglect of the Sabbath, their having kept company with ill women, meaning whores; and I do not question, but that among the lesser villains, many venture their necks to indulge and satisfy their low amours. But the words that have given occasion to this remark, may serve to hint to us, that among the great ones, men are often put upon such dangerous projects, and forced into such pernicious measures by their wives, as the most subtle mistress never could have persuaded them to. I have shown already, that the worst of women, and most profligate of the sex, did contribute to the consumption of superfluities, as well as the necessaries of life, and consequently were beneficial to many peaceable drudges, that work hard to maintain their families, and have no worse design than an honest livelihood. Let them be banished, notwithstanding, says a good man: When every strumpet is gone, and the land wholly freed from lewdness, God Almighty will pour such blessings upon it, as will vastly exceed the profits that are now got by harlots. This perhaps would be true; but I can make it evident, that, with or without prostitutes, nothing could make amends, for the detriment trade would sustain, if all those of that sex, who enjoy the happy state of matrimony, should act and behave themselves as a sober wise man could wish them. The variety of work that is performed, and the number of hands employed to gratify the fickleness and luxury of women, is prodigious, and if only the married ones should hearken to reason and just remonstrances, think themselves sufficiently answered with the first refusal, and never ask a second time what had been once denied them: If, I say, married women would do this, and then lay out no money but what their husbands knew, and freely allowed of, the consumption of a thousand things, they now make use of, would be lessened by at least a fourth part. Let us go from house to house, and observe the way of the world only among the middling people, creditable shop-keepers, that spend two or three hundred a-year, and we shall find the women when they have half a score suits of clothes, two or three of them not the worse for wearing, will think it a sufficient plea for new ones, if they can say that they have never a gown or petticoat, but what they have been often seen in, and are known by, especially at church; I do not speak now of profuse extravagant women, but such as are counted prudent and moderate in their desires. If by this pattern we should in proportion judge of the highest ranks, where the richest clothes are but a trifle to their other expences, and not forget the furniture of all sorts, equipages, jewels, and buildings of persons of quality, we should find the fourth part I speak of a vast article in trade, and that the loss of it would be a greater calamity to such a nation as ours, than it is possible to conceive any other, a raging pestilence not excepted: for the death of half a million of people could not cause a tenth part of the disturbance to the kingdom, than the same number of poor unemployed would certainly create, if at once they were to be added to those, that already, one way or other, are a burden to the society. Some few men have a real passion for their wives, and are fond of them without reserve; others that do not care, and have little occasion for women, are yet seemingly uxorious, and love out of vanity; they take delight in a handsome wife, as a coxcomb does in a fine horse, not for the use he makes of it, but because it is his: The pleasure lies in the consciousness of an uncontrolable possession, and what follows from it, the reflection on the mighty thoughts he imagines others to have of his happiness. The men of either sort may be very lavish to their wives, and often preventing their wishes, crowd new clothes, and other finery upon them, faster than they can ask it, but the greatest part are wiser, than to indulge the extravagances of their wives so far, as to give them immediately every thing they are pleased to fancy. It is incredible what vast quantity of trinkets, as well as apparel, are purchased and used by women, which they could never have come at by any other means, than pinching their families, marketing, and other ways of cheating and pilfering from their husbands: Others, by ever teazing their spouses, tire them into compliance, and conquer even obstinate churls by perseverance, and their assiduity of asking: A third sort are outrageous at a denial, and by downright noise and scolding, bully their tame fools out of any thing they have a mind to; while thousands, by the force of wheedling, know how to overcome the best weighed reasons, and the most positive reiterated refusals; the young and beautiful, especially, laugh at all remonstrances and denials, and few of them scruple to employ the most tender minutes of wedlock to promote a sordid interest. Here, had I time, I could inveigh with warmth against those base, those wicked women, who calmly play their arts and false deluding charms against our strength and prudence, and act the harlots with their husbands! Nay, she is worse than whore, who impiously profanes and prostitutes the sacred rites of love to vile ignoble ends; that first excites to passion, and invites to joy with seeming ardour, then racks our fondness for no other purpose than to extort a gift, while full of guile in counterfeited transports, she watches for the moment when men can least deny. I beg pardon for this start out of my way, and desire the experienced reader duly to weigh what has been said as to the main purpose, and after that call to mind the temporal blessings, which men daily hear not only toasted and wished for, when people are merry and doing of nothing; but likewise gravely and solemnly prayed for in churches, and other religious assemblies, by clergymen of all sorts and sizes: And as soon as he shall have laid these things together, and, from what he has observed in the common affairs of life, reasoned upon them consequentially without prejudice, I dare flatter myself, that he will be obliged to own, that a considerable portion of what the prosperity of London and trade in general, and consequently the honour, strength, safety, and all the worldly interest of the nation consist in, depend entirely on the deceit and vile stratagems of women; and that humility, content, meekness, obedience to reasonable husbands, frugality, and all the virtues together, if they were possessed of them in the most eminent degree, could not possibly be a thousandth part so serviceable, to make an opulent, powerful, and what we call a flourishing kingdom, than their most hateful qualities. I do not question, but many of my readers will be startled at this assertion, when they look on the consequences that may be drawn from it; and I shall be asked, whether people may not as well be virtuous in a populous, rich, wide, extended kingdom, as in a small, indigent state or principality, that is poorly inhabited? And if that be impossible, Whether it is not the duty of all sovereigns to reduce their subjects, as to wealth and numbers, as much as they can? If I allow they may, I own myself in the wrong; and if I affirm the other, my tenets will justly be called impious, or at least dangerous to all large societies. As it is not in this place of the book only, but a great many others, that such queries might be made even by a well-meaning reader, I shall here explain myself, and endeavour to solve those difficulties, which several passages might have raised in him, in order to demonstrate the consistency of my opinion to reason, and the strictest morality. I lay down as a first principle, that in all societies, great or small, it is the duty of every member of it to be good, that virtue ought to be encouraged, vice discountenanced, the laws obeyed, and the transgressors punished. After this I affirm, that if we consult history, both ancient and modern, and take a view of what has passed in the world, we shall find that human nature, since the fall of Adam, has always been the same, and that the strength and frailties of it have ever been conspicuous in one part of the globe or other, without any regard to ages, climates, or religion. I never said, nor imagined, that man could not be virtuous as well in a rich and mighty kingdom, as in the most pitiful commonwealth; but I own it is my sense, that no society can be raised into such a rich and mighty kingdom, or so raised, subsist in their wealth and power for any considerable time, without the vices of man. This, I imagine, is sufficiently proved throughout the book; and as human nature still continues the same, as it has always been for so many thousand years, we have no great reason to suspect a future change in it, while the world endures. Now, I cannot see what immorality there is in showing a man the origin and power of those passions, which so often, even unknowingly to himself, hurry him away from his reason; or that there is any impiety in putting him upon his guard against himself, and the secret stratagems of self-love, and teaching him the difference between such actions as proceed from a victory over the passions, and those that are only the result of a conquest which one passion obtains over another; that is, between real and counterfeited virtue. It is an admirable saying of a worthy divine, That though many discoveries have been made in the world of self-love, there is yet abundance of terra incognita left behind. What hurt do I do to man, if I make him more known to himself than he was before? But we are all so desperately in love with flattery, that we can never relish a truth that is mortifying, and I do not believe that the immortality of the soul, a truth broached long before Christianity, would have ever found such a general reception in human capacities as it has, had it not been a pleasing one, that extolled, and was a compliment to the whole species, the meanest and most miserable not excepted. Every one loves to hear the thing well spoke of that he has a share in, even bailiffs, gaol-keepers, and the hangman himself would have you think well of their functions; nay, thieves and house breakers have a greater regard to those of their fraternity, than they have for honest people; and I sincerely believe, that it is chiefly self-love that has gained this little treatise (as it was before the last impression), so many enemies; every one looks upon it as an affront done to himself, because it detracts from the dignity, and lessens the fine notions he had conceived of mankind, the most worshipful company he belongs to. When I say that societies cannot be raised to wealth and power, and the top of earthly glory, without vices, I do not think that, by so saying, I bid men be vicious, any more than I bid them be quarrelsome or covetous, when I affirm that the profession of the law could not be maintained in such numbers and splendor, if there was not abundance of too selfish and litigious people. But as nothing would more clearly demonstrate the falsity of my notions, than that the generality of the people should fall in with them, so I do not expect the approbation of the multitude. I write not to many, nor seek for any well-wishers, but among the few that can think abstractly, and have their minds elevated above the vulgar. If I have shown the way to worldly greatness, I have always, without hesitation, preferred the road that leads to virtue. Would you banish fraud and luxury, prevent profaneness and irreligion, and make the generality of the people charitable, good, and virtuous; break down the printing-presses, melt the founds, and burn all the books in the island, except those at the universities, where they remain unmolested, and suffer no volume in private hands but a Bible: knock down foreign trade, prohibit all commerce with strangers, and permit no ships to go to sea, that ever will return, beyond fisher-boats. Restore to the clergy, the king and the barons their ancient privileges, prerogatives, and professions: build new churches, and convert all the coin you can come at into sacred utensils: erect monasteries and alms-houses in abundance, and let no parish be without a charity-school. Enact sumptuary laws, and let your youth be inured to hardship: inspire them with all the nice and most refined notions of honour and shame, of friendship and of heroism, and introduce among them a great variety of imaginary rewards: then let the clergy preach abstinence and self-denial to others, and take what liberty they please for themselves; let them bear the greatest sway in the management of state-affairs, and no man be made lord-treasurer but a bishop. But by such pious endeavours, and wholesome regulations, the scene would be soon altered; the greatest part of the covetous, the discontented, the restless and ambitious villains, would leave the land; vast swarms of cheating knaves would abandon the city, and be dispersed throughout the country: artificers would learn to hold the plough, merchants turn farmers, and the sinful overgrown Jerusalem, without famine, war, pestilence, or compulsion, be emptied in the most easy manner, and ever after cease to be dreadful to her sovereigns. The happy reformed kingdom would by this means be crowded in no part of it, and every thing necessary for the sustenance of man, be cheap and abound: on the contrary, the root of so many thousand evils, money, would be very scarce, and as little wanted, where every man should enjoy the fruits of his own labour, and our own dear manufacture unmixed, be promiscuously wore by the lord and the peasant. It is impossible, that such a change of circumstances should not influence the manners of a nation, and render them temperate, honest, and sincere; and from the next generation we might reasonably expect a more healthy and robust offspring than the present; an harmless, innocent, and well-meaning people, that would never dispute the doctrine of passive obedience, nor any other orthodox principles, but be submissive to superiors, and unanimous in religious worship. Here I fancy myself interrupted by an Epicure, who, not to want a restorative diet in case of necessity, is never without live ortolans; and I am told that goodness and probity are to be had at a cheaper rate than the ruin of a nation, and the destruction of all the comforts of life; that liberty and property may be maintained without wickedness or fraud, and men be good subjects without being slaves, and religious though they refused to be priest-rid; that to be frugal and saving is a duty incumbent only on those, whose circumstances require it, but that a man of a good estate does his country a service by living up to the income of it; that as to himself, he is so much master of his appetites, that he can abstain from any thing upon occasion; that where true Hermitage was not to be had, he could content himself with plain Bourdeaux, if it had a good body; that many a morning, instead of St. Lawrence, he has made a shift with Fronteniac, and after dinner given Cyprus wine, and even Madeira, when he has had a large company, and thought it extravagant to treat with Tockay; but that all voluntary mortifications are superstitious, only belonging to blind zealots and enthusiasts. He will quote my Lord Shaftsbury against me, and tell me that people may be virtuous and sociable without self-denial; that it is an affront to virtue to make it inaccessible, that I make a bugbear of it to frighten men from it as a thing impracticable; but that for his part he can praise God, and at the same time enjoy his creatures with a good conscience; neither will he forget any thing to his purpose of what I have said, page 66. He will ask me at last, whether the legislature, the wisdom of the nation itself, while they endeavour as much as possible, to discourage profaneness and immorality, and promote the glory of God, do not openly profess, at the same time, to have nothing more at heart, than the ease and welfare of the subject, the wealth, strength, honour, and what else is called the true interest of the country? and, moreover, whether the most devout and most learned of our prelates, in their greatest concern for our conversion, when they beseech the Deity to turn their own as well as our hearts, from the world and all carnal desires, do not in the same prayer as loudly solicit him to pour all earthly blessings and temporal felicity, on the kingdom they belong to? These are the apologies, the excuses, and common pleas, not only of those who are notoriously vicious, but the generality of mankind, when you touch the copy-hold of their inclinations; and trying the real value they have for spirituals, would actually strip them of what their minds are wholly bent upon. Ashamed of the many frailties they feel within, all men endeavour to hide themselves, their ugly nakedness, from each other, and wrapping up the true motives of their hearts, in the specious cloak of sociableness, and their concern for the public good, they are in hopes of concealing their filthy appetites, and the deformity of their desires; while they are conscious within of the fondness for their darling lusts, and their incapacity, bare-faced, to tread the arduous, rugged path of virtue. As to the two last questions, I own they are very puzzling: to what the Epicure asks, I am obliged to answer in the affirmative; and unless I would (which God forbid!) arraign the sincerity of kings, bishops, and the whole legislative power, the objection stands good against me: all I can say for myself is, that in the connection of the facts, there is a mystery past human understanding; and to convince the reader, that this is no evasion, I shall illustrate the incomprehensibility of it in the following parable. In old heathen times, there was, they say, a whimsical country, where the people talked much of religion, and the greatest part, as to outward appearance, seemed really devout: the chief moral evil among them was thirst, and to quench it a damnable sin; yet they unanimously agreed that every one was born thirsty, more or less: small beer in moderation was allowed to all, and he was counted an hypocrite, a cynic, or a madman, who pretended that one could live altogether without it; yet those, who owned they loved it, and drank it to excess, were counted wicked. All this, while the beer itself was reckoned a blessing from Heaven, and there was no harm in the use of it; all the enormity lay in the abuse, the motive of the heart, that made them drink it. He that took the least drop of it to quench his thirst, committed a heinous crime, while others drank large quantities without any guilt, so they did it indifferently, and for no other reason than to mend their complexion. They brewed for other countries as well as their own, and for the small beer they sent abroad, they received large returns of Westphalia-hams, neats tongues, hung-beef, and Bologna sausages, red-herrings, pickled sturgeon, caviar, anchovies, and every thing that was proper to make their liquor go down with pleasure. Those who kept great stores of small beer by them without making use of it, were generally envied, and at the same time very odious to the public, and nobody was easy that had not enough of it come to his own share. The greatest calamity they thought could befal them, was to keep their hops and barley upon their hands, and the more they yearly consumed of them, the more they reckoned the country to flourish. The government had many very wise regulations concerning the returns that were made for their exports, encouraged very much the importation of salt and pepper, and laid heavy duties on every thing that was not well seasoned, and might any ways obstruct the sale of their own hops and barley. Those at helm, when they acted in public, showed themselves on all accounts exempt and wholly divested from thirst, made several laws to prevent the growth of it, and punish the wicked who openly dared to quench it. If you examined them in their private persons, and pryed narrowly into their lives and conversations, they seemed to be more fond, or at least drank larger draughts of small beer than others, but always under pretence that the mending of complexions required greater quantities of liquor in them, than it did in those they ruled over; and that, what they had chiefly at heart, without any regard to themselves, was to procure great plenty of small beer, among the subjects in general, and a great demand for their hops and barley. As nobody was debarred from small beer, the clergy made use of it as well as the laity, and some of them very plentifully; yet all of them desired to be thought less thirsty by their function than others, and never would own that they drank any but to mend their complexions. In their religious assemblies they were more sincere; for as soon as they came there, they all openly confessed, the clergy as well as the laity, from the highest to the lowest, that they were thirsty, that mending their complexions was what they minded the least, and that all their hearts were set upon small beer and quenching their thirst, whatever they might pretend to the contrary. What was remarkable, is, that to have laid hold of those truths to any ones prejudice, and made use of those confessions afterwards out of their temples, would be counted very impertinent, and every body thought it an heinous affront to be called thirsty, though you had seen him drink small beer by whole gallons. The chief topics of their preachers, was the great evil of thirst, and the folly there was in quenching it. They exhorted their hearers to resist the temptations of it, inveighed against small beer, and often told them it was poison, if they drank it with pleasure, or any other design than to mend their complexions. In their acknowledgments to the gods, they thanked them for the plenty of comfortable small beer they had received from them, notwithstanding they had so little deserved it, and continually quenched their thirst with it; whereas, they were so thoroughly satisfied, that it was given them for a better use. Having begged pardon for those offences, they desired the gods to lessen their thirst, and give them strength to resist the importunities of it; yet, in the midst of their sorest repentance, and most humble supplications, they never forgot small beer, and prayed that they might continue to have it in great plenty, with a solemn promise, that how neglectful soever they might hitherto have been in this point, they would for the future not drink a drop of it, with any other design than to mend their complexions. These were standing petitions put together to last; and having continued to be made use of without any alterations, for several hundred years together; it was thought by some, that the gods, who understood futurity, and knew that the same promise they heard in June, would be made to them the January following, did not rely much more on those vows, than we do on those waggish inscriptions by which men offer us their goods; to-day for money, and to-morrow for nothing. They often began their prayers very mystically, and spoke many things in a spiritual sense; yet, they never were so abstract from the world in them, as to end one without beseeching the gods to bless and prosper the brewing trade in all its branches, and for the good of the whole, more and more to increase the consumption of hops and barley. Line 388. Content, the bane of industry. I have been told by many, that the bane of industry is laziness, and not content; therefore to prove my assertion, which seems a paradox to some, I shall treat of laziness and content separately, and afterwards speak of industry, that the reader may judge which it is of the two former, that is opposite to the latter. Laziness is an aversion to business, generally attended with an unreasonable desire of remaining unactive; and every body is lazy, who, without being hindered by any other warrantable employment, refuses or puts off any business which he ought to do for himself or others. We seldom call any body lazy, but such as we reckon inferior to us, and of whom we expect some service. Children do not think their parents lazy, nor servants their masters; and if a gentleman indulges his ease and sloth so abominably, that he will not put on his own shoes, though he is young and slender, nobody shall call him lazy for it, if he can keep but a footman, or some body else to do it for him. Mr. Dryden has given us a very good idea of superlative slothfulness, in the person of a luxurious king of Egypt. His majesty having bestowed some considerable gifts on several of his favourites, is attended by some of his chief ministers with a parchment, which he was to sign to confirm those grants. First, he walks a few turns to and fro, with a heavy uneasiness in his looks, then sets himself down like a man that is tired, and, at last, with abundance of reluctancy to what he was going about, he takes up the pen, and falls a complaining very seriously of the length of the word Ptolemy, and expresses a great deal of concern, that he had not some short monosyllable for his name, which he thought would save him a world of trouble. We often reproach others with laziness, because we are guilty of it ourselves. Some days ago, as two young women sat knotting together, says one to the other, there comes a wicked cold through that door; you are the nearest to it, sister, pray shut it. The other, who was the youngest, vouchsafed, indeed, to cast an eye towards the door, but sat still, and said nothing; the eldest spoke again two or three times, and at last the other making her no answer, nor offering to stir, she got up in a pet, and shut the door herself; coming back to sit down again, she gave the younger a very hard look; and said, Lord, sister Betty, I would not be so lazy as you are for all the world; which she spoke so earnestly, that it brought a colour in her face. The youngest should have risen, I own; but if the eldest had not overvalued her labour, she would have shut the door herself, as soon as the cold was offensive to her, without making any words of it. She was not above a step farther from the door than her sister, and as to age, there was not eleven months difference between them, and they were both under twenty. I thought it a hard matter to determine which was the laziest of the two. There are a thousand wretches that are always working the marrow out of their bones for next to nothing, because they are unthinking and ignorant of what the pains they take are worth: while others who are cunning, and understand the true value of their work, refuse to be employed at under rates, not because they are of an unactive temper, but because they will not beat down the price of their labour. A country gentleman sees at the back side of the Exchange a porter walking to and fro with his hands in his pockets. Pray, says he, friend, will you step for me with this letter as far as Bow-church, and I will give you a penny? I will go with all my heart, says the other, but I must have twopence, master; which the gentleman refusing to give, the fellow turned his back, and told him, he would rather play for nothing than work for nothing. The gentleman thought it an unaccountable piece of laziness in a porter, rather to saunter up and down for nothing, than to be earning a penny with as little trouble. Some hours after he happened to be with some friends at a tavern in Threadneedle-street, where one of them calling to mind that he had forgot to send for a bill of exchange that was to go away with the post that night, was in great perplexity, and immediately wanted some body to go for him to Hackney with all the speed imaginable. It was after ten, in the middle of winter, a very rainy night, and all the porters thereabouts were gone to bed. The gentleman grew very uneasy, and said, whatever it cost him, that somebody he must send; at last one of the drawers seeing him so very pressing, told him that he knew a porter, who would rise, if it was a job worth his while. Worth his while, said the gentleman very eagerly, do not doubt of that, good lad, if you know of any body, let him make what haste he can, and I will give him a crown if he be back by twelve o'clock. Upon this the drawer took the errand, left the room, and in less than a quarter of an hour, came back with the welcome news that the message would be dispatched with all expedition. The company in the mean time, diverted themselves as they had done before; but when it began to be towards twelve, the watches were pulled out, and the porter's return was all the discourse. Some were of opinion he might yet come before the clock had struck; others thought it impossible, and now it wanted but three minutes of twelve, when in comes the nimble messenger smoking hot, with his clothes as wet as dung with the rain, and his head all over in a bath of sweat. He had nothing dry about him but the inside of his pocket-book, out of which he took the bill he had been for, and by the drawer's direction, presented it to the gentleman it belonged to; who, being very well pleased with the dispatch he had made, gave him the crown he had promised, while another filled him a bumper, and the whole company commended his diligence. As the fellow came nearer the light, to take up the wine, the country gentleman I mentioned at first, to his great admiration, knew him to be the same porter that had refused to earn his penny, and whom he thought the laziest mortal alive. The story teaches us, that we ought not to confound those who remain unemployed for want of an opportunity of exerting themselves to the best advantage, with such as for want of spirit, hug themselves in their sloth, and will rather starve than stir. Without this caution, we must pronounce all the world more or less lazy, according to their estimation of the reward they are to purchase with their labour, and then the most industrious may be called lazy. Content, I call that calm serenity of the mind, which men enjoy while they think themselves happy, and rest satisfied with the station they are in: It implies a favourable construction of our present circumstances, and a peaceful tranquillity, which men are strangers to as long as they are solicitous about mending their condition. This is a virtue of which the applause is very precarious and uncertain: for, according as mens circumstances vary, they will either be blamed or commended for being possessed of it. A single man that works hard at a laborious trade, has a hundred a year left him by a relation: this change of fortune makes him soon weary of working, and not having industry enough to put himself forward in the world, he resolves to do nothing at all, and live upon his income. As long as he lives within compass, pays for what he has, and offends nobody, he shall be called an honest quiet man. The victualler, his landlady, the tailor, and others, divide what he has between them, and the society is every year the better for his revenue; whereas, if he should follow his own or any other trade, he must hinder others, and some body would have the less for what he should get; and therefore, though he should be the idlest fellow in the world, lie a-bed fifteen hours in four and twenty, and do nothing but sauntering up and down all the rest of the time, nobody would discommend him, and his unactive spirit is honoured with the name of content. But if the same man marries, gets three or four children, and still continues of the same easy temper, rests satisfied with what he has, and without endeavouring to get a penny, indulges his former sloth: first, his relations, afterwards, all his acquaintance, will be alarmed at his negligence: they foresee that his income will not be sufficient to bring up so many children handsomely, and are afraid, some of them may, if not a burden, become a disgrace to them. When these fears have been, for some time, whispered about from one to another, his uncle Gripe takes him to task, and accosts him in the following cant: "What, nephew, no business yet! fie upon it! I cannot imagine how you do to spend your time; if you will not work at your own trade, there are fifty ways that a man may pick up a penny by: you have a hundred a-year, it is true, but your charges increase every year, and what must you do when your children are grown up? I have a better estate than you myself, and yet you do not see me leave off my business; nay, I declare it, might I have the world I could not lead the life you do. It is no business of mine, I own, but every body cries, it is a shame for a young man, as you are, that has his limbs and his health, should not turn his hands to something or other." If these admonitions do not reform him in a little time, and he continues half-a-year longer without employment, he will become a discourse to the whole neighbourhood, and for the same qualifications that once got him the name of a quiet contented man, he shall be called the worst of husbands, and the laziest fellow upon earth: from whence it is manifest, that when we pronounce actions good or evil, we only regard the hurt or benefit the society receives from them, and not the person who commits them. (See page 17.) Diligence and industry are often used promiscuously, to signify the same thing, but there is a great difference between them. A poor wretch may want neither diligence nor ingenuity, be a saving pains-taking man, and yet without striving to mend his circumstances, remain contented with the station he lives in; but industry implies, besides the other qualities, a thirst after gain, and an indefatigable desire of meliorating our condition. When men think either the customary profits of their calling, or else the share of business they have too small, they have two ways to deserve the name of industrious; and they must be either ingenious enough to find out uncommon, and yet warrantable methods to increase their business or their profit, or else supply that defect by a multiplicity of occupations. If a tradesman takes care to provide his shop, and gives due attendance to those that come to it, he is a diligent man in his business; but if, besides that, he takes particular pains to sell, to the same advantage, a better commodity than the rest of his neighbours, or if, by his obsequiousness, or some other good quality, getting into a large acquaintance, he uses all possible endeavours of drawing customers to his house, he then may be called industrious. A cobbler, though he is not employed half of his time, if he neglects no business, and makes dispatch when he has any, is a diligent man; but if he runs of errands when he has no work, or makes but shoe-pins, and serves as a watchman a-nights, he deserves the name of industrious. If what has been said in this remark be duly weighed, we shall find either, that laziness and content are very near a-kin, or, if there be a great difference between them, that the latter is more contrary to industry than the former. Line 410. To make a great and honest hive. This perhaps might be done where people are contented to be poor and hardy; but if they would likewise enjoy their ease and the comforts of the world, and be at once an opulent, potent, and flourishing, as well as a warlike nation, it is utterly impossible. I have heard people speak of the mighty figure the Spartans made above all the commonwealths of Greece, notwithstanding their uncommon frugality and other exemplary virtues. But certainly there never was a nation whose greatness was more empty than theirs: The splendor they lived in was inferior to that of a theatre, and the only thing they could be proud of, was, that they enjoyed nothing. They were, indeed, both feared and esteemed abroad: they were so famed for valour and skill in martial affairs, that their neighbours did not only court their friendship and assistance in their wars, but were satisfied, and thought themselves sure of the victory, if they could but get a Spartan general to command their armies. But then their discipline was so rigid, and their manner of living so austere and void of all comfort, that the most temperate man among us would refuse to submit to the harshness of such uncouth laws. There was a perfect equality among them: gold and silver coin were cried down; their current money was made of iron, to render it of a great bulk, and little worth: To lay up twenty or thirty pounds, required a pretty large chamber, and to remove it, nothing less than a yoke of oxen. Another remedy they had against luxury, was, that they were obliged to eat in common of the same meat, and they so little allowed any body to dine, or sup by himself at home, that Agis, one of their kings, having vanquished the Athenians, and sending for his commons at his return home (because he desired privately to eat with his queen) was refused by the Polemarchi. In training up their youth, their chief care, says Plutarch, was to make them good subjects, to fit them to endure the fatigues of long and tedious marches, and never to return without victory from the field. When they were twelve years old, they lodged in little bands, upon beds made of the rushes, which grew by the banks of the river Eurotas; and because their points were sharp, they were to break them off with their hands without a knife: If it were a hard winter, they mingled some thistle-down with their rushes to keep them warm (see Plutarch in the life of Lycurgus.) From all these circumstances it is plain, that no nation on earth was less effeminate; but being debarred from all the comforts of life, they could have nothing for their pains, but the glory of being a warlike people, inured to toils and hardships, which was a happiness that few people would have cared for upon the same terms: and, though they had been masters of the world, as long as they enjoyed no more of it, Englishmen would hardly have envied them their greatness. What men want now-a-days has sufficiently been shewn in Remark on line 200, where I have treated of real pleasures. Line 411. T' enjoy the world's conveniencies. That the words, decency and conveniency, were very ambiguous, and not to be understood, unless we were acquainted with the quality and circumstances of the persons that made use of them, has been hinted already in Remark on line 177. The goldsmith, mercer, or any other of the most creditable shopkeepers, that has three or four thousand pounds to set up with, must have two dishes of meat every day, and something extraordinary for Sundays. His wife must have a damask bed against her lying-in, and two or three rooms very well furnished: the following summer she must have a house, or at least very good lodgings in the country. A man that has a being out of town, must have a horse; his footman must have another. If he has a tolerable trade, he expects in eight or ten years time to keep his coach, which, notwithstanding, he hopes, that after he has slaved (as he calls it) for two or three and twenty years, he shall be worth at least a thousand a-year for his eldest son to inherit, and two or three thousand pounds for each of his other children to begin the world with; and when men of such circumstances pray for their daily bread, and mean nothing more extravagant by it, they are counted pretty modest people. Call this pride, luxury, superfluity, or what you please, it is nothing but what ought to be in the capital of a flourishing nation: those of inferior condition must content themselves with less costly conveniencies, as others of higher rank will be sure to make theirs more expensive. Some people call it but decency to be served in plate, and reckon a coach and six among the necessary comforts of life; and if a peer has not above three or four thousand a-year, his lordship is counted poor. Since the first edition of this book, several have attacked me with demonstrations of the certain ruin, which excessive luxury must bring upon all nations, who yet were soon answered, when I showed them the limits within which I had confined it; and therefore, that no reader for the future may misconstrue me on this head, I shall point at the cautions I have given, and the provisos I have made in the former, as well as this present impression, and which, if not overlooked, must prevent all rational censure, and obviate several objections that otherwise might be made against me. I have laid down as maxims never to be departed from, that the [3] poor should be kept strictly to work, and that it was prudence to relieve their wants, but folly to cure them; that agriculture [4] and fishery should be promoted in all their branches, in order to render provisions, and consequently labour cheap. I have named [5] ignorance as a necessary ingredient in the mixture of society: from all which it is manifest that I could never have imagined, that luxury was to be made general through every part of a kingdom. I have likewise required [6] that property should be well secured, justice impartially administered, and in every thing the interest of the nation taken care of: but what I have insisted on the most, and repeated more than once, is the great regard that is to be had to the balance of trade, and the care the legislature ought to take, that the yearly [7] imports never exceed the exports; and where this is observed, and the other things I spoke of are not neglected, I still continue to assert that no foreign luxury can undo a country: the height of it is never seen but in nations that are vastly populous, and there only in the upper part of it, and the greater, that is, the larger still in proportion must be the lowest, the basis that supports all, the multitude of working poor. Those who would too nearly imitate others of superior fortune, must thank themselves if they are ruined. This is nothing against luxury; for whoever can subsist, and lives above his income is a fool. Some persons of quality may keep three or four coaches and six, and at the same time lay up money for their children: while a young shopkeeper is undone for keeping one sorry horse. It is impossible there should be a rich nation without prodigals, yet I never knew a city so full of spendthrifts, but there were covetous people enough to answer their number. As an old merchant breaks for having been extravagant or careless a great while, so a young beginner falling into the same business, gets an estate by being saving or more industrious before he is forty years old: besides, that the frailties of men often work by contraries: some narrow souls can never thrive because they are too stingy, while longer heads amass great wealth by spending their money freely, and seeming to despise it. But the vicissitudes of fortune are necessary, and the most lamentable are no more detrimental to society, than the death of the individual members of it. Christenings are a proper balance to burials. Those who immediately lose by the misfortunes of others, are very sorry, complain, and make a noise; but the others who get by them, as there always are such, hold their tongues, because it is odious to be thought the better for the losses and calamities of our neighbour. The various ups and downs compose a wheel, that always turning round, gives motion to the whole machine. Philosophers, that dare extend their thoughts beyond the narrow compass of what is immediately before them, look on the alternate changes in the civil society, no otherwise than they do on the risings and fallings of the lungs; the latter of which are much a part of respiration in the most perfect animals as the first; so that the fickle breath of never-stable fortune is to the body politic, the same as floating air is to a living creature. Avarice then, and prodigality, are equally necessary to the society. That in some countries, men are most generally lavish than in others, proceeds from the difference in circumstances that dispose to either vice, and arise from the condition of the social body, as well as the temperament of the natural. I beg pardon of the attentive reader, if here, in behalf of short memories, I repeat some things, the substance of which they have already seen in Remark, line 307. More money than land, heavy taxes and scarcity of provisions, industry, laboriousness, an active and stirring spirit, ill-nature, and saturnine temper; old age, wisdom, trade, riches, acquired by our own labour, and liberty and property well secured, are all things that dispose to avarice. On the contrary, indolence, content, good-nature, a jovial temper, youth, folly, arbitrary power, money easily got, plenty of provisions and the uncertainty of possessions, are circumstances that render men prone to prodigality: where there is the most of the first, the prevailing vice will be avarice, and prodigality where the other turns the scale; but a national frugality there never was nor never will be without a national necessity. Sumptuary laws, may be of use to an indigent country, after great calamities of war, pestilence, or famine, when work has stood still, and the labour of the poor been interrupted; but to introduce them into an opulent kingdom, is the wrong way to consult the interest of it. I shall end my remarks on the Grumbling-Hive, with assuring the champions of national frugality, that it would be impossible for the Persians and other eastern people, to purchase the vast quantities of fine English cloth they consume, should we load our women with less cargoes of Asiatic silks. AN ESSAY ON CHARITY, AND CHARITY-SCHOOLS. Charity, is that virtue by which part of that sincere love we have for ourselves, is transferred pure and unmixed to others, not tied to us by the bonds of friendship or consanguinity, and even mere strangers, whom we have no obligation to, nor hope or expect any thing from. If we lessen any ways the rigour of this definition, part of the virtue must be lost. What we do for our friends and kindred, we do partly for ourselves: when a man acts in behalf of nephews or nieces, and says they are my brother's children, I do it out of charity; he deceives you: for if he is capable, it is expected from him, and he does it partly for his own sake: if he values the esteem of the world, and is nice as to honour and reputation, he is obliged to have a greater regard to them than for strangers, or else he must suffer in his character. The exercise of this virtue, relates either to opinion, or to action, and is manifested in what we think of others, or what we do for them. To be charitable, then, in the first place, we ought to put the best construction on all that others do or say, that things are capable of. If a man builds a fine house, though he has not one symptom of humility, furnishes it richly, and lays out a good estate in plate and pictures, we ought not to think that he does it out of vanity, but to encourage artists, employ hands, and set the poor to work for the good of his country: and if a man sleeps at church, so he does not snore, we ought to think he shuts his eyes to increase his attention. The reason is, because in our turn we desire that our utmost avarice should pass for frugality; and that for religion, which we know to be hypocrisy. Secondly, that virtue is conspicuous in us, when we bestow our time and labour for nothing, or employ our credit with others, in behalf of those who stand in need of it, and yet could not expect such an assistance from our friendship or nearness of blood. The last branch of charity consists in giving away (while we are alive) what we value ourselves, to such as I have already named; being contented rather to have and enjoy less, than not relieve those who want, and shall be the objects of our choice. This virtue is often counterfeited by a passion of ours, called Pity or Compassion, which consists in a fellow-feeling and condolence for the misfortunes and calamities of others: all mankind are more or less affected with it; but the weakest minds generally the most. It is raised in us, when the sufferings and misery of other creatures make so forcible an impression upon us, as to make us uneasy. It comes in either at the eye, or ear, or both; and the nearer and more violently the object of compassion strikes those senses, the greater disturbance it causes in us, often to such a degree, as to occasion great pain and anxiety. Should any of us be locked up in a ground-room, where in a yard joining to it, there was a thriving good humoured child at play, of two or three years old, so near us that through the grates of the window we could almost touch it with our hand; and if while we took delight in the harmless diversion, and imperfect prittle-prattle of the innocent babe, a nasty overgrown sow should come in upon the child, set it a screaming, and frighten it out of its wits; it is natural to think, that this would make us uneasy, and that with crying out, and making all the menacing noise we could, we should endeavour to drive the sow away. But if this should happen to be an half-starved creature, that, mad with hunger, went roaming about in quest of food, and we should behold the ravenous brute, in spite of our cries, and all the threatening gestures we could think of, actually lay hold of the helpless infant, destroy and devour it; to see her widely open her destructive jaws, and the poor lamb beat down with greedy haste; to look on the defenceless posture of tender limbs first trampled on, then tore asunder; to see the filthy snout digging in the yet living entrails, suck up the smoking blood, and now and then to hear the crackling of the bones, and the cruel animal with savage pleasure grunt over the horrid banquet; to hear and see all this, what tortures would it give the soul beyond expression! let me see the most shining virtue the moralists have to boast of, so manifest either to the person possessed of it, or those who behold his actions: let me see courage, or the love of ones country so apparent without any mixture, cleared and distinct, the first from pride and anger, the other from the love of glory, and every shadow of self-interest, as this pity would be cleared and distinct from all other passions. There would be no need of virtue or self-denial to be moved at such a scene; and not only a man of humanity, of good morals and commiseration, but likewise an highwayman, an house-breaker, or a murderer could feel anxieties on such an occasion; how calamitous soever a man's circumstances might be, he would forget his misfortunes for the time, and the most troublesome passion would give way to pity, and not one of the species has a heart so obdurate or engaged, that it would not ache at such a sight, as no language has an epithet to fit it. Many will wonder at what I have said of pity, that it comes in at the eye or ear, but the truth of this will be known when we consider that the nearer the object is, the more we suffer, and the more remote it is, the less we are troubled with it. To see people executed for crimes, if it is a great way off, moves us but little, in comparison to what it does when we are near enough to see the motion of the soul in their eyes, observe their fears and agonies, and are able to read the pangs in every feature of the face. When the object is quite removed from our senses, the relation of the calamities or the reading of them, can never raise in us the passion called pity. We may be concerned at bad news, the loss and misfortunes of friends and those whose cause we espouse, but this is not pity, but grief or sorrow; the same as we feel for the death of those we love, or the destruction of what we value. When we hear that three or four thousand men, all strangers to us, are killed with the sword, or forced into some river where they are drowned, we say, and perhaps believe, that we pity them. It is humanity bids us have compassion with the sufferings of others; and reason tells us, that whether a thing be far off or done in our sight, our sentiments concerning it ought to be the same, and we should be ashamed to own, that we felt no commiseration in us when any thing requires it. He is a cruel man, he has no bowels of compassion; all these things are the effects of reason and humanity, but nature makes no compliments; when the object does not strike, the body does not feel it; and when men talk of pitying people out of sight, they are to be believed in the same manner as when they say, that they are our humble servants. In paying the usual civilities at first meeting, those who do not see one another every day, are often very glad and very sorry alternately, for five or six times together, in less than two minutes, and yet at parting carry away not a jot more of grief or joy than they met with. The same it is with pity, and it is a choice no more than fear or anger. Those who have a strong and lively imagination, and can make representations of things in their minds, as they would be if they were actually before them, may work themselves up into something that resembles compassion; but this is done by art, and often the help of a little enthusiasm, and is only an imitation of pity; the heart feels little of it, and it is as faint as what we suffer at the acting of a tragedy; where our judgment leaves part of the mind uninformed, and to indulge a lazy wantonness, suffers it to be led into an error, which is necessary to have a passion raised, the slight strokes of which are not unpleasant to us, when the soul is in an idle unactive humour. As pity is often by ourselves and in our own cases mistaken for charity, so it assumes the shape, and borrows the very name of it; a beggar asks you to exert that virtue for Jesus Christ's sake, but all the while his great design is to raise your pity. He represents to your view the first side of his ailments and bodily infirmities; in chosen words he gives you an epitome of his calamities, real or fictitious; and while he seems to pray God that he will open your heart, he is actually at work upon your ears; the greatest profligate of them flies to religion for aid, and assists his cant with a doleful tone, and a studied dismality of gestures: but he trusts not to one passion only, he flatters your pride with titles and names of honour and distinction; your avarice he sooths with often repeating to you the smallness of the gift he sues for, and conditional promises of future returns, with an interest extravagant beyond the statute of usury, though out of the reach of it. People not used to great cities, being thus attacked on all sides, are commonly forced to yield, and cannot help giving something though they can hardly spare it themselves. How oddly are we managed by self-love! It is ever watching in our defence, and yet, to sooth a predominant passion, obliges us to act against our interest: for when pity seizes us, if we can but imagine, that we contribute to the relief of him we have compassion with, and are instrumental to the lessening of his sorrows, it eases us, and therefore pitiful people often give an alms, when they really feel that they would rather not. When sores are very bare, or seem otherwise afflicting in an extraordinary manner, and the beggar can bear to have them exposed to the cold air, it is very shocking to some people; it is a shame, they cry, such sights should be suffered; the main reason is, it touches their pity feelingly, and at the same time they are resolved, either because they are covetous, or count it an idle expence, to give nothing, which makes them more uneasy. They turn their eyes, and where the cries are dismal, some would willingly stop their ears if they were not ashamed. What they can do is to mend their pace, and be very angry in their hearts that beggars should be about the streets. But it is with pity as it is with fear, the more we are conversant with objects that excite either passion, the less we are disturbed by them, and those to whom all these scenes and tones are by custom made familiar, they make little impression upon. The only thing the industrious beggar has left to conquer those fortified hearts, if he can walk either with or without crutches, is to follow close, and with uninterrupted noise teaze and importune them, to try if he can make them buy their peace. Thus thousands give money to beggars from the same motive as they pay their corn-cutter, to walk easy. And many a halfpenny is given to impudent and designedly persecuting rascals, whom, if it could be done handsomely, a man would cane with much greater satisfaction. Yet all this, by the courtesy of the country, is called charity. The reverse of pity is malice: I have spoke of it where I treat of envy. Those who know what it is to examine themselves, will soon own that it is very difficult to trace the root and origin of this passion. It is one of those we are most ashamed of, and therefore the hurtful part of it is easily subdued and corrected by a judicious education. When any body near us stumbles, it is natural even before reflection, to stretch out our hands to hinder, or at least break the fall, which shows that while we are calm we are rather bent to pity. But though malice by itself is little to be feared, yet assisted with pride it is often mischievous, and becomes most terrible when egged on and heightened by anger. There is nothing that more readily or more effectually extinguishes pity than this mixture, which is called cruelty: from whence we may learn, that to perform a meritorious action, it is not sufficient barely to conquer a passion, unless it likewise be done from a laudable principle, and consequently how necessary that clause was in the definition of virtue, that our endeavours were to proceed from a rational ambition of being good. Pity, as I have said somewhere else, is the most amiable of all our passions, and there are not many occasions, on which we ought to conquer or curb it. A surgeon may be as compassionate as he pleases, so it does not make him omit or forbear to perform what he ought to do. Judges likewise, and juries, may be influenced with pity, if they take care that plain laws and justice itself are not infringed, and do not suffer by it. No pity does more mischief in the world, than what is excited by the tenderness of parents, and hinders them from managing their children, as their rational love to them would require, and themselves could wish it. The sway likewise which this passion bears in the affections of women, is more considerable than is commonly imagined, and they daily commit faults that are altogether ascribed to lust, and yet are in a great measure owing to pity. What I named last is not the only passion that mocks and resembles charity; pride and vanity have built more hospitals than all the virtues together. Men are so tenacious of their possessions, and selfishness is so riveted in our nature, that whoever can but any ways conquer it shall have the applause of the public, and all the encouragement imaginable to conceal his frailty, and sooth any other appetite he shall have a mind to indulge. The man that supplies, with his private fortune, what the whole must otherwise have provided for, obliges every member of the society, and, therefore, all the world are ready to pay him their acknowledgment, and think themselves in duty bound to pronounce all such actions virtuous, without examining, or so much as looking into the motives from which they were performed. Nothing is more destructive to virtue or religion itself, than to make men believe, that giving money to the poor, though they should not part with it till after death, will make a full atonement in the next world, for the sins they have committed in this. A villain, who has been guilty of a barbarous murder, may, by the help of false witnesses, escape the punishment he deserved: he prospers, we will say, heaps up great wealth, and, by the advice of his father confessor, leaves all his estate to a monastery, and his children beggars. What fine amends has this good Christian made for his crime, and what an honest man was the priest who directed his conscience? He who parts with all he has in his life-time, whatever principle he acts from, only gives away what was his own; but the rich miser who refuses to assist his nearest relations while he is alive, though they never designedly disobliged him, and disposes of his money, for what we call charitable uses, after his death, may imagine of his goodness what he pleases, but he robs his posterity. I am now thinking of a late instance of charity, a prodigious gift, that has made a great noise in the world: I have a mind to set it in the light I think it deserves, and beg leave, for once, to please pedants, to treat it somewhat rhetorically. That a man, with small skill in physic, and hardly any learning, should, by vile arts, get into practice, and lay up great wealth, is no mighty wonder; but, that he should so deeply work himself into the good opinion of the world as to gain the general esteem of a nation, and establish a reputation beyond all his contemporaries, with no other qualities but a perfect knowledge of mankind, and a capacity of making the most of it, is something extraordinary. If a man arrived to such a height of glory should be almost distracted with pride, sometime give his attendance on a servant or any mean person for nothing, and, at the same time, neglect a nobleman that gives exorbitant fees, at other times refuse to leave his bottle for his business, without any regard to the quality of the persons that sent for him, or the danger they are in: if he should be surly and morose, affect to be an humourist, treat his patients like dogs, though people of distinction, and value no man but what would deify him, and never call in question the certainty of his oracles: if he should insult all the world, affront the first nobility, and extend his insolence even to the royal family: if, to maintain as well as to increase the fame of his sufficiency, he should scorn to consult with his betters on what emergency soever, look down with contempt on the most deserving of his profession, and never confer with any other physician but what will pay homage to his superior genius, creep to his humour, and never approach him but with all the slavish obsequiousness a court-flatterer can treat a prince with: If a man, in his lifetime, should discover, on the one hand, such manifest symptoms of superlative pride, and an insatiable greediness after wealth at the same time, and, on the other, no regard to religion or affection to his kindred, no compassion to the poor, and hardly any humanity to his fellow-creatures, if he gave no proofs that he loved his country, had a public spirit, or was a lover of arts, of books, or of literature, what must we judge of his motive, the principle he acted from, when, after his death, we find that he has left a trifle among his relations who stood in need of it, and an immense treasure to an university that did not want it. Let a man be as charitable as it is possible for him to be without forfeiting his reason or good sense: can he think otherwise, but that this famous physician did, in the making of his will, as in every thing else, indulge his darling passion, entertaining his vanity with the happiness of the contrivance? when he thought on the monuments and inscriptions, with all the sacrifices of praise that would be made to him, and, above all, the yearly tribute of thanks, of reverence, and veneration that would be paid to his memory, with so much pomp and solemnity; when he considered, how in all these performances, wit and invention would be racked, art and eloquence ransacked to find out encomiums suitable to the public spirit, the munificence and the dignity of the benefactor, and the artful gratitude of the receivers; when he thought on, I say, and considered these things, it must have thrown his ambitious soul into vast ecstasies of pleasure, especially when he ruminated on the duration of his glory, and the perpetuity he would by this means procure to his name. Charitable opinions are often stupidly false; when men are dead and gone, we ought to judge of their actions, as we do of books, and neither wrong their understanding nor our own. The British �sculapius was undeniably a man of sense, and if he had been influenced by charity, a public spirit, or the love of learning, and had aimed at the good of mankind in general, or that of his own profession in particular, and acted from any of these principles, he could never have made such a will; because so much wealth might have been better managed, and a man of much less capacity would have found out several better ways of laying out the money. But if we consider, that he was as undeniably a man of vast pride, as he was a man of sense, and give ourselves leave only to surmise, that this extraordinary gift might have proceeded from such a motive, we shall presently discover the excellency of his parts, and his consummate knowledge of the world: for, if a man would render himself immortal, be ever praised and deified after his death, and have all the acknowledgment, the honours, and compliments paid to his memory, that vain glory herself could wish for, I do not think it in human skill to invent a more effectual method. Had he followed arms, behaved himself in five-and-twenty sieges, and as many battles, with the bravery of an Alexander, and exposed his life and limbs to all the fatigues and dangers of war for fifty campaigns together; or devoting himself to the muses, sacrificed his pleasure, his rest, and his health to literature, and spent all his days in a laborious study, and the toils of learning; or else, abandoning all worldly interest, excelled in probity, temperance, and austerity of life, and ever trod in the strictest path of virtue, he would not so effectually have provided for the eternity of his name, as after a voluptuous life, and the luxurious gratification of his passions, he has now done without any trouble or self denial, only by the choice in the disposal of his money, when he was forced to leave it. A rich miser, who is thoroughly selfish, and would receive the interest of his money, even after his death, has nothing else to do than to defraud his relations, and leave his estate to some famous university; they are the best markets to buy immortality at with little merit: in them knowledge, wit, and penetration are the growth, I had almost said the manufacture of the place: there men are profoundly skilled in human nature, and know what it is their benefactors want; and their extraordinary bounties shall always meet with an extraordinary recompence, and the measure of the gift is ever the standard of their praises, whether the donor be a physician or a tinker, when once the living witnesses that might laugh at them are extinct. I can never think on the anniversary of the thanksgiving-day decreed to a great man, but it puts me in mind of the miraculous cures, and other surprising things that will be said of him a hundred years hence; and I dare prognosticate, that before the end of the present century, he will have stories forged in his favour (for rhetoricians are never upon oath) that shall be as fabulous, at least, as any legends of the saints. Of all this our subtle benefactor was not ignorant; he understood universities, their genius, and their politics, and from thence foresaw and knew, that the incense to be offered to him would not cease with the present or few succeeding generations, and that it would not only for the trifling space of three or four hundred years, but that it would continue to be paid to him through all changes and revolutions of government and religion, as long as the nation subsists, and the island itself remains. It is deplorable that the proud should have such temptations to wrong their lawful heirs: For when a man in ease and affluence, brim-full of vain glory, and humoured in his pride by the greatest of a polite nation, has such an infallible security in petto for an everlasting homage and adoration to his manes to be paid in such an extraordinary manner, he is like a hero in battle, who, in feasting of his own imagination, tastes all the felicity of enthusiasm. It buys him up in sickness, relieves him in pain, and either guards him against, or keeps from his view all the terrors of death, and the most dismal apprehensions of futurity. Should it be said, that to be thus censorious, and look into matters, and men's consciences with that nicety, will discourage people from laying out their money this way; and that, let the money and the motive of the donor be what they will, he that receives the benefit is the gainer, I would not disown the charge, but am of opinion, that this is no injury to the public, should one prevent men from crowding too much treasure into the dead stock of the kingdom. There ought to be a vast disproportion between the active and unactive part of the society to make it happy, and where this is not regarded, the multitude of gifts and endowments may soon be excessive and detrimental to a nation. Charity, where it is too extensive, seldom fails of promoting sloth and idleness, and is good for little in the commonwealth but to breed drones, and destroy industry. The more colleges and alms-houses you build, the more you may. The first founders and benefactors may have just and good intentions, and would perhaps, for their own reputations, seem to labour for the most laudable purposes, but the executors of those wills, the governors that come after him, have quite other views, and we seldom see charities long applied as it was first intended they should be. I have no design that is cruel, nor the least aim that savours of inhumanity. To have sufficient hospitals for sick and wounded, I look upon as an indispensable duty both in peace and war: Young children without parents, old age without support, and all that are disabled from working, ought to be taken care of with tenderness and alacrity. But as, on the one hand, I would have none neglected that are helpless, and really necessitous without being wanting to themselves, so, on the other, I would not encourage beggary or laziness in the poor: All should be set to work that are anywise able, and scrutinies should be made even among the infirm: Employments might be found out for most of our lame, and many that are unfit for hard labour, as well as the blind, as long as their health and strength would allow of it. What I have now under consideration leads me naturally to that kind of distraction the nation has laboured under for some time, the enthusiastic passion for Charity-Schools. The generality are so bewitched with the usefulness and excellency of them, that whoever dares openly oppose them is in danger of being stoned by the rabble. Children that are taught the principles of religion, and can read the word of God, have a greater opportunity to improve in virtue and good morality, and must certainly be more civilized than others, that are suffered to run at random, and have nobody to look after them. How perverse must be the judgment of those, who would not rather see children decently dressed, with clean linen at least once a-week, that, in an orderly manner, follow their master to church, than in every open place, meet with a company of blackguards without shirts or any thing whole about them, that, insensible of their misery, are continually increasing it with oaths and imprecations! Can any one doubt but these are the great nursery of thieves and pickpockets? What numbers of felons, and other criminals, have we tried and convicted every sessions! This will be prevented by charity-schools; and when the children of the poor receive a better education, the society will, in a few years, reap the benefit of it, and the nation be cleared of so many miscreants, as now this great city, and all the country about it, are filled with. This is the general cry, and he that speaks the least word against it, an uncharitable, hard-hearted and inhuman, if not a wicked, profane, and atheistical wretch. As to the comeliness of the sight, nobody disputes it; but I would not have a nation pay too dear for so transient a pleasure; and if we might set aside the finery of the show, every thing that is material in this popular oration might soon be answered. As to religion, the most knowing and polite part of a nation have every where the least of it; craft has a greater hand in making rogues than stupidity, and vice, in general, is nowhere more predominant than where arts and sciences flourish. Ignorance is, to a proverb, counted to be the mother of devotion; and it is certain, that we shall find innocence and honesty nowhere more general than among the most illiterate, the poor silly country people. The next to be considered, are the manners and civility that by charity-schools are to be grafted into the poor of the nation. I confess that, in my opinion, to be in any degree possessed of what I named, is a frivolous, if not a hurtful quality, at least nothing is less requisite in the laborious poor. It is not compliments we want of them, but their work and assiduity. But I give up this article with all my heart; good manners we will say are necessary to all people, but which way will they be furnished with them in a charity-school? Boys there may be taught to pull off their caps promiscuously to all they meet, unless it be a beggar: But that they should acquire in it any civility beyond that I cannot conceive. The master is not greatly qualified, as may be guessed by his salary, and if he could teach them manners he has not time for it: while they are at school they are either learning or saying their lesson to him, or employed in writing or arithmetic; and as soon as school is done, they are as much at liberty as other poor people's children. It is precept, and the example of parents, and those they eat, drink and converse with, that have an influence upon the minds of children: reprobate parents that take ill courses, and are regardless to their children, will not have a mannerly civilized offspring though they went to a charity-school till they were married. The honest pains-taking people, be they never so poor, if they have any notion of goodness and decency themselves, will keep their children in awe, and never suffer them to rake about the streets, and lie out a-nights. Those who will work themselves, and have any command over their children, will make them do something or other that turns to profit as soon as they are able, be it never so little; and such are so ungovernable, that neither words nor blows can work upon them, no charity-school will mend; nay, experience teaches us, that among the charity-boys there are abundance of bad ones that swear and curse about, and, bar the clothes, are as much blackguard as ever Tower-hill or St. James's produced. I am now come to the enormous crimes, and vast multitude of malefactors, that are all laid upon the want of this notable education. That abundance of thefts and robberies are daily committed in and about the city, and great numbers yearly suffer death for those crimes is undeniable: but because this is ever hooked in, when the usefulness of charity-schools is called in question, as if there was no dispute, but they would in a great measure remedy, and in time prevent those disorders; I intend to examine into the real causes of those mischiefs so justly complained of, and doubt not but to make it appear that charity-schools, and every thing else that promotes idleness, and keeps the poor from working, are more accessary to the growth of villany, than the want of reading and writing, or even the grossest ignorance and stupidity. Here I must interrupt myself to obviate the clamours of some impatient people, who, upon reading of what I said last, will cry out, that far from encouraging idleness, they bring up their charity-children to handicrafts, as well as trades, and all manner of honest labour. I promise them that I shall take notice of that hereafter, and answer it without stifling the least thing that can be said in their behalf. In a populous city, it is not difficult for a young rascal, that has pushed himself into a crowd, with a small hand and nimble fingers, to whip away a handkerchief or snuff-box, from a man who is thinking on business, and regardless of his pocket. Success in small crimes seldom fails of ushering in greater; and he that picks pockets with impunity at twelve, is likely to be a house-breaker at sixteen, and a thorough-paced villain long before he is twenty. Those who are cautious as well as bold, and no drunkards, may do a world of mischief before they are discovered: and this is one of the greatest inconveniencies of such vast overgrown cities, as London or Paris; that they harbour rogues and villains as granaries do vermin; they afford a perpetual shelter to the worst of people, and are places of safety to thousands of criminals, who daily commit thefts and burglaries, and yet, by often changing their places of abode, may conceal themselves for many years, and will perhaps for ever escape the hands of justice, unless by chance they are apprehended in a fact. And when they are taken, the evidences perhaps want clearness, or are otherwise insufficient; the depositions are not strong enough; juries and often judges are touched with compassion; prosecutors though vigorous at first, often relent before the time of trial comes on: few men prefer the public safety to their own ease; a man of good-nature is not easily reconciled with taking away of another man's life, though he has deserved the gallows. To be the cause of any ones death, though justice requires it, is what most people is startled at, especially men of conscience and probity, when they want judgment or resolution: as this is the reason that thousands escape that deserve to be capitally punished, so it is likewise the cause that there are so many offenders, who boldly venture, in hopes that if they are taken they shall have the same good fortune of getting off. But if men did imagine, and were fully persuaded, that as surely as they committed a fact that deserved hanging, so surely they would be hanged; executions would be very rare, and the most desperate felon would almost as soon hang himself as he would break open a house. To be stupid and ignorant is seldom the character of a thief. Robberies on the highway, and other bold crimes, are generally perpetrated by rogues of spirit, and a genius; and villains of any fame are commonly subtle cunning fellows, that are well versed in the method of trials, and acquainted with every quirk in the law that can be of use to them; that overlook not the smallest flaw in an indictment, and know how to make an advantage of the least slip of an evidence, and every thing else, that can serve their turn to bring them off. It is a mighty saying, that it is better that five hundred guilty people should escape, than that one innocent person should suffer: this maxim is only true as to futurity, and in relation to another world; but it is very false in regard to the temporal welfare of society. It is a terrible thing a man should be put to death for a crime he is not guilty of; yet so oddly circumstances may meet in the infinite variety of accidents, that it is possible it should come to pass, all the wisdom that judges, and consciousness that juries may be possessed of, notwithstanding. But where men endeavour to avoid this, with all the care and precaution human prudence is able to take, should such a misfortune happen perhaps once or twice in half a score years, on condition that all that time justice should be administered with all the strictness and severity, and not one guilty person suffered to escape with impunity, it would be a vast advantage to a nation, not only as to the securing of every ones property, and the peace of the society in general, but would likewise save the lives of hundreds, if not thousands, of necessitous wretches, that are daily hanged for trifles, and who would never have attempted any thing against the law, or at least have ventured on capital crimes, if the hopes of getting off, should they be taken, had not been one of the motives that animated their resolution. Therefore where the laws are plain and severe, all the remissness in the execution of them, lenity of juries, and frequency of pardons, are in the main a much greater cruelty to a populous state or kingdom, than the use of racks and the most exquisite torments. Another great cause of those evils, is to be looked for in the want of precaution in those that are robbed, and the many temptations that are given. Abundance of families are very remiss in looking after the safety of their houses; some are robbed by the carelessness of servants, others for having grudged the price of bars and shutters. Brass and pewter are ready money, they are every where about the house; plate perhaps and money are better secured; but an ordinary lock is soon opened, when once a rogue is got in. It is manifest, then, that many different causes concur, and several scarce avoidable evils contribute to the misfortune of being pestered with pilferers, thieves, and robbers, which all countries ever were, and ever will be, more or less, in and near considerable towns, more especially vast and overgrown cities. It is opportunity makes the thief; carelessness and neglect in fastening doors and windows, the excessive tenderness of juries and prosecutors, the small difficulty of getting a reprieve and frequency of pardons; but above all, the many examples of those who are known to be guilty, are destitute both of friends and money, and yet by imposing on the jury, baffling the witnesses, or other tricks and stratagems, find out means to escape the gallows. These are all strong temptations that conspire to draw in the necessitous, who want principle and education. To these you may add as auxiliaries to mischief, an habit of sloth and idleness, and strong aversion to labour and assiduity, which all young people will contract that are not brought up to downright working, or at least kept employed most days in the week, and the greatest part of the day. All children that are idle, even the best of either sex, are bad company to one another whenever they meet. It is not, then, the want of reading and writing, but the concurrence and complication of more substantial evils, that are the perpetual nursery of abandoned profligates in great and opulent nations; and whoever would accuse ignorance, stupidity, and dastardness, as the first, and what the physicians call the procataric cause, let him examine into the lives, and narrowly inspect the conversations and actions of ordinary rogues and our common felons, and he will find the reverse to be true, and that the blame ought rather to be laid on the excessive cunning and subtlety, and too much knowledge in general, which the worst of miscreants and the scum of the nation are possessed of. Human nature is every where the same: genius, wit, and natural parts, are always sharpened by application, and may be as much improved in the practice of the meanest villany, as they can in the exercise of industry, or the most heroic virtue. There is no station of life, where pride, emulation, and the love of glory may not be displayed. A young pick-pocket, that makes a jest of his angry prosecutor, and dextrously wheedles the old justice into an opinion of his innocence, is envied by his equals, and admired by all the fraternity. Rogues have the same passions to gratify as other men, and value themselves on their honour and faithfulness to one another, their courage, intrepidity, and other manly virtues, as well as people of better professions; and in daring enterprises, the resolution of a robber may be as much supported by his pride, as that of an honest soldier, who fights for his country. The evils then we complain of, are owing to quite other causes than what we assign for them. Men must be very wavering in their sentiments, if not inconsistent with themselves, that at one time will uphold knowledge and learning to be the most proper means to promote religion, and defend at another, that ignorance is the mother of devotion. But if the reasons alleged for this general education are not the true ones, whence comes it, that the whole kingdom, both great and small, are so unanimously fond of it? There is no miraculous conversion to be perceived among us, no universal bent to goodness and morality that has on a sudden overspread the island; there is as much wickedness as ever, charity is as cold, and real virtue as scarce: the year seventeen hundred and twenty, has been as prolific in deep villany, and remarkable for selfish crimes and premeditated mischief, as can be picked out of any century whatever; not committed by poor ignorant rogues, that could neither read nor write, but the better sort of people as to wealth and education, that most of them were great masters in arithmetic, and lived in reputation and splendor. To say, that when a thing is once in vogue, the multitude follows the common cry, that charity schools are in fashion in the same manner as hooped petticoats, by caprice, and that no more reason can be given for the one than the other, I am afraid will not be satisfactory to the curious, and at the same time I doubt much, whether it will be thought of great weight by many of my readers, what I can advance besides. The real source of this present folly, is certainly very abstruse and remote from sight; but he that affords the least light in matters of great obscurity, does a kind office to the inquirers. I am willing to allow, that in the beginning, the first design of those schools, was good and charitable; but to know what increases them so extravagantly, and who are the chief promoters of them now, we must make our search another way, and address ourselves to the rigid party-men, that are zealous for their cause, either episcopacy or presbytery; but as the latter are but the poor mimicks of the first, though equally pernicious, we shall confine ourselves to the national church, and take a turn through a parish that is not blessed yet with a charity school.--But here I think myself obliged in conscience to ask pardon of my reader, for the tiresome dance I am going to lead him, if he intends to follow me, and therefore I desire, that he would either throw away the book and leave me, or else arm himself with the patience of Job, to endure all the impertinences of low life; the cant and tittle-tattle he is like to meet with before he can go half a street's length. First we must look out among the young shop-keepers, that have not half the business they could wish for, and consequently time to spare. If such a new-beginner has but a little pride more than ordinary, and loves to be meddling, he is soon mortified in the vestry, where men of substance and long standing, or else your pert litigious or opinionated bawlers, that have obtained the title of notable men, commonly bear the sway. His stock and perhaps credit are but inconsiderable, and yet he finds within himself a strong inclination to govern. A man thus qualified, thinks it a thousand pities there is no charity-school in the parish: he communicates his thoughts to two or three of his acquaintance first; they do the same to others, and in a month's time there is nothing else talked of in the parish. Every body invents discourses and arguments to the purpose, according to his abilities.--It is an arrant shame, says one, to see so many poor that are not able to educate their children, and no provision made for them, where we have so many rich people. What do you talk of rich, answers another, they are the worst: they must have so many servants, coaches and horses: they can lay out hundreds, and some of them thousands of pounds for jewels and furniture, but not spare a shilling to a poor creature that wants it: when modes and fashions are discoursed of, they can hearken with great attention, but are wilfully deaf to the cries of the poor. Indeed, neighbour, replies the first, you are very right, I do not believe there is a worse parish in England for charity than ours: It is such as you and I that would do good if it was in our power, but of those that are able there is very few that are willing. Others more violent, fall upon particular persons, and fasten slander on every man of substance they dislike, and a thousand idle stories in behalf of charity, are raised and handed about to defame their betters. While this is doing throughout the neighbourhood, he that first broached the pious thought, rejoices to hear so many come into it, and places no small merit in being the first cause of so much talk and bustle: but neither himself nor his intimates, being considerable enough to set such a thing on foot, some body must be found out who has greater interest: he is to be addressed to, and showed the necessity, the goodness, the usefulness, and Christianity of such a design: next he is to be flattered.--Indeed, Sir, if you would espouse it, nobody has a greater influence over the best of the parish than yourself: one word of you I am sure would engage such a one: if you once would take it to heart, Sir, I would look upon the thing as done, Sir.--If by this kind of rhetoric they can draw in some old fool, or conceited busy-body that is rich, or at least reputed to be such, the thing begins to be feasible, and is discoursed of among the better sort. The parson or his curate, and the lecturer, are every where extolling the pious project. The first promoters meanwhile are indefatigable: if they were guilty of any open vice, they either sacrifice it to the love of reputation, or at least grow more cautious and learn to play the hypocrite, well knowing that to be flagitious or noted for enormities, is inconsistent with the zeal which they pretend to, for works of supererogation and excessive piety. The number of these diminutive patriots increasing, they form themselves into a society, and appoint stated meetings, where every one concealing his vices, has liberty to display his talents. Religion is the theme, or else the misery of the times occasioned by atheism and profaneness. Men of worth, who live in splendour, and thriving people that have a great deal of business of their own, are seldom seen among them. Men of sense and education likewise, if they have nothing to do, generally look out for better diversion. All those who have a higher aim, shall have their attendance easily excused, but contribute they must, or else lead a weary life in the parish. Two sorts of people come in voluntarily, stanch churchmen, who have good reasons for it in petto, and your sly sinners that look upon it as meritorious, and hope that it will expiate their guilt, and Satan be nonsuited by it at a small expence. Some come into it to save their credit, others to retrieve it, according as they have either lost or are afraid of losing it: others again do it prudentially, to increase their trade and get acquaintance, and many would own to you, if they dared to be sincere and speak the truth, that they would never have been concerned in it, but to be better known in the parish. Men of sense that see the folly of it, and have nobody to fear, are persuaded into it not to be thought singular, or to run counter to all the world; even those who are resolute at first in denying it, it is ten to one but at last they are teazed and importuned into a compliance. The charge being calculated for most of the inhabitants, the insignificancy of it is another argument that prevails much, and many are drawn in to be contributors, who, without that, would have stood out and strenuously opposed the whole scheme. The governors are made of the middling people, and many inferior to that class are made use of, if the forwardness of their zeal can but over-balance the meanness of their condition. If you should ask these worthy rulers, why they take upon them so much trouble, to the detriment of their own affairs and loss of time, either singly or the whole body of them, they would all unanimously answer, that it is the regard they have for religion and the church, and the pleasure they take in contributing to the good, and eternal welfare of so many poor innocents, that in all probability would run into perdition, in these wicked times of scoffers and freethinkers. They have no thought of interest; even those who deal in and provide these children with what they want, have not the least design of getting by what they sell for their use; and though in every thing else, their avarice and greediness after lucre be glaringly conspicuous, in this affair they are wholly divested from selfishness, and have no worldly ends. One motive above all, which is none of the least with the most of them, is to be carefully concealed, I mean the satisfaction there is in ordering and directing: there is a melodious sound in the word governor, that is charming to mean people: every body admires sway and superiority; even imperium in belluas has its delights: there is a pleasure in ruling over any thing; and it is this chiefly that supports human nature in the tedious slavery of school-masters. But if there be the least satisfaction in governing the children, it must be ravishing to govern the school-master himself. What fine things are said and perhaps wrote to a governor, when a school-master is to be chosen! How the praises tickle, and how pleasant it is not to find out the fulsomeness of the flattery, the stiffness of the expressions, or the pedantry of the stile! Those who can examine nature, will always find, that what these people most pretend to is the least, and what they utterly deny their greatest motive. No habit or quality is more easily acquired than hypocrisy, nor any thing sooner learned than to deny the sentiments of our hearts, and the principle we act from: but the seeds of every passion are innate to us, and nobody comes into the world without them. If we will mind the pastimes and recreations of young children, we shall observe nothing more general in them, than that all who are suffered to do it, take delight in playing with kittens and little puppy dogs. What makes them always lugging and pulling the poor creatures about the house, proceeds from nothing else but that they can do with them what they please, and put them into what posture and shape they list; and the pleasure they receive from this, is originally owing to the love of dominion, and that usurping temper all mankind are born with. When this great work is brought to bear, and actually accomplished, joy and serenity seem to overspread the face of every inhabitant, which likewise to account for, I must make a short digression. There are every where slovenly sorry fellows, that are used to be seen always ragged and dirty: these people we look upon as miserable creatures in general, and unless they are very remarkable, we take little notice of them, and yet among these there are handsome and well-shaped men, as well as among their betters. But if one of these turns soldier, what a vast alteration is there observed in him for the better, as soon as he is put in his red coat, and we see him look smart with his grenadier's cap and a great ammunition sword! All who knew him before are struck with other ideas of his qualities, and the judgment which both men and women form of him in their minds, is very different from what it was. There is something analogous to this in the sight of charity children; there is a natural beauty in uniformity, which most people delight in. It is diverting to the eye to see children well matched, either boys or girls, march two and two in good order; and to have them all whole and tight in the same clothes and trimming, must add to the comeliness of the sight; and what makes it still more generally entertaining, is the imaginary share which even servants, and the meanest in the parish, have in it, to whom it costs nothing: our parish church, our charity children. In all this there is a shadow of property that tickles every body, that has a right to make use of the words, but more especially those who actually contribute, and had a great hand in advancing the pious work. It is hardly conceivable, that men should so little know their own hearts, and be so ignorant of their inward condition, as to mistake frailty, passion, and enthusiasm, for goodness, virtue and charity; yet nothing is more true than that the satisfaction, the joy and transports they feel on the accounts I named, pass with these miserable judges for principles of piety and religion. Whoever will consider of what I have said for two or three pages, and suffer his imagination to rove a little further on what he has heard and seen concerning this subject, will be furnished with sufficient reasons, abstract from the love of God and true Christianity, why charity-schools are in such uncommon vogue, and so unanimously approved of and admired among all sorts and conditions of people. It is a theme which every body can talk of, and understands thoroughly; there is not a more inexhaustible fund for tittle-tattle, and a variety of low conversation in hoy-boats and stage-coaches. If a governor that in behalf of the school or the sermon, exerted himself more than ordinary, happens to be in company, how he is commended by the women, and his zeal and charitable disposition extolled to the skies! Upon my word, sir, says an old lady, we are all very much obliged to you; I do not think any of the other governors could have made interest enough to procure us a bishop; it was on your account, I am told, that his lordship came, though he was not very well: to which the other replies very gravely, that it is his duty, but that he values no trouble nor fatigue, so he can be but serviceable to the children, poor lambs: indeed, says he, I was resolved to get a pair of lawn sleeves, though I rid all night for it, and I am very glad I was not disappointed. Sometimes the school itself is discoursed of, and of whom in all the parish it is most expected he should build one: The old room where it is now kept is ready to drop down; such a one had a vast estate left him by his uncle, and a great deal of money besides; a thousand pounds would be nothing in his pocket. At others, the great crowds are talked of that are seen at some churches, and the considerable sums that are gathered; from whence, by an easy transition, they go over to the abilities, the different talents and orthodoxy of clergymen. Dr. ---- is a man of great parts and learning, and I believe he is very hearty for the church, but I do not like him for a charity sermon. There is no better man in the world than ----; he forces the money out of their pockets. When he preached last for our children, I am sure there was abundance of people that gave more than they intended when they came to church. I could see it in their faces, and rejoiced at it heartily. Another charm that renders charity-schools so bewitching to the multitude, is the general opinion established among them, that they are not only actually beneficial to society as to temporal happiness, but likewise that Christianity enjoys and requires of us, we should erect them for our future welfare. They are earnestly and fervently recommended by the whole body of the clergy, and have more labour and eloquence laid out upon them than any other Christian duty; not by young persons, or poor scholars of little credit, but the most learned of our prelates, and the most eminent for orthodoxy, even those who do not often fatigue themselves on any other occasion. As to religion, there is no doubt but they know what is chiefly required of us, and consequently the most necessary to salvation: and as to the world, who should understand the interest of the kingdom better than the wisdom of the nation, of which the lords spiritual are so considerable a branch? The consequence of this sanction is, first, that those, who, with their purses or power, are instrumental to the increase or maintenance of these schools, are tempted to place a greater merit in what they do, than otherwise they could suppose it deserved. Secondly, that all the rest, who either cannot, or will not any wise contribute towards them, have still a very good reason why they should speak well of them; for though it be difficult, in things that interfere with our passions, to act well, it is always in our power to wish well, because it is performed with little cost. There is hardly a person so wicked among the superstitious vulgar, but in the liking he has for charity schools, he imagines to see a glimmering hope that it will make an atonement for his sins, from the same principle as the most vicious comfort themselves with the love and veneration they bear to the church; and the greatest profligates find an opportunity in it to show the rectitude of their inclinations at no expence. But if all these were not inducements sufficient to make men stand up in defence of the idol I speak of, there is another that will infallibly bribe most people to be advocates for it. We all naturally love triumph, and whoever engages in this course is sure of conquest, at least in nine companies out of ten. Let him dispute with whom he will, considering the speciousness of the pretence, and the majority he has on his side, it is a castle, an impregnable fortress he can never be beat out of; and was the most sober, virtuous man alive to produce all the arguments to prove the detriment charity-schools, at least the multiplicity of them, do to society, which I shall give hereafter, and such as are yet stronger, against the greatest scoundrel in the world, who should only make use of the common cant of charity and religion, the vogue would be against the first, and himself lose his cause in the opinion of the vulgar. The rise, then, and original of all the bustle and clamour that is made throughout the kingdom in behalf of charity schools, is chiefly built on frailty and human passion, at least it is more than possible that a nation should have the same fondness, and feel the same zeal for them as are shown in ours, and yet not be prompted to it by any principle of virtue or religion. Encouraged by this consideration, I shall, with the greater liberty, attack this vulgar error, and endeavour to make it evident, that far from being beneficial, this forced education is pernicious to the public, the welfare whereof, as it demands of us a regard superior to all other laws and considerations, so it shall be the only apology I intend to make for differing from the present sentiments of the learned and reverend body of our divines, and venturing plainly to deny, what I have just now owned to be openly asserted by most of our bishops, as well as inferior clergy. As our church pretends to no infallibility even in spirituals, her proper province, so it cannot be an affront to her to imagine that she may err in temporals, which are not so much under her immediate care. But to my task. The whole earth being cursed, and no bread to be had but what we eat in the sweat of our brows, vast toil must be undergone before man can provide himself with necessaries for his sustenance, and the bare support of his corrupt and defective nature, as he is a single creature; but infinitely more to make life comfortable in a civil society, where men are become taught animals, and great numbers of them have, by mutual compact, framed themselves into a body politic; and the more man's knowledge increases in this state, the greater will be the variety of labour required to make him easy. It is impossible that a society can long subsist, and suffer many of its members to live in idleness, and enjoy all the ease and pleasure they can invent, without having, at the same time, great multitudes of people that to make good this defect will condescend to be quite the reverse, and by use and patience inure their bodies to work for others and themselves besides. The plenty and cheapness of provisions depends, in a great measure, on the price and value that is set upon this labour, and consequently the welfare of all societies, even before they are tainted with foreign luxury, requires that it should be performed by such of their members as, in the first place, are sturdy and robust, and never used to ease or idleness; and, in the second, soon contented as to the necessaries of life; such as are glad to take up with the coarsest manufacture in every thing they wear, and in their diet have no other aim than to feed their bodies when their stomachs prompt them to eat, and, with little regard to taste or relish, refuse no wholesome nourishment that can be swallowed when men are hungry, or ask any thing for their thirst but to quench it. As the greatest part of the drudgery is to be done by daylight, so it is by this only that they actually measure the time of their labour without any thought of the hours they are employed, or the weariness they feel; and the hireling in the country must get up in the morning, not because he has rested enough, but because the sun is going to rise. This last article alone would be an intolerable hardship to grown people under thirty, who, during nonage, had been used to lie a-bed as long as they could sleep: but all three together make up such a condition of life, as a man more mildly educated would hardly choose, though it should deliver him from a gaol or a shrew. If such people there must be, as no great nation can be happy without vast numbers of them, would not a wise legislature cultivate the breed of them with all imaginable care, and provide against their scarcity as he would prevent the scarcity of provision itself? No man would be poor, and fatigue himself for a livelihood, if he could help it: The absolute necessity all stand in for victuals and drink, and in cold climates for clothes and lodging, makes them submit to any thing that can be bore with. If nobody did want, nobody would work; but the greatest hardships are looked upon as solid pleasures, when they keep a man from starving. From what has been said, it is manifest, that in a free nation, where slaves are not allowed of, the surest wealth consists in a multitude of laborious poor; for besides that they are the never-failing nursery of fleets and armies, without them there could be no enjoyment, and no product of any country could be valuable. To make the society happy, and people easy under the meanest circumstances, it is requisite that great numbers of them should be ignorant, as well as poor. Knowledge both enlarges and multiplies our desires, and the fewer things a man wishes for, the more easily his necessities may be supplied. The welfare and felicity, therefore, of every state and kingdom, require that the knowledge of the working poor should be confined within the verge of their occupations, and never extended (as to things visible), beyond what relates to their calling. The more a shepherd, a ploughman, or any other peasant, knows of the world, and the things that are foreign to his labour or employment, the less fit he will be to go through the fatigues and hardships of it with cheerfulness and content. Reading, writing, and arithmetic, are very necessary to those whose business require such qualifications; but where people's livelihood has no dependence on these arts, they are very pernicious to the poor, who are forced to get their daily bread by their daily labour. Few children make any progress at school, but, at the same time, they are capable of being employed in some business or other, so that every hour those of poor people spend at their book is so much time lost to the society. Going to school, in comparison to working, is idleness, and the longer boys continue in this easy sort of life, the more unfit they will be when grown up for downright labour, both as to strength and inclination. Men who are to remain and end their days in a laborious, tiresome, and painful station of life, the sooner they are put upon it at first, the more patiently they will submit to it for ever after. Hard labour, and the coarsest diet, are a proper punishment to several kinds of malefactors, but to impose either on those that have not been used and brought up to both, is the greatest cruelty, when there is no crime you can charge them with. Reading and writing are not attained to without some labour of the brain and assiduity, and before people are tolerably versed in either, they esteem themselves infinitely above those who are wholly ignorant of them, often with so little justice and moderation, as if they were of another species. As all mortals have naturally an aversion to trouble and pains-taking, so we are all fond of, and apt to overvalue those qualifications we have purchased at the expence of our ease and quiet for years together. Those who spent a great part of their youth in learning to read, write, and cypher, expect, and not unjustly, to be employed where those qualifications may be of use to them; the generality of them will look upon downright labour with the utmost contempt, I mean labour performed in the service of others in the lowest station of life, and for the meanest consideration. A man, who has had some education, may follow husbandry by choice, and be diligent at the dirtiest and most laborious work; but then the concern must be his own, and avarice, the care of a family, or some other pressing motive, must put him upon it; but he will not make a good hireling, and serve a farmer for a pitiful reward; at least he is not so fit for it as a day labourer that has always been employed about the plough and dung cart, and remembers not that ever he has lived otherwise. When obsequiousness and mean services are required, we shall always observe that they are never so cheerfully nor so heartily performed, as from inferiors to superiors; I mean inferiors not only in riches and quality, but likewise in knowledge and understanding. A servant can have no unfeigned respect for his master, as soon as he has sense enough to find out that he serves a fool. When we are to learn or to obey, we shall experience in ourselves, that the greater opinion we have of the wisdom and capacity of those that are either to teach or command us, the greater deference we pay to their laws and instructions. No creatures submit contentedly to their equals; and should a horse know as much as a man, I should not desire to be his rider. Here I am obliged again to make a digression, though I declare I never had a less mind to it than I have at this minute; but I see a thousand rods in piss, and the whole posse of diminutive pedants against me, for assaulting the Christ-cross-row, and opposing the very elements of literature. This is no panic fear, and the reader will not imagine my apprehensions ill grounded, if he considers what an army of petty tyrants I have to cope with, that all either actually persecute with birch, or else are soliciting for such a preferment. For if I had no other adversaries than the starving wretches of both sexes, throughout the kingdom of Great Britain, that from a natural antipathy to working, have a great dislike to their present employment, and perceiving within a much stronger inclination to command than ever they felt to obey others, think themselves qualified, and wish from their hearts to be masters and mistresses of charity schools, the number of my enemies would, by the most modest computation, amount to one hundred thousand at least. Methinks I hear them cry out, that a more dangerous doctrine never was broached, and Popery is a fool to it, and ask what brute of a Saracen it is that draws his ugly weapon for the destruction of learning. It is ten to one but they will indict me for endeavouring, by instigation of the prince of darkness, to introduce into these realms greater ignorance and barbarity, than ever nation was plunged into by Goths and Vandals since the light of the gospel first appeared in the world. Whoever labours under the public odium, has always crimes laid to his charge he never was guilty of, and it will be suspected that I have had a hand in obliterating the Holy Scriptures, and perhaps affirmed, that it was at my request that the small Bibles, published by patent in the year 1721, and chiefly made use of in charity schools, were, through badness of print and paper, rendered illegible; which yet I protest I am as innocent of as the child unborn. But I am in a thousand fears; the more I consider my case, the worse I like it, and the greatest comfort I have is in my sincere belief, that hardly any body will mind a word of what I say; or else, if ever the people suspected that what I write would be of any weight to any considerable part of the society, I should not have the courage barely to think on all the trades I should disoblige; and I cannot but smile, when I reflect on the variety of uncouth sufferings that would be prepared for me, if the punishment they would differently inflict upon me was emblematically to point at my crime. For if I was not suddenly stuck full of useless pen knives up to the hilts, the company of stationers would certainly take me in hand, and either have me buried alive in their hall, under a great heap of primers and spelling-books, they would not be able to sell; or else send me up against tide to be bruised to death in a paper mill, that would be obliged to stand still a week upon my account. The ink-makers, at the same time, would, for the public good, offer to choke me with astringents, or drown me in the black liquor that would be left upon their hands; which, if they joined stock, might easily be performed in less than a month; and if I should escape the cruelty of these united bodies, the resentment of a private monopolist would be as fatal to me, and I should soon find myself pelted and knocked on the head with little squat Bibles clasped in brass, and ready armed for mischief, that, charitable learning ceasing, would be fit for nothing but unopened to fight with, and exercises truly polemic. The digression I spoke of just now, is not the foolish trifle that ended with the last paragraph, and which the grave critic, to whom all mirth is unseasonable, will think very impertinent; but a serious apologetical one I am going to make out of hand, to clear myself from having any design against arts and sciences, as some heads of colleges and other careful preservers of human learning might have apprehended, upon seeing ignorance recommended as a necessary ingredient in the mixture of civil society. In the first place, I would have near double the number of professors in every university of what there is now. Theology with us is generally well provided, but the two other faculties have very little to boast of, especially physic. Every branch of that art ought to have two or three professors, that would take pains to communicate their skill and knowledge to others. In public lectures, a vain man has great opportunities to set off his parts, but private instructions are more useful to students. Pharmacy, and the knowledge of the simples, are as necessary as anatomy or the history of diseases: it is a shame, that when men have taken their degree, and are by authority intrusted with the lives of the subject, they should be forced to come to London to be acquainted with the Materia Medica, and the composition of medicines, and receive instructions from others that never had university education themselves; it is certain, that in the city I named, there is ten times more opportunity for a man to improve himself in anatomy, botany, pharmacy, and the practice of physic, than at both universities together. What has an oil shop to do with silks; or who would look for hams and pickles at a mercers? Where things are well managed, hospitals are made as subservient to the advancement of students in the art of physic, as they are to the recovery of health in the poor. Good sense ought to govern men in learning as well as in trade: no man ever bound his son apprentice to a goldsmith to make him a linen draper; then why should he have a divine for his tutor to become a lawyer or a physician? It is true, that the languages, logic and philosophy, should be the first studies in all the learned professions; but there is so little help for physic in our universities that are so rich, and where so many idle people are well paid for eating and drinking, and being magnificently, as well as commodiously lodged, that bar books, and what is common to all the three faculties, a man may as well qualify himself at Oxford or Cambridge to be a Turkey merchant, as he can to be a physician; which is, in my humble opinion, a great sign that some part of the great wealth they are possessed of is not so well applied as it might be. Professors should, besides their stipends allowed them by the public, have gratifications from every student they teach, that self-interest, as well as emulation and the love of glory, might spur them on to labour and assiduity. When a man excels in any one study or part of learning, and is qualified to teach others, he ought to be procured, if money will purchase him, without regarding what party, or indeed what country or nation he is of, whether black or white. Universities should be public marts for all manner of literature, as your annual fairs, that are kept at Leipsic, Frankfort, and other places in Germany, are for different wares and merchandises, where no difference is made between natives and foreigners, and which men resort to from all parts of the world with equal freedom and equal privilege. From paying the gratifications I spoke of, I would excuse all students designed for the ministry of the gospel. There is no faculty so immediately necessary to the government of a nation as that of theology, and as we ought to have great numbers of divines for the service of this island, I would not have the meaner people discouraged from bringing up their children to that function. For though wealthy men, if they have many sons, sometimes make one of them a clergyman, as we see even persons of quality take up holy orders, and there are likewise people of good sense, especially divines, that from a principle of prudence bring up their children to that profession, when they are morally assured that they have friends or interest enough, and shall be able, either by a good fellowship at the university, advowsons, or other means to procure them a livelihood: but these produce not the large number of divines that are yearly ordained, and for the bulk of the clergy, we are indebted to another original. Among the middling people of all trades there are bigots who have a superstitious awe for a gown and cassock: of these there are multitudes that feel an ardent desire of having a son promoted to the ministry of the gospel, without considering what is to become of them afterwards; and many a kind mother in this kingdom, without consulting her own circumstances or her child's capacity, transported with this laudable wish, is daily feasting on this pleasing thought, and often before her son is twelve years old, mixing maternal love with devotion, throws herself into ecstasies and tears of satisfaction, by reflecting on the future enjoyment she is to receive from seeing him stand in a pulpit, and, with her own ears, hearing him preach the word of God. It is to this religious zeal, or at least the human frailties that pass for and represent it, that we owe the great plenty of poor scholars the nation enjoys. For, considering the inequality of livings, and the smallness of benefices up and down the kingdom, without this happy disposition in parents of small fortune, we could not possibly be furnished from any other quarter with proper persons for the ministry, to attend all the cures of souls, so pitifully provided for, that no mortal could live upon them that had been educated in any tolerable plenty, unless he was possessed of real virtue, which it is foolish and indeed injurious, we should more expect from the clergy than we generally find it in the laity. The great care I would take to promote that part of learning which is more immediately useful to society, should not make me neglect the more curious and polite, but all the liberal arts, and every branch of literature should be encouraged throughout the kingdom, more than they are, if my wishing could do it. In every county, there should be one or more large schools, erected at the public charge, for Latin and Greek, that should be divided into six or more classes, with particular masters in each of them. The whole should be under the care and inspection of some men of letters in authority, who would not only be titular governors, but actually take pains at least twice a-year, in hearing every class thoroughly examined by the master of it, and not content themselves with judging of the progress the scholars had made for the themes and other exercises that had been made out of their sight. At the same time, I would discharge and hinder the multiplicity of those petty schools, that never would have had any existence had the masters of them not been extremely indigent. It is a vulgar error, that nobody can spell or write English well without a little smatch of Latin. This is upheld by pedants for their own interest, and by none more strenuously maintained than such of them as are poor scholars in more than one sense; in the mean time it is an abominable falsehood. I have known, and I am still acquainted with several, and some of the fair sex, that never learned any Latin, and yet kept to strict orthography, and write admirable good sense; where, on the other hand, every body may meet with the scribblings of pretended scholars, at least such as went to a grammar school for several years, that have grammar faults and are ill spelled. The understanding of Latin thoroughly, is highly necessary to all that are designed for any of the learned professions, and I would have no gentleman without literature; even those who are to be brought up attorneys, surgeons, and apothecaries, should be much better versed in that language than generally they are; but to youth, who afterwards are to get a livelihood in trades and callings in which Latin is not daily wanted, it is of no use, and the learning of it an evident loss of just so much time and money as are bestowed upon it. When men come into business, what was taught them of it, in those petty schools is either soon forgot, or only fit to make them impertinent, and often very troublesome in company. Few men can forbear valuing themselves on any knowledge they had once acquired, even after they have lost it; and, unless they are very modest and discreet, the undigested scraps which such people commonly remember of Latin, seldom fail of rendering them, at one time or other, ridiculous to those who understand it. Reading and writing I would treat as we do music and dancing, I would not hinder them nor force them upon the society: as long as there was any thing to be got by them, there would be masters enough to teach them; but nothing should be taught for nothing but at church: and here I would exclude even those who might be designed for the ministry of the gospel; for, if parents are so miserably poor that they cannot afford their children these first elements of learning, it is impudence in them to aspire any further. It would encourage, likewise, the lower sort of people to give their children this part of education, if they could see them preferred to those of idle sots or sorry rake-hells, that never knew what it was to provide a rag for their brats but by begging. But now, when a boy or a girl are wanted for any small service, we reckon it a duty to employ our charity children before any other. The education of them looks like a reward for being vicious and unactive, a benefit commonly bestowed on parents, who deserve to be punished for shamefully neglecting their families. In one place you may hear a rascal half drunk, damning himself, call for the other pot, and as a good reason for it, add, that his boy is provided for in clothes, and has his schooling for nothing: In another you shall see a poor woman in great necessity, whose child is to be taken care of, because herself is a lazy slut, and never did any thing to remedy her wants in good earnest, but bewailing them at a gin-shop. If every body's children are well taught, who, by their own industry, can educate them at our universities, there will be men of learning enough to supply this nation and such another; and reading, writing, or arithmetic, would never be wanting in the business that requires them, though none were to learn them but such whose parents could be at the charge of it. It is not with letters as it is with the gifts of the Holy Ghost, that they may not be purchased with money; and bought wit, if we believe the proverb, is none of the worst. I thought it necessary to say thus much of learning, to obviate the clamours of the enemies to truth and fair dealing, who, had I not so amply explained myself on this head, would have represented me as a mortal foe to all literature and useful knowledge, and a wicked advocate for universal ignorance and stupidity. I shall now make good my promise, of answering what I know the well-wishers to charity schools would object against me, by saying that they brought up the children under their care, to warrantable and laborious trades, and not to idleness as I did insinuate. I have sufficiently showed already, why going to school was idleness if compared to working, and exploded this sort of education in the children of the poor, because it incapacitates them ever after for downright labour, which is their proper province, and, in every civil society, a portion they ought not to repine or grumble at, if exacted from them with discretion and humanity. What remains, is, that I should speak as to their putting them out to trades, which I shall endeavour to demonstrate to be destructive to the harmony of a nation, and an impertinent intermeddling with what few of these governors know any thing of. In order to this, let us examine into the nature of societies, and what the compound ought to consist of, if we would raise it to as high a degree of strength, beauty, and perfection, as the ground we are to do it upon will let us. The variety of services that are required to supply the luxurious and wanton desires, as well as real necessities of man, with all their subordinate callings, is in such a nation as ours prodigious; yet it is certain that though the number of those several occupations be excessively great, it is far from being infinite; if you add one more than is required, it must be superfluous. If a man had a good stock, and the best shop in Cheapside to sell turbants in, he would be ruined; and if Demetrius, or any other silversmith, made nothing but Diana's shrines, he would not get his bread, now the worship of that goddess is out of fashion. As it is folly to set up trades that are not wanted, so what is next to it is to increase in any one trade, the numbers beyond what are required. As things are managed with us, it would be preposterous to have as many brewers as there are bakers, or as many woollen-drapers as there are shoemakers. This proportion as to numbers, in every trade, finds itself, and is never better kept than when nobody meddles or interferes with it. People that have children to educate that must get their livelihood, are always consulting and deliberating what trade or calling they are to bring them up to, until they are fixed; and thousands think on this, that hardly think at all on any thing else. First, they confine themselves to their circumstances, and he that can give but ten pounds with his son must not look out for a trade, where they ask an hundred with an apprentice; but the next they think on, is always which will be the most advantageous; if there be a calling where at that time people are more generally employed than they are in any other in the same reach, there are presently half a score fathers ready to supply it with their sons. Therefore the greatest care most companies have, is about the regulation of the number of apprentices. Now, when all trades complain, and perhaps justly, that they are overstocked, you manifestly injure that trade, to which you add one member more than would flow from the nature of society. Besides that, the governors of charity schools do not deliberate so much what trade is the best, but what tradesmen they can get that will take the boys, with such a sum; and few men of substance and experience will have any thing to do with these children; they are afraid of a hundred inconveniencies from the necessitous parents of them: so that they are bound, at least most commonly, either to sots and neglectful masters, or else such as are very needy and do not care what becomes of their apprentices, after they have received the money; by which it seems as if we studied nothing more than to have a perpetual nursery for charity schools. When all trades and handicrafts are overstocked, it is a certain sign there is a fault in the management of the whole; for it is impossible there should be too many people if the country is able to feed them. Are provisions dear? Whose fault is that, as long as you have ground untilled and hands unemployed? But I shall be answered, that to increase plenty, must at long-run undo the farmer, or lessen the rents all over England. To which I reply, that what the husbandman complains of most, is what I would redress: the greatest grievance of farmers, gardeners, and others, where hard labour is required, and dirty work to be done, is, that they cannot get servants for the same wages they used to have them at. The day-labourer grumbles at sixteen pence to do no other drudgery, than what thirty years ago his grandfather did cheerfully for half the money. As to the rents, it is impossible they should fall while you increase your numbers; but the price of provisions, and all labour in general, must fall with them, if not before; and a man of a hundred and fifty pounds a-year, has no reason to complain that his income is reduced to one hundred, if he can buy as much for that one hundred as before he could have done for two. There is no intrinsic worth in money, but what is alterable with the times; and whether a guinea goes for twenty pounds or for a shilling, it is (as I have already hinted before) the labour of the poor, and not the high and low value that is set on gold or silver, which all the comforts of life must arise from. It is in our power to have a much greater plenty than we enjoy, if agriculture and fishery were taken care of, as they might be; but we are so little capable of increasing our labour, that we have hardly poor enough to do what is necessary to make us subsist. The proportion of the society is spoiled, and the bulk of the nation, which should every where consist of labouring poor, that are unacquainted with every thing but their work, is too little for the other parts. In all business where downright labour is shunned or over-paid, there is plenty of people. To one merchant you have ten book keepers, or at least pretenders; and every where in the country the farmer wants hands. Ask for a footman that for some time has been in gentlemen's families, and you will get a dozen that are all butlers. You may have chamber-maids by the score, but you cannot get a cook under extravagant wages. Nobody will do the dirty slavish work, that can help it. I do not discommend them; but all these things show, that the people of the meanest rank, know too much to be serviceable to us. Servants require more than masters and mistresses can afford; and what madness is it to encourage them in this, by industriously increasing at our cost, that knowledge, which they will be sure to make us pay for over again! And it is not only that those who are educated at our own expence, encroach upon us, but the raw ignorant country wenches and boobily fellows that can do, and are good for nothing, impose upon us likewise. The scarcity of servants occasioned by the education of the first, gives a handle to the latter of advancing their price, and demanding what ought only to be given to servants that understand their business, and have most of the good qualities that can be required in them. There is no place in the world where there are more clever fellows to look at, or to do an errand, than some of our footmen; but what are they good for in the main? The greatest part of them are rogues, and not to be trusted; and if they are honest, half of them are sots, and will get drunk three or four times a week. The surly ones are generally quarrelsome, and valuing their manhood beyond all other considerations, care not what clothes they spoil, or what disappointments they may occasion, when their prowess is in question. Those who are good-natured, are generally sad whore-masters, that are ever running after the wenches, and spoil all the maid-servants they come near. Many of them are guilty of all these vices, whoring, drinking, quarrelling, and yet shall have all their faults overlooked and bore with, because they are men of good mien and humble address, that know how to wait on gentlemen; which is an unpardonable folly in masters, and generally ends in the ruin of servants. Some few there are, that are not addicted to any of these failings, and understand their duty besides; but as these are rarities, so there is not one in fifty but what over-rates himself; his wages must be extravagant, and you can never have done giving him; every thing in the house is his perquisite, and he will not stay with you unless his vails are sufficient to maintain a middling family; and though you had taken him from the dunghill, out of an hospital, or a prison, you shall never keep him longer than he can make of his place, what in his high estimation of himself he shall think he deserves; nay, the best and most civilized, that never were saucy and impertinent, will leave the most indulgent master, and, to get handsomely away, frame fifty excuses, and tell downright lies, as soon as they can mend themselves. A man, who keeps an half-crown or twelve-penny ordinary, looks not more for money from his customers, than a footman does from every guest that dines or sups with his master; and I question whether the one does not often think a shilling or half-a-crown, according to the quality of the person, his due as much as the other. A housekeeper, who cannot afford to make many entertainments, and does not often invite people to his table, can have no creditable man-servant, and is forced to take up with some country booby, or other awkward fellow, who will likewise give him the slip, as soon as he imagines himself fit for any other service, and is made wiser by his rascally companions. All noted eating-houses, and places that many gentlemen resort to for diversion or business, more especially the precincts of Westminster-hall, are the great schools for servants, where the dullest fellows may have their understandings improved; and get rid at once of their stupidity and their innocence. They are the academies for footmen, where public lectures are daily read, on all sciences of low debauchery, by the experienced professors of them; and students are instructed in above seven hundred illiberal arts, how to cheat, impose upon, and find out the blind side of their masters, with so much application, that in few years they become graduates in iniquity. Young gentlemen and others, that are not thoroughly versed in the world, when they get such knowing sharpers in their service, are commonly indulging above measure; and for fear of discovering their want of experience, hardly dare to contradict or deny them any thing, which is often the reason, that by allowing them unreasonable privileges, they expose their ignorance when they are most endeavouring to conceal it. Some perhaps will lay the things I complain of to the charge of luxury, of which I said that it could do no hurt to a rich nation, if the imports never did exceed the exports; but I do not think this imputation just, and nothing ought to be scored on the account of luxury, that is downright the effect of folly. A man may be very extravagant in indulging his ease and his pleasure, and render the enjoyment of the world as operose and expensive as they can be made, if he can afford it, and, at the same time, show his good sense in every thing about him: This he cannot be said to do, if he industriously renders his people incapable of doing him that service he expects from them. It is too much money, excessive wages, and unreasonable vails, that spoil servants in England. A man may have five and twenty horses in his stables, without being guilty of folly, if it suits with the rest of his circumstances; but if he keeps but one, and overfeeds it to show his wealth, he is a fool for his pains. Is it not madness to suffer, that servants should take three, and others five per cent. of what they pay to tradesmen for their masters, as is so well known to watchmakers, and others that sell toys, superfluous nicknacks, and other curiosities, if they deal with people of quality and fashionable gentlemen, that are above telling their own money? If they should accept of a present when offered, it might be connived at, but it is an unpardonable impudence that they should claim it as their due, and contend for it if refused. Those who have all the necessaries of life provided for, can have no occasion for money, but what does them hurt as servants, unless they were to hoard it up for age or sickness, which, among our skip-kennels, is not very common, and even then it makes them saucy and insupportable. I am credibly informed, that a parcel of footmen are arrived to that height of insolence, as to have entered into a society together, and made laws, by which they oblige themselves not to serve for less than such a sum, nor carry burdens, or any bundle or parcel above a certain weight, not exceeding two or three pounds, with other regulations directly opposite to the interest of those they serve, and altogether destructive to the use they were designed for. If any of them be turned away for strictly adhering to the orders of this honourable corporation, he is taken care of till another service is provided for him; and there is no money wanting at any time to commence and maintain a law-suit against any master that shall pretend to strike, or offer any other injury to his gentleman footman, contrary to the statutes of their society. If this be true, as I have reason to believe it is, and they are suffered to go on in consulting and providing for their own ease and conveniency any further, we may expect quickly to see the French comedy, Le Maitre le Valet acted in good earnest in most families, which, if not redressed in a little time, and those footmen increase their company to the number it is possible they may, as well as assemble when they please with impunity, it will be in their power to make a tragedy of it whenever they have a mind to it. But suppose those apprehensions frivolous and groundless, it is undeniable that servants, in general, are daily encroaching upon masters and mistresses, and endeavouring to be more upon the level with them. They not only seem solicitous to abolish the low dignity of their condition, but have already considerably raised it in the common estimation from the original meanness which the public welfare requires it should always remain in. I do not say that these things are altogether owing to charity schools, there are other evils they may be partly ascribed to. London is too big for the country, and, in several respects, we are wanting to ourselves. But if a thousand faults were to concur before the inconveniences could be produced we labour under, can any man doubt, who will consider what I have said, that charity schools are accessary, or, at least, that they are more likely to create and increase than to lessen or redress those complaints? The only thing of weight, then, that can be said in their behalf is, that so many thousand children are educated by them in the Christian faith, and the principles of the church of England. To demonstrate that this is not a sufficient plea for them, I must desire the reader, as I hate repetitions, to look back on what I have said before, to which I shall add, that whatever is necessary to salvation, and requisite for poor labouring people to know concerning religion, that children learn at school, may fully as well either by preaching or catechizing be taught at church, from which, or some other place of worship, I would not have the meanest of a parish that is able to walk to it be absent on Sundays. It is the Sabbath, the most useful day in seven, that is set apart for divine service and religious exercise, as well as resting from bodily labour; and it is a duty incumbent on all magistrates, to take particular care of that day. The poor more especially and their children, should be made to go to church on it, both in the fore and afternoon, because they have no time on any other. By precept and example they ought to be encouraged and used to it from their very infancy; the wilful neglect of it ought to be counted scandalous, and if downright compulsion to what I urge might seem too harsh, and perhaps impracticable, all diversions at least ought strictly to be prohibited, and the poor hindered from every amusement abroad that might allure or draw them from it. Where this care is taken by the magistrates, as far as it lies in their power, ministers of the gospel may instil into the smallest capacities, more piety and devotion, and better principles of virtue and religion, than charity schools ever did or ever will produce; and those who complain, when they have such opportunities, that they cannot imbue their parishioners with sufficient knowledge, of what they stand in need of as Christians, without the assistance of reading and writing, are either very lazy or very ignorant and undeserving themselves. That the most knowing are not the most religious, will be evident if we make a trial between people of different abilities, even in this juncture, where going to church is not made such an obligation on the poor and illiterate, as it might be. Let us pitch upon a hundred poor men, the first we can light on, that are above forty, and were brought up to hard labour from their infancy, such as never went to school at all, and always lived remote from knowledge and great towns: Let us compare to these an equal number of very good scholars, that shall all have had university education, and be, if you will, half of them divines, well versed in philology and polemic learning; then let us impartially examine into the lives and conversations of both, and I dare engage that among the first, who can neither read nor write, we shall meet with more union and neighbourly love, less wickedness and attachment to the world, more content of mind, more innocence, sincerity, and other good qualities that conduce to the public peace and real felicity, than we shall find among the latter, where, on the contrary, we may be assured of the height of pride and insolence, eternal quarrels and dissensions, irreconcileable hatreds, strife, envy, calumny, and other vices, destructive to mutual concord, which the illiterate labouring poor are hardly ever tainted with, to any considerable degree. I am very well persuaded, that what I have said in the last paragraph, will be no news to most of my readers; but if it be truth, why should it be stifled, and why must our concern for religion be eternally made a cloak to hide our real drifts and worldly intentions? Would both parties agree to pull off the mask, we should soon discover that whatever they pretend to, they aim at nothing so much in charity schools, as to strengthen their party; and that the great sticklers for the church, by educating children in the principles of religion, mean inspiring them with a superlative veneration for the clergy of the church of England, and a strong aversion and immortal animosity against all that dissent from it. To be assured of this, we are but to mind on the one hand, what divines are most admired for their charity sermons, and most fond to preach them; and on the other, whether of late years we have had any riots or party scuffles among the mob, in which the youth of a famous hospital in this city, were not always the most forward ringleaders. The grand asserters of liberty, who are ever guarding themselves, and skirmishing against arbitrary power, often when they are in no danger of it, are generally speaking, not very superstitious, nor seem to lay great stress on any modern apostleship: yet some of these likewise speak up loudly for charity schools; but what they expect from them has no relation to religion or morality: they only look upon them as the proper means to destroy, and disappoint the power of the priests over the laity. Reading and writing increase knowledge; and the more men know, the better they can judge for themselves, and they imagine that, if knowledge could be rendered universal, people could not be priest-rid, which is the thing they fear the most. The first, I confess, it is very possible will get their aim. But sure wise men that are not red-hot for a party, or bigots to the priests, will not think it worth while to suffer so many inconveniencies, as charity schools may be the occasion of, only to promote the ambition and power of the clergy. To the other I would answer, that if all those who are educated at the charge of their parents or relations, will but think for themselves, and refuse to have their reason imposed upon by the priests, we need not be concerned for what the clergy will work upon the ignorant that have no education at all. Let them make the most of them: considering the schools we have for those who can and do pay for learning, it is ridiculous to imagine that the abolishing of charity schools would be a step towards any ignorance that could be prejudicial to the nation. I would not be thought cruel, and am well assured if I know any thing of myself, that I abhor inhumanity; but to be compassionate to excess, where reason forbids it, and the general interest of the society requires steadiness of thought and resolution, is an unpardonable weakness. I know it will be ever urged against me, that it is barbarous the children of the poor should have no opportunity of exerting themselves, as long as God has not debarred them from natural parts and genius, more than the rich. But I cannot think this is harder, than it is that they should not have money, as long as they have the same inclinations to spend as others. That great and useful men have sprung from hospitals, I do not deny; but it is likewise very probable, that when they were first employed, many as capable as themselves not brought up in hospitals were neglected, that with the same good fortune would have done as well as they, if they had been made use of instead of them. There are many examples of women that have excelled in learning, and even in war, but this is no reason we should bring them all up to Latin and Greek, or else military discipline, instead of needle-work and housewifery. But there is no scarcity of sprightliness or natural parts among us, and no soil and climate has human creatures to boast of better formed, either inside or outside, than this island generally produces. But it is not wit, genius, or docility we want, but diligence, application, and assiduity. Abundance of hard and dirty labour is to be done, and coarse living is to be complied with: where shall we find a better nursery for these necessities than the children of the poor? none, certainly, are nearer to it or fitter for it: Besides that the things I called hardships, neither seem nor are such to those who have been brought up to them, and know no better. There is not a more contented people among us, than those who work the hardest, and are the least acquainted with the pomp and delicacies of the world. These are truths that are undeniable; yet I know few people will be pleased to have them divulged; what makes them odious, is an unreasonable vein of petty reverence for the poor, that runs through most multitudes, and more particularly in this nation, and arises from a mixture of pity, folly, and superstition. It is from a lively sense of this compound, that men cannot endure to hear or see any thing said or acted against the poor; without considering how just the one, or insolent the other. So a beggar must not be beat, though he strikes you first. Journeymen tailors go to law with their masters, and are obstinate in a wrong cause, yet they must be pitied; and murmuring weavers must be relieved, and have fifty silly things done to humour them, though in the midst of their poverty they insult their betters, and, on all occasions, appear to be more prone to make holidays and riots than they are to working or sobriety. This puts me in mind of our wool, which, considering the posture of our affairs, and the behaviour of the poor, I sincerely believe, ought not, upon any account, to be carried abroad: but if we look into the reason, why suffering it to be fetched away is so pernicious, our heavy complaint and lamentations that it is exported can be no great credit to us. Considering the mighty and manifold hazards that must be run before it can be got off the coast, and safely landed beyond sea, it is manifest that the foreigners, before they can work our wool, must pay more for it very considerably, than what we can have it for at home. Yet, notwithstanding this great difference in the prime cost, they can afford to sell the manufactures made of it cheaper at foreign markets than ourselves. This is the disaster we groan under, the intolerable mischief, without which the exportation of that commodity could be no greater prejudice to us than that of tin or lead, as long as our hands were fully employed, and we had still wool to spare. There is no people yet come to higher perfection in the woollen manufacture, either as to dispatch or goodness of work, at least in the most considerable branches, than ourselves; and therefore what we complain of can only depend on the difference in the management of the poor, between other nations and ours. If the labouring people in one country will work twelve hours in a day, and six days in a week, and in another they are employed but eight hours in a day, and not above four days in a week the one is obliged to have nine hands for what the other does with four. But if, moreover, the living, the food, and raiment, and what is consumed by the workmen of the industrious, costs but half the money of what is expended among an equal number of the other, the consequence must be, that the first will have the work of eighteen men for the same price as the other gives for the work of four. I would not insinuate, neither do I think, that the difference, either in diligence or necessaries of life between us and any neighbouring nation, is near so great as what I speak of, yet I would have it considered, that half of that difference, and much less, is sufficient to over-balance the disadvantage they labour under as to the price of wool. Nothing to me is more evident, than that no nation in any manufacture whatever can undersell their neighbours with whom they are at best but equals as to skill and dispatch, and the conveniency for working, more especially when the prime cost of the thing to be manufactured is not in their favour, unless they have provisions, and whatever is relating to their sustenance, cheaper, or else workmen that are either more assiduous, and will remain longer at their work, or be content with a meaner and coarser way of living than those of their neighbours. This is certain, that where numbers are equal, the more laborious people are, and the fewer hands the same quantity of work is performed by, the greater plenty there is in a country of the necessaries for life, the more considerable and the cheaper that country may render its exports. It being granted, then, that abundance of work is to be done, the next thing which I think to be likewise undeniable, is, that the more cheerfully it is done the better, as well for those that perform it, as for the rest of the society. To be happy is to be pleased, and the less notion a man has of a better way of living, the more content he will be with his own; and, on the other hand, the greater a man's knowledge and experience is in the world, the more exquisite the delicacy of his taste, and the more consummate judge he is of things in general, certainly the more difficult it will be to please him. I would not advance any thing that is barbarous or inhuman: but when a man enjoys himself, laughs and sings, and in his gesture and behaviour shows me all the tokens of content and satisfaction, I pronounce him happy, and have nothing to do with his wit or capacity. I never enter into the reasonableness of his mirth, at least I ought not to judge of it by my own standard, and argue from the effect which the thing that makes him merry would have upon me. At that rate, a man that hates cheese must call me fool for loving blue mold. De gustibus non est disputandum is as true in a metaphorical, as it is in the literal sense; and the greater the distance is between people as to their condition, their circumstances and manner of living, the less capable they are of judging of one another's troubles or pleasures. Had the meanest and most uncivilized peasant leave incognito to observe the greatest king for a fortnight; though he might pick out several things he would like for himself, yet he would find a great many more, which, if the monarch and he were to exchange conditions, he would wish for his part to have immediately altered or redressed, and which with amazement he sees the king submit to. And again, if the sovereign was to examine the peasant in the same manner, his labour would be unsufferable; the dirt and squalor, his diet and amours, his pastimes and recreations would be all abominable; but then what charms would he find in the other's peace of mind, the calmness and tranquillity of his soul? No necessity for dissimulation with any of his family, or feigned affection to his mortal enemies; no wife in a foreign interest, no danger to apprehend from his children; no plots to unravel, no poison to fear; no popular statesman at home, or cunning courts abroad to manage; no seeming patriots to bribe; no unsatiable favourite to gratify; no selfish ministry to obey; no divided nation to please, or fickle mob to humour, that would direct and interfere with his pleasures. Was impartial reason to be judge between real good and real evil, and a catalogue made accordingly, of the several delights and vexations differently to be met with in both stations; I question whether the condition of kings would be at all preferable to that of peasants, even as ignorant and laborious as I seem to require the latter to be. The reason why the generality of people would rather be kings than peasants, is first owing to pride and ambition, that is deeply riveted in human nature, and which to gratify, we daily see men undergo and despise the greatest hazards and difficulties. Secondly, to the difference there is in the force with which our affection is wrought upon, as the objects are either material or spiritual. Things that immediately strike our outward senses, act more violently upon our passions than what is the result of thought, and the dictates of the most demonstrative reason; and there is a much stronger bias to gain our liking or aversion in the first, than there is in the latter. Having thus demonstrated that what I urge could be no injury, or the least diminution of happiness to the poor, I leave it to the judicious reader, whether it is not more probable we should increase our exports by the methods I hint at, than by sitting still and damning and sinking our neighbours, for beating us at our own weapons; some of them out-selling us in manufactures made of our own product, which they dearly purchased, others growing rich in spite of distance and trouble, by the same fish which we neglect, though it is ready to jump into our mouths. As by discouraging idleness with art and steadiness, you may compel the poor to labour without force; so, by bringing them up in ignorance, you may inure them to real hardships, without being ever sensible themselves that they are such. By bringing them up in ignorance, I mean no more, as I have hinted long ago, than that, as to worldly affairs, their knowledge should be confined within the verge of their own occupations, at least that we should not take pains to extend it beyond those limits. When by these two engines we shall have made provisions, and consequently labour cheap, we must infallibly outsell our neighbours; and at the same time increase our numbers. This is the noble and manly way of encountering the rivals of our trade, and by dint of merit outdoing them at foreign markets. To allure the poor, we make use of policy in some cases with success. Why should we be neglectful of it in the most important point, when they make their boast that they will not live as the poor of other nations? If we cannot alter their resolution, why should we applaud the justness of their sentiments against the common interest? I have often wondered formerly how an Englishman that pretended to have the honour and glory, as well as the welfare of his country at heart, could take delight in the evening to hear an idle tenant that owed him above a year's rent, ridicule the French for wearing wooden shoes, when in the morning he had had the mortification of hearing the great King William, that ambitious monarch, as well as able statesman, openly own to the world, and with grief and anger in his looks, complain of the exorbitant power of France. Yet I do not recommend wooden shoes, nor do the maxims I would introduce require arbitrary power in one person. Liberty and property I hope may remain secured, and yet the poor be better employed than they are, though their children should wear out their clothes by useful labour, and blacken them with country dirt for something, instead of tearing them off their backs at play, and daubing them with ink for nothing. There is above three or four hundred years work, for a hundred thousand poor more than we have in this island. To make every part of it useful, and the whole thoroughly inhabited, many rivers are to be made navigable; canals to be cut in hundreds of places. Some lands are to be drained and secured from inundations for the future: abundance of barren soil is to be made fertile, and thousands of acres rendered more beneficial, by being made more accessible. Dii laboribus omnia vendunt. There is no difficulty of this nature, that labour and patience cannot surmount. The highest mountains may be thrown into their valleys that stand ready to receive them; and bridges might be laid where now we would not dare to think of it. Let us look back on the stupendous works of the Romans, more especially their highways and aqueducts. Let us consider in one view the vast extent of several of their roads, how substantial they made them, and what duration they have been of; and in another a poor traveller that at every ten miles end is stopped by a turnpike, and dunned for a penny for mending the roads in the summer, with what every body knows will be dirt before the winter that succeeds is expired. The conveniency of the public ought ever to be the public care, and no private interest of a town, or a whole country, should ever hinder the execution of a project or contrivance that would manifestly tend to the improvement of the whole; and every member of the legislature, who knows his duty. and would choose rather to act like a wise man, than curry favour with his neighbours, will prefer the least benefit accruing to the whole kingdom, to the most visible advantage of the place he serves for. We have materials of our own, and want neither stone nor timber to do any thing; and was the money that people give uncompelled to beggars, who do not deserve it, and what every housekeeper is obliged to pay to the poor of his parish, that is other wise employed or ill-applied, to be put together every year, it would make a sufficient fund to keep a great many thousands at work. I do not say this because I think it practicable, but only to show that we have money enough to spare, to employ vast multitudes of labourers; neither should we want so much for it as we perhaps might imagine. When it is taken for granted, that a soldier, whose strength and vigour is to be kept up at least as much as any body's, can live upon sixpence a-day, I cannot conceive the necessity of giving the greatest part of the year, sixteen and eighteen pence to a day-labourer. The fearful and cautious people, that are ever jealous of their liberty, I know will cry out, that where the multitudes I speak of should be kept in constant pay, property and privileges would be precarious. But they might be answered, that sure means might be found out, and such regulations made, as to the hands in which to trust the management and direction of these labourers, that it would be impossible for the prince, or any body else, to make an ill use of their numbers. What I have said in the four or five last paragraphs, I foresee, will, with abundance of scorn, be laughed at by many of my readers, and at best be called building castles in the air; but whether that is my fault or theirs is a question. When the public spirit has left a nation, they not only lose their patience with it, and all thoughts of perseverance, but become likewise so narrow-souled, that it is a pain for them even to think of things that are of uncommon extent, or require great length of time; and whatever is noble or sublime in such conjectures, is counted chimerical. Where deep ignorance is entirely routed and expelled, and low learning promiscuously scattered on all the people, self-love turns knowledge into cunning; and the more this last qualification prevails in any country, the more the people will fix all their cares, concern, and application, on the time present, without regard of what is to come after them, or hardly ever thinking beyond the next generation. But as cunning, according to my Lord Verulam, is but left-handed wisdom; so a prudent legislator ought to provide against this disorder of the society, as soon as the symptoms of it appear, among which the following are the most obvious. Imaginary rewards are generally despised; every body is for turning the penny, and short bargains; he that is diffident of every thing and believes nothing but what he sees with his own eyes, is counted the most prudent; and in all their dealings, men seem to act from no other principle than that of the devil take the hindmost. Instead of planting oaks, that will require a hundred and fifty years before they are fit to be cut down, they build houses with a design that they shall not stand above twelve or fourteen years. All heads run upon the uncertainty of things, and the vicissitudes of human affairs. The mathematics become the only valuable study, and are made use of in every thing, even where it is ridiculous, and men seem to repose no greater trust in Providence than they would in a broken merchant. It is the business of the public to supply the defects of the society, and take that in hand first which is most neglected by private persons. Contraries are best cured by contraries, and therefore, as example is of greater efficacy than precept, in the amendment of national failings, the legislature ought to resolve upon some great undertakings, that must be the work of ages as well as vast labour, and convince the world that they did nothing without an anxious regard to their latest posterity. This will fix, or at least help to settle, the volatile genius and fickle spirit of the kingdom; put us in mind that we are not born for ourselves only, and be a means of rendering men less distrustful, and inspiring them with a true love for their country, and a tender affection for the ground itself, than which nothing is more necessary to aggrandize a nation. Forms of government may alter; religions and even languages may change, but Great Britain, or at least (if that likewise might lose its name) the island itself will remain, and in all human probability, last as long as any part of the globe. All ages have ever paid their kind acknowledgments to their ancestors, for the benefits derived from them; and a Christian who enjoys the multitude of fountains, and vast plenty of water to be met with in the city of St. Peter, is an ungrateful wretch if he never casts a thankful remembrance on old Pagan Rome, that took such prodigious pains to procure it. When this island shall be cultivated, and every inch of it made habitable and useful, and the whole the most convenient and agreeable spot upon earth, all the cost and labour laid out upon it, will be gloriously repaid by the incense of them that shall come after us; and those who burn with the noble zeal and desire after immortality, and took such care to improve their country, may rest satisfied, that a thousand and two thousand years hence, they shall live in the memory and everlasting praises of the future ages that shall then enjoy it. Here I should have concluded this rhapsody of thoughts; but something comes in my head concerning the main scope and design of this essay, which is to prove the necessity there is for a certain portion of ignorance, in a well-ordered society, that I must not omit, because, by mentioning it, I shall make an argument on my side, of what, if I had not spoke of it, might easily have appeared as a strong objection against me. It is the opinion of most people, and mine among the rest, that the most commendable quality of the present Czar of Muscovy, is his unwearied application, in raising his subjects from their native stupidity, and civilizing his nation: but then we must consider it is what they stood in need of, and that not long ago the greatest part of them were next to brute beasts. In proportion to the extent of his dominions, and the multitudes he commands, he had not that number or variety of tradesmen and artificers, which the true improvement of the country required, and therefore was in the right, in leaving no stone unturned to procure them. But what is that to us who labour under a contrary disease? Sound politics are to the social body, what the art of medicine is to the natural, and no physician would treat a man in a lethargy as if he was sick for want of rest, or prescribe in a dropsy what should be administered in a diabetes. In short, Russia has too few knowing men, and Great Britain too many. A SEARCH INTO THE NATURE OF SOCIETY. The generality of moralists and philosophers have hitherto agreed that there could be no virtue without self-denial; but a late author, who is now much read by men of sense, is of a contrary opinion, and imagines that men, without any trouble, or violence upon themselves, may be naturally virtuous. He seems to require and expect goodness in his species, as we do a sweet taste in grapes and China oranges, of which, if any of them are sour, we boldly pronounce that they are not come to that perfection their nature is capable of. This noble writer (for it is the Lord Shaftesbury I mean in his Characteristics) fancies, that as a man is made for society, so he ought to be born with a kind affection to the whole, of which he is a part, and a propensity to seek the welfare of it. In pursuance of this supposition, he calls every action performed with regard to the public good, Virtuous; and all selfishness, wholly excluding such a regard, Vice. In respect to our species, he looks upon virtue and vice as permanent realities, that must ever be the same in all countries and all ages, and imagines that a man of sound understanding, by following the rules of good sense, may not only find out that pulchrum et honestum both in morality and the works of art and nature, but likewise govern himself, by his reason, with as much ease and readiness as a good rider manages a well-taught horse by the bridle. The attentive reader, who perused the foregoing part of this book, will soon perceive that two systems cannot be more opposite than his Lordship's and mine. His notions I confess, are generous and refined: they are a high compliment to human-kind, and capable, by a little enthusiasm, of inspiring us with the most noble sentiments concerning the dignity of our exalted nature. What pity it is that they are not true. I would not advance thus much if I had not already demonstrated, in almost ever page of this treatise, that the solidity of them is inconsistent with our daily experience. But, to leave not the least shadow of an objection that might be made unanswered, I design to expatiate on some things which hitherto I have but slightly touched upon, in order to convince the reader, not only that the good and amiable qualities of men are not those that make him beyond other animals a sociable creature; but, moreover, that it would be utterly impossible, either to raise any multitudes into a populous, rich, and flourishing nation, or, when so raised, to keep and maintain them in that condition, without the assistance of what we call Evil, both natural and moral. The better to perform what I have undertaken, I shall previously examine into the reality of the pulchrum et honestum, the to kalon that the ancients have talked of so much: the meaning of this is to discuss, whether there be a real worth and excellency in things, a pre-eminence of one above another; which every body will always agree to that well understands them; or, that there are few things, if any, that have the same esteem paid them, and which the same judgment is passed upon in all countries and all ages. When we first set out in quest of this intrinsic worth, and find one thing better than another, and a third better than that, and so on, we begin to entertain great hopes of success; but when we meet with several things that are all very good or all very bad, we are puzzled, and agree not always with ourselves, much less with others. There are different faults as well as beauties, that as modes and fashions alter and men vary in their tastes and humours, will be differently admired or disapproved of. Judges of painting will never disagree in opinion, when a fine picture is compared to the daubing of a novice; but how strangely have they differed as to the works of eminent masters! There are parties among connoisseurs; and few of them agree in their esteem as to ages and countries; and the best pictures bear not always the best prices: a noted original will be ever worth more than any copy that can be made of it by an unknown hand, though it should be better. The value that is set on paintings depends not only on the name of the master, and the time of his age he drew them in, but likewise in a great measure on the scarcity of his works; but, what is still more unreasonable, the quality of the persons in whose possession they are, as well as the length of time they have been in great families; and if the Cartons, now at Hampton-Court, were done by a less famous hand than that of Raphael, and had a private person for their owner, who would be forced to sell them, they would never yield the tenth part of the money which, with all their gross faults, they are now esteemed to be worth. Notwithstanding all this, I will readily own, that the judgment to be made of painting might become of universal certainty, or at least less alterable and precarious than almost any thing else. The reason is plain; there is a standard to go by that always remains the same. Painting is an imitation of nature, a copying of things which men have every where before them. My good humoured reader I hope will forgive me, if, thinking on this glorious invention, I make a reflection a little out of season, though very much conducive to my main design; which is, that valuable as the art is I speak of, we are beholden to an imperfection in the chief of our senses for all the pleasures and ravishing delight we receive from this happy deceit. I shall explain myself. Air and space are no objects of sight, but as soon as we can see with the least attention, we observe that the bulk of the things we see is lessened by degrees, as they are further remote from us, and nothing but experience, gained from these observations, can teach us to make any tolerable guesses at the distance of things. If one born blind should remain so till twenty, and then be suddenly blessed with sight, he would be strangely puzzled as to the difference of distances, and hardly able, immediately, by his eyes alone, to determine which was nearest to him, a post almost within the reach of his stick, or a steeple that should be half a mile off. Let us look as narrowly as we can upon a hole in a wall that has nothing but the open air behind it, and we shall not be able to see otherwise, but that the sky fills up the vacuity, and is as near us as the back part of the stones that circumscribe the space where they are wanting. This circumstance, not to call it a defect, in our sense of seeing, makes us liable to be imposed upon, and every thing, but motion, may, by art, be represented to us on a flat, in the same manner as we see them in life and nature. If a man had never seen this art put into practice, a looking-glass might soon convince him that such a thing was possible, and I cannot help thinking, but that the reflections from very smooth and well-polished bodies made upon our eyes, must have given the first handle to the inventions of drawings and painting. In the works of nature, worth, and excellency, are as uncertain: and even in human creatures, what is beautiful in one country, is not so in another. How whimsical is the florist in his choice! Sometimes the tulip, sometimes the auricula, and at other times the carnation shall engross his esteem, and every year a new flower, in his judgment, beats all the old ones, though it is much inferior to them both in colour and shape. Three hundred years ago men were shaved as closely as they are now: Since that they have wore beards, and cut them in vast variety of forms, that were all as becoming, when fashionable, as now they would be ridiculous. How mean and comically a man looks, that is otherwise well dressed, in a narrow brimmed hat, when every body wears broad ones; and again, how monstrous is a very great hat, when the other extreme has been in fashion for a considerable time? experience has taught us, that these modes seldom last above ten or twelve years, and a man of threescore must have observed five or six revolutions of them at least! yet the beginnings of these changes, though we have seen several, seem always uncouth, and are offensive a-fresh whenever they return. What mortal can decide which is the handsomest, abstract from the mode in being, to wear great buttons or small ones? the many ways of laying out a garden judiciously are almost innumerable; and what is called beautiful in them, varies according to the different tastes of nations and ages. In grass plats, knots and parterres, a great diversity of forms is generally agreeable; but a round may be as pleasing to the eye as a square: an oval cannot be more suitable to one place, than it is possible for a triangle to be to another; and the pre-eminence an octogon has over an hexagon is no greater in figures, than at hazard eight has above six among the chances. Churches, ever since Christians have been able to build them, resemble the form of a cross, with the upper end pointing toward the east; and an architect, where there is room, and it can be conveniently done, who should neglect it, would be thought to have committed an unpardonable fault; but it would be foolish to expect this of a Turkish mosque or a Pagan temple. Among the many beneficial laws that have been made these hundred years, it is not easy to name one of greater utility, and, at the same time, more exempt from all inconveniences, than that which regulated the dresses of the dead. Those who were old enough to take notice of things when that act was made, and are yet alive, must remember the general clamour that was made against it. At first, nothing could be more shocking to thousands of people than that they were to be buried in woollen, and the only thing that made that law supportable was, that there was room left for people of some fashion to indulge their weakness without extravagancy; considering the other expences of funerals where mourning is given to several, and rings to a great many. The benefit that accrues to the nation from it is so visible, that nothing ever could be said in reason to condemn it, which, in few years, made the horror conceived against it lessen every day. I observed then that young people, who had seen but few in their coffins, did the soonest strike in with the innovation; but that those who, when the act was made, had buried many friends and relations, remained averse to it the longest, and I remember many that never could be reconciled to it to their dying day. By this time, burying in linen being almost forgot, it is the general opinion that nothing could be more decent than woollen, and the present manner of dressing a corps; which shows that our liking or disliking of things chiefly depends on mode and custom, and the precept and example of our betters, and such whom one way or other we think to be superior to us. In morals there is no greater certainty. Plurality of wives is odious among Christians, and all the wit and learning of a great genius in defence of it, has been rejected with contempt: But polygamy is not shocking to a Mahometan. What men have learned from their infancy enslaves them, and the force of custom warps nature, and, at the same time, imitates her in such a manner, that it is often difficult to know which of the two we are influenced by. In the east, formerly sisters married brothers, and it was meritorious for a man to marry his mother. Such alliances are abominable; but it is certain that, whatever horror we conceive at the thoughts of them, there is nothing in nature repugnant against them, but what is built upon mode and custom. A religious Mahometan that has never tasted any spirituous liquor, and has often seen people drunk, may receive as great an aversion against wine, as another with us of the least morality and education may have against lying with his sister, and both imagine that their antipathy proceeds from nature. Which is the best religion? is a question that has caused more mischief than all other questions together. Ask it at Pekin, at Constantinople, and at Rome, and you will receive three distinct answers extremely different from one another, yet all of them equally positive and peremptory. Christians are well assured of the falsity of the Pagan and Mahometan superstitions: as to this point, there is a perfect union and concord among them; but inquire of the several sects they are divided into, Which is the true church of Christ? and all of them will tell you it is theirs, and to convince you, go together by the ears. It is manifest, then, that the hunting after this pulchrum & honestum, is not much better than a wild-goose-chase that is but little to be depended on: But this is not the greatest fault I find with it. The imaginary notions that men may be virtuous without self-denial, are a vast inlet to hypocrisy; which being once made habitual, we must not only deceive others, but likewise become altogether unknown to ourselves; and in an instance I am going to give, it will appear, how, for want of duly examining himself, this might happen to a person of quality, of parts, and erudition, one every way resembling the author of the Characteristics himself. A man that has been brought up in ease and affluence, if he is of a quiet indolent nature, learns to shun every thing that is troublesome, and chooses to curb his passions, more because of the inconveniences that arise from the eager pursuit after pleasure, and the yielding to all the demands of our inclinations, than any dislike he has to sensual enjoyments; and it is possible, that a person educated under a great philosopher, who was a mild and good-natured, as well as able tutor, may, in such happy circumstances, have a better opinion of his inward state than it really deserves, and believe himself virtuous, because his passions lie dormant. He may form fine notions of the social virtues, and the contempt of death, write well of them in his closet, and talk eloquently of them in company, but you shall never catch him fighting for his country, or labouring to retrieve any national losses. A man that deals in metaphysics may easily throw himself into an enthusiasm, and really believe that he does not fear death while it remains out of sight. But should he be asked, why, having this intrepidity either from nature, or acquired by philosophy, he did not follow arms when his country was involved in war; or when he saw the nation daily robbed by those at the helm, and the affairs of the exchequer perplexed, why he did not go to court, and make use of all his friends and interest to be a lord treasurer, that by his integrity and wise management, he might restore the public credit: It is probable he would answer that he loved retirement, had no other ambition than to be a good man, and never aspired to have any share in the government; or that he hated all flattery and slavish attendance, the insincerity of courts and bustle of the world. I am willing to believe him: but may not a man of an indolent temper and unactive spirit, say, and be sincere in all this, and, at the same time, indulge his appetites without being able to subdue them, though his duty summons him to it. Virtue consists in action, and whoever is possessed of this social love and kind affection to his species, and by his birth or quality can claim any post in the public management, ought not to sit still when he can be serviceable, but exert himself to the utmost for the good of his fellow subjects. Had this noble person been of a warlike genius, or a boisterous temper, he would have chose another part in the drama of life, and preached a quite contrary doctrine: For we are ever pushing our reason which way soever we feel passion to draw it, and self-love pleads to all human creatures for their different views, still furnishing every individual with arguments to justify their inclinations. That boasted middle way, and the calm virtues recommended in the Characteristics, are good for nothing but to breed drones, and might qualify a man for the stupid enjoyments of a monastic life, or at best a country justice of peace, but they would never fit him for labour and assiduity, or stir him up to great achievements and perilous undertakings. Man's natural love of ease and idleness, and proneness to indulge his sensual pleasures, are not to be cured by precept: His strong habits and inclinations can only be subdued by passions of greater violence. Preach and demonstrate to a coward the unreasonableness of his fears, and you will not make him valiant, more than you can make him taller, by bidding him to be ten foot high, whereas the secret to raise courage, as I have made it public in Remark on l. 321, is almost infallible. The fear of death is the strongest when we are in our greatest vigour, and our appetite is keen; when we are sharp-sighted, quick of hearing, and every part performs its office. The reason is plain, because then life is most delicious, and ourselves most capable of enjoying it. How comes it, then, that a man of honour should so easily accept of a challenge, though at thirty and in perfect health? It is his pride that conquers his fear: For, when his pride is not concerned, this fear will appear most glaringly. If he is not used to the sea, let him but be in a storm, or, if he never was ill before, have but a sore throat, or a slight fever, and he will show a thousand anxieties, and in them the inestimable value he sets on life. Had man been naturally humble and proof against flattery, the politician could never have had his ends, or known what to have made of him. Without vices, the excellency of the species would have ever remained undiscovered, and every worthy that has made himself famous in the world, is a strong evidence against this amiable system. If the courage of the great Macedonian came up to distraction, when he fought alone against a whole garrison, his madness was not less when he fancied himself to be a god, or at least doubted whether he was or not; and as soon as we make this reflection, we discover both the passion and the extravagancy of it, that buoyed up his spirits in the most imminent dangers, and carried him through all the difficulties and fatigues he underwent. There never was in the world a brighter example of an able and complete magistrate than Cicero: When I think on his care and vigilance, the real hazards he slighted, and the pains he took for the safety of Rome; his wisdom and sagacity in detecting and disappointing the stratagems of the boldest and most subtle conspirators, and, at the same time, on his love to literature, arts, and sciences, his capacity in metaphysics, the justness of his reasonings, the force of his eloquence, the politeness of his style, and the genteel spirit that runs through his writings; when I think, I say, on all these things together, I am struck with amazement, and the least I can say of him is, that he was a prodigious man. But when I have set the many good qualities he had in the best light, it is as evident to me on the other side, that had his vanity been inferior to his greatest excellency, the good sense and knowledge of the world he was so eminently possessed of, could never have let him be such a fulsome as well as noisy trumpeter as he was of his own praises, or suffered him rather than not proclaim his own merit, to make a verse that a school boy would have been laughed at for. O! Fortunatam, &c. How strict and severe was the morality of rigid Cato, how steady and unaffected the virtue of that grand asserter of Roman liberty! but though the equivalent this stoic enjoyed, for all the self-denial and austerity he practised, remained long concealed, and his peculiar modesty hid from the world, and perhaps himself a vast while, the frailty of his heart, that forced him into heroism, yet it was brought to light in the last scene of his life, and by his suicide it plainly appeared that he was governed by a tyrannical power, superior to the love of his country, and that the implacable hatred and superlative envy he bore to the glory, the real greatness and personal merit of Cæsar, had for a long time swayed all his actions under the most noble pretences. Had not this violent motive over-ruled his consummate prudence, he might not only have saved himself, but likewise most of his friends that were ruined by the loss of him, and would in all probability, if he could have stooped to it, been the second man in Rome. But he knew the boundless mind and unlimited generosity of the victor: it was his clemency he feared, and therefore chose death because it was less terrible to his pride, than the thoughts of giving his mortal foe so tempting an opportunity of showing the magnanimity of his soul, as Cæsar would have found in forgiving such an inveterate enemy as Cato, and offering him his friendship; and which, it is thought by the judicious, that penetrating as well as ambitious conqueror would not have slipped, if the other had dared to live. Another argument to prove the kind disposition, and real affection we naturally have for our species, is our love of company, and the aversion men that are in their senses generally have to solitude, beyond other creatures. This bears a fine gloss in the Characteristics, and is set off in very good language to the best advantage: the next day after I read it first, I heard abundance of people cry fresh herrings, which, with the reflexion on the vast shoals of that and other fish that are caught together, made me very merry, though I was alone; but as I was entertaining myself with this contemplation, came an impertinent idle fellow, whom I had the misfortune to be known by, and asked me how I did, though I was, and dare say, looked as healthy and as well as ever I was or did in my life. What I answered him I forgot, but remember that I could not get rid of him in a good while, and felt all the uneasiness my friend Horace complains of, from a persecution of the like nature. I would have no sagacious critic pronounce me a man-hater from this short story; whoever does is very much mistaken. I am a great lover of company, and if the reader is not quite tired with mine, before I show the weakness and ridicule of that piece of flattery made to our species, and which I was just now speaking of, I will give him a description of the man I would choose for conversation, with a promise that before he has finished, what at first he might only take for a digression foreign to my purpose, he shall find the use of it. By early and artful instruction, he should be thoroughly imbued with the notions of honour and shame, and have contracted an habitual aversion to every thing that has the least tendency to impudence, rudeness, or inhumanity. He should be well versed in the Latin tongue, and not ignorant of the Greek, and moreover understand one or two of the modern languages besides his own. He should be acquainted with the fashions and customs of the ancients, but thoroughly skilled in the history of his own country, and the manners of the age he lives in. He should besides literature, have studied some useful science or other, seen some foreign courts and universities, and made the true use of travelling. He should at times take delight in dancing, fencing, riding the great horse, and knowing something of hunting and other country sports, without being attached to any, and he should treat them all as either exercises for health, or diversions that should never interfere with business, or the attaining to more valuable qualifications. He should have a smatch of geometry and astronomy, as well as anatomy, and the economy of human bodies; to understand music so as to perform, is an accomplishment: but there is abundance to be said against it; and instead of it, I would have him know so much of drawing as is required to take a landskip, or explain ones meaning of any form or model we would describe, but never to touch a pencil. He should be very early used to the company of modest women, and never be a fortnight without conversing with the ladies. Gross vices, as irreligion, whoring, gaming, drinking and quarrelling, I will not mention: even the meanest education guards us against them; I would always recommend to him the practice of virtue, but I am for no voluntary ignorance, in a gentleman, of any thing that is done in court or city. It is impossible a man should be perfect, and therefore there are faults I would connive at, if I could not prevent them; and if between the years of nineteen and three-and-twenty, youthful heat should sometimes get the better of his chastity, so it was done with caution; should he on some extraordinary occasion, overcome by the pressing solicitations of jovial friends, drink more than was consistent with strict sobriety, so he did it very seldom and found it not to interfere with his health or temper; or if by the height of his mettle, and great provocation in a just cause, he had been drawn into a quarrel, which true wisdom and a less strict adherence to the rules of honour, might have declined or prevented, so it never befel him above once: if I say he should have happened to be guilty of these things, and he would never speak, much less brag of them himself, they might be pardoned, or at least overlooked at the age I named, if he left off then and continued discreet forever after. The very disasters of youth, have sometimes frightened gentlemen into a more steady prudence, than in all probability they would ever have been masters of without them. To keep him from turpitude and things that are openly scandalous, there is nothing better than to procure him free access in one or two noble families, where his frequent attendance is counted a duty: and while by that means you preserve his pride, he is kept in a continual dread of shame. A man of a tolerable fortune, pretty near accomplished as I have required him to be, that still improves himself and sees the world till he is thirty, cannot be disagreeable to converse with, at least while he continues in health and prosperity, and has nothing to spoil his temper. When such a one, either by chance or appointment, meets with three or four of our equals, and all agree to pass away a few hours together, the whole is what I call good company. There is nothing said in it that is not either instructive or diverting to a man of sense. It is possible they may not always be of the same opinion, but there can be no contest between any, but who shall yield first to the other he differs from. One only speaks at a time, and no louder than to be plainly understood by him who sits the farthest off. The greatest pleasure aimed at by every one of them, is to have the satisfaction of pleasing others, which they all practically know may as effectually be done, by hearkening with attention and an approving countenance, as we said very good things ourselves. Most people of any taste would like such a conversation, and justly prefer it to being alone, when they knew not how to spend their time; but if they could employ themselves in something from which they expected, either a more solid or a more lasting satisfaction, they would deny themselves this pleasure, and follow what was of greater consequence to them. But would not a man, though he had seen no mortal in a fortnight, remain alone as much longer, rather than get into company of noisy fellows, that take delight in contradiction, and place a glory in picking a quarrel? Would not one that has books read for ever, or set himself to write upon some subject or other, rather than be every night with party-men who count the island to be good for nothing, while their adversaries are suffered to live upon it? Would not a man be by himself a month, and go to bed before seven a clock, rather than mix with fox-hunters, who having all day long tried in vain to break their necks, join at night in a second attempt upon their lives by drinking, and to express their mirth, are louder in senseless sounds within doors, than their barking and less troublesome companions are only without? I have no great value for a man who would not rather tire himself with walking; or if he was shut up scatter pins about the room in order to pick them up again, than keep company for six hours with half a score common sailors the day their ship was paid off. I will grant, nevertheless, that the greatest part of mankind, rather than be alone any considerable time, would submit to the things I named: but I cannot see, why this love of company, this strong desire after society, should be construed so much in our favour, and alleged as a mark of some intrinsic worth in man, not to be found in other animals. For to prove from it the goodness of our nature, and a generous love in man, extended beyond himself on the rest of his species, by virtue of which he was a sociable creature, this eagerness after company and aversion of being alone, ought to have been most conspicuous, and most violent in the best of their kind; the men of the greatest genius, parts and accomplishments, and those who are the least subject to vice; the contrary of which is true. The weakest minds, who can the least govern their passions, guilty consciences that abhor reflexion, and the worthless, who are incapable of producing any thing of their own that is useful, are the greatest enemies to solitude, and will take up with any company rather than be without; whereas, the men of sense and of knowledge, that can think and contemplate on things, and such as are but little disturbed by their passions, can bear to be by themselves the longest without reluctancy; and, to avoid noise, folly, and impertinence, will run away from twenty companies; and, rather than meet with any thing disagreeable to their good taste, will prefer their closet or a garden, nay, a common or a desert to the society of some men. But let us suppose the love of company so inseparable from our species, that no man could endure to be alone one moment, what conclusions could be drawn from this? Does not man love company, as he does every thing else, for his own sake? No friendships or civilities are lasting that are not reciprocal. In all your weekly and daily meetings for diversion, as well as annual feasts, and the most solemn carousels, every member that assists at them has his own ends, and some frequent a club which they would never go to unless they were the top of it. I have known a man who was the oracle of the company, be very constant, and as uneasy at any thing that hindered him from coming at the hour, leave his society altogether, as soon as another was added that could match, and disputed superiority with him. There are people who are incapable of holding an argument, and yet malicious enough to take delight in hearing others wrangle; and though they never concern themselves in the controversy, would think a company insipid where they could not have that diversion. A good house, rich furniture, a fine garden, horses, dogs, ancestors, relations, beauty, strength, excellency in any thing whatever; vices as well as virtue, may all be accessary to make men long for society, in hopes that what they value themselves upon will at one time or other become the theme of the discourse, and give an inward satisfaction to them. Even the most polite people in the world, and such as I spoke of at first, give no pleasure to others that is not repaid to their self-love, and does not at last centre in themselves, let them wind it and turn it as they will. But the plainest demonstration that in all clubs and societies of conversable people, every body has the greatest consideration for himself, is, that the disinterested, who rather over-pays than wrangles; the good humoured, that is never waspish nor soon offended; the easy and indolent, that hates disputes and never talks for triumph, is every where the darling of the company: whereas, the man of sense and knowledge, that will not be imposed upon or talked out of his reason; the man of genius and spirit, that can say sharp and witty things, though he never lashes but what deserves it; the man of honour, who neither gives nor takes an affront, may be esteemed, but is seldom so well beloved as a weaker man less accomplished. As in these instances, the friendly qualities arise from our contriving perpetually our own satisfaction, so, on other occasions, they proceed from the natural timidity of man, and the solicitous care he takes of himself. Two Londoners, whose business oblige them not to have any commerce together, may know, see, and pass by one another every day upon the Exchange, with not much greater civility than bulls would: let them meet at Bristol they will pull off their hats, and on the least opportunity enter into conversation, and be glad of one another's company. When French, English, and Dutch, meet in China, or any other Pagan country, being all Europeans, they look upon one another as countrymen, and if no passion interferes, will feel a natural propensity to love one another. Nay, two men that are at enmity, if they are forced to travel together, will often lay by their animosities, be affable, and converse in a friendly manner, especially if the road be unsafe, and they are both strangers in the place they are to go to. These things by superficial judges, are attributed to mans sociableness, his natural propensity to friendship and love of company; but whoever will duly examine things, and look into man more narrowly, will find, that on all these occasions we only endeavour to strengthen our interest, and are moved by the causes already alleged. What I have endeavoured hitherto, has been to prove, that the pulchrum et honestum, excellency and real worth of things are most commonly precarious and alterable as modes and customs vary; that consequently the inferences drawn from their certainty are insignificant, and that the generous notions concerning the natural goodness of man are hurtful, as they tend to mislead, and are merely chimerical: the truth of this latter I have illustrated by the most obvious examples in history. I have spoke of our love of company and aversion to solitude, examined thoroughly the various motives of them, and made it appear that they all centre in self-love. I intend now to investigate into the nature of society, and diving into the very rise of it, make it evident, that not the good and amiable, but the bad and hateful qualities of man, his imperfections and the want of excellencies, which other creatures are endued with, are the first causes that made man sociable beyond other animals, the moment after he lost Paradise; and that if he had remained in his primitive innocence, and continued to enjoy the blessings that attended it, there is no shadow of probability that he ever would have become that sociable creature he is now. How necessary our appetites and passions are for the welfare of all trades and handicrafts, has been sufficiently proved throughout the book, and that they are our bad qualities, or at least produce them, nobody denies. It remains then, that I should set forth the variety of obstacles that hinder and perplex man in the labour he is constantly employed in, the procuring of what he wants; and which in other words is called the business of self-preservation: while, at the same time, I demonstrate that the sociableness of man arises only from these two things, viz. the multiplicity of his desires, and the continual opposition he meets with in his endeavours to gratify them. The obstacles I speak of, relate either to our own frame, or the globe we inhabit, I mean the condition of it, since it has been cursed. I have often endeavoured to contemplate separately on the two things I named last, but could never keep them asunder; they always interfere and mix with one another; and at last make up together a frightful chaos of evil. All the elements are our enemies, water drowns and fire consumes those who unskilfully approach them. The earth in a thousand places produces plants, and other vegetables that are hurtful to man, while she feeds and cherishes a variety of creatures that are noxious to him; and suffers a legion of poisons to dwell within her: but the most unkind of all the elements is that which we cannot live one moment without: it is impossible to repeat all the injuries we receive from the wind and weather; and though the greatest part of mankind, have ever been employed in defending their species from the inclemency of the air, yet no art or labour have hitherto been able to find a security against the wild rage of some meteors. Hurricanes, it is true, happen but seldom, and few men are swallowed up by earthquakes, or devoured by lions; but while we escape those gigantic mischiefs, we are persecuted by trifles. What a vast variety of insects are tormenting to us; what multitudes of them insult and make game of us with impunity! The most despicable scruple not to trample and graze upon us as cattle do upon a field: which yet is often born with, if moderately they use their fortune; but here again our clemency becomes a vice, and so encroaching are their cruelty and contempt of us on our pity, that they make laystalls of our hands, and devour our young ones if we are not daily vigilant in pursuing and destroying them. There is nothing good in all the universe to the best-designing man, if either through mistake or ignorance he commits the least failing in the use of it; there is no innocence or integrity, that can protect a man from a thousand mischiefs that surround him: on the contrary, every thing is evil, which art and experience have not taught us to turn into a blessing. Therefore how diligent in harvest time is the husbandman, in getting in his crop and sheltering it from rain, without which he could never have enjoyed it! As seasons differ with the climates, experience has taught us differently to make use of them, and in one part of the globe we may see the farmer sow while he is reaping in the other; from all which we may learn how vastly this earth must have been altered since the fall of our first parents. For should we trace man from his beautiful, his divine original, not proud of wisdom acquired by haughty precept or tedious experience, but endued with consummate knowledge the moment he was formed; I mean the state of innocence, in which no animal nor vegetable upon earth, nor mineral under ground was noxious to him, and himself secured from the injuries of the air as well as all other harms, was contented with the necessaries of life, which the globe he inhabited furnished him with, without his assistance. When yet not conscious of guilt, he found himself in every place to be the well obeyed unrivalled lord of all, and unaffected with his greatness, was wholly wrapped up in sublime meditations on the infinity of his Creator, who daily did vouchsafe intelligibly to speak to him, and visit without mischief. In such a golden age, no reason or probability can be alleged, why mankind ever should have raised themselves into such large societies as there have been in the world, as long as we can give any tolerable account of it. Where a man has every thing he desires, and nothing to vex or disturb him, there is nothing can be added to his happiness; and it is impossible to name a trade, art, science, dignity, or employment, that would not be superfluous in such a blessed state. If we pursue this thought, we shall easily perceive that no societies could have sprung from the amiable virtues and loving qualities of man; but, on the contrary, that all of them must have had the origin from his wants, his imperfections, and the variety of his appetites: we shall find likewise, that the more their pride and vanity are displayed, and all their desires enlarged, the more capable they must be of being raised into large and vastly numerous societies. Was the air always as inoffensive to our naked bodies, and as pleasant as to our thinking it is to the generality of birds in fair weather, and man had not been affected with pride, luxury and hypocrisy, as well as lust, I cannot see what could have put us upon the invention of clothes and houses. I shall say nothing of jewels, of plate, painting, sculpture, fine furniture, and all that rigid moralists have called unnecessary and superfluous: but if we were not soon tired with walking a-foot, and were as nimble as some other animals; if men were naturally laborious, and none unreasonable in seeking and indulging their ease, and likewise free from other vices, and the ground was every where even, solid and clean, who would have thought of coaches or ventured on a horse's back? What occasion has the dolphin for a ship, or what carriage would an eagle ask to travel in? I hope the reader knows, that by society I understand a body politic, in which man either subdued by superior force, or by persuasion drawn from his savage state, is become a disciplined creature, that can find his own ends in labouring for others, and where under one head or other form of government, each member is rendered subservient to the whole, and all of them by cunning management are made to act as one. For if by society we only mean a number of people, that without rule or government, should keep together, out of a natural affection to their species, or love of company, as a herd of cows or a flock of sheep, then there is not in the world a more unfit creature for society than man; an hundred of them that should be all equals, under no subjection, or fear of any superior upon earth, could never live together awake two hours without quarrelling, and the more knowledge, strength, wit, courage and resolution there was among them, the worse it would be. It is probable, that in the wild state of nature, parents would keep a superiority over their children, at least while they were in strength, and that even afterwards, the remembrance of what the others had experienced, might produce in them something between love and fear, which we call reverence: it is probable, likewise, that the second generation following the example of the first; a man with a little cunning would always be able, as long as he lived and had his senses, to maintain a superior sway over all his own offspring and descendants, how numerous soever they might grow. But the old stock once dead, the sons would quarrel, and there could be no peace long before there had been war. Eldership in brothers is of no great force, and the pre-eminence that is given to it, only invented as a shift to live in peace. Man, as he is a fearful animal, naturally not rapacious, loves peace and quiet, and he would never fight, if nobody offended him, and he could have what he fights for without it. To this fearful disposition, and the aversion he has to his being disturbed, are owing all the various projects and forms of government. Monarchy, without doubt, was the first. Aristocracy and democracy were two different methods of mending the inconveniencies of the first, and a mixture of these three an improvement on all the rest. But be we savages or politicians, it is impossible that man, mere fallen man, should act with any other view but to please himself while he has the use of his organs, and the greatest extravagancy either of love or despair can have no other centre. There is no difference between will and pleasure in one sense, and every motion made in spite of them must be unnatural and convulsive. Since, then, action is so confined, and we are always forced to do what we please, and at the same time our thoughts are free and uncontrouled, it is impossible we could be sociable creatures without hypocrisy. The proof of this is plain, since we cannot prevent the ideas that are continually arising within us, all civil commerce would be lost, if, by art and prudent dissimulation we had not learned to hide and stifle them; and if all we think was to be laid open to others, in the same manner as it is to ourselves, it is impossible that, endued with speech, we could be sufferable to one another. I am persuaded that every reader feels the truth of what I say; and I tell my antagonist that his conscience flies in his face, while his tongue is preparing to refute me. In all civil societies men are taught insensibly to be hypocrites from their cradle; nobody dares to own that he gets by public calamities, or even by the loss of private persons. The sexton would be stoned should he wish openly for the death of the parishioners, though every body knew that he had nothing else to live upon. To me it is a great pleasure, when I look on the affairs of human life, to behold into what various, and often strangely opposite forms, the hope of gain and thoughts of lucre shape men, according to the different employments they are of, and stations they are in. How gay and merry does every face appear at a well ordered ball, and what a solemn sadness is observed at the masquerade of a funeral! but the undertaker is as much pleased with his gains as the dancing-master: both are equally tired in their occupations, and the mirth of the one is as much forced as the gravity of the other is affected. Those who have never minded the conversation of a spruce mercer, and a young lady his customer that comes to his shop, have neglected a scene of life that is very entertaining. I beg of my serious reader, that he would, for a while, abate a little of his gravity, and suffer me to examine these people separately, as to their inside, and the different motives they act from. His business is to sell as much silk as he can at a price by which he shall get what he proposes to be reasonable, according to the customary profits of the trade. As to the lady, what she would be at is to please her fancy, and buy cheaper by a groat or sixpence per yard than the things she wants are commonly sold at. From the impression the gallantry of our sex has made upon her, she imagines (if she be not very deformed) that she has a fine mien and easy behaviour, and a peculiar sweetness of voice; that she is handsome, and if not beautiful, at least more agreeable than most young women she knows. As she has no pretensions to purchase the same things with less money than other people, but what are built on her good qualities, so she sets herself off to the best advantage her wit and discretion will let her. The thoughts of love are here out of the case; so on the one hand, she has no room for playing the tyrant, and giving herself angry and peevish airs, and, on the other, more liberty of speaking kindly, and being affable than she can have almost on any other occasion. She knows that abundance of well-bred people come to his shop, and endeavours to render herself as amiable as virtue and the rules of decency allow of. Coming with such a resolution of behaviour, she cannot meet with any thing to ruffle her temper. Before her coach is yet quite stopped, she is approached by a gentleman-like man, that has every thing clean and fashionable about him, who in low obeisance pays her homage, and as soon as her pleasure is known that she has a mind to come in, hands her into the shop, where immediately he slips from her, and through a by-way that remains visible only for half a moment, with great address entrenches himself behind the counter: here facing her, with a profound reverence and modish phrase, he begs the favour of knowing her commands. Let her say and dislike what she pleases, she can never be directly contradicted: she deals with a man in whom consummate patience is one of the mysteries of his trade, and whatever trouble she creates she is sure to hear nothing but the most obliging language, and has always before her a cheerful countenance, where joy and respect seem to be blended with good humour, and altogether make up an artificial serenity more engaging than untaught nature is able to produce. When two persons are so well met, the conversation must be very agreeable, as well as extremely mannerly, though they talk about trifles. While she remains irresolute what to take, he seems to be the same in advising her; and is very cautious how to direct her choice; but when once she has made it and is fixed, he immediately becomes positive, that it is the best of the sort, extols her fancy, and the more he looks upon it, the more he wonders he should not before have discovered the pre-eminence of it over any thing he has in his shop. By precept, example, and great application, he has learned unobserved to slide into the inmost recesses of the soul, sound the capacity of his customers, and find out their blind side unknown to them: by all which he is instructed in fifty other stratagems to make her over-value her own judgment as well as the commodity she would purchase. The greatest advantage he has over her, lies in the most material part of the commerce between them, the debate about the price, which he knows to a farthing, and she is wholly ignorant of: therefore he no where more egregiously imposes on her understanding; and though here he has the liberty of telling what lies he pleases, as to the prime cost, and the money he has refused, yet he trusts not to them only; but, attacking her vanity, makes her believe the most incredible things in the world, concerning his own weakness and her superior abilities; he had taken a resolution, he says, never to part with that piece under such a price, but she has the power of talking him out of his goods beyond any body he ever sold to: he protests that he loses by his silk, but seeing that she has a fancy for it, and is resolved to give no more, rather than disoblige a lady he has such an uncommon value for, he will let her have it, and only begs that another time she will not stand so hard with him. In the mean time, the buyer, who knows that she is no fool, and has a voluble tongue, is easily persuaded that she has a very winning way of talking, and thinking it sufficient, for the sake of good-breeding, to disown her merit, and in some witty repartee retort the compliment, he makes her swallow very contentedly, the substance of every thing he tells her. The upshot is, that, with the satisfaction of having saved ninepence per yard, she has bought her silk exactly at the same price as any body else might have done, and often gives sixpence more than, rather than not have sold it, he would have taken. It is possible that this lady, for want of being sufficiently flattered, for a fault she is pleased to find in his behaviour, or perhaps the tying of his neckcloth, or some other dislike as substantial, may be lost, and her custom bestowed on some other of the fraternity. But where many of them live in a cluster, it is not always easily determined which shop to go to, and the reasons some of the fair sex have for their choice, are often very whimsical, and kept as great a secret. We never follow our inclinations with more freedom, than where they cannot be traced, and it is unreasonable for others to suspect them. A virtuous woman has preferred one house to all the rest, because she had seen a handsome fellow in it, and another of no bad character for having received greater civility before it, than had been paid her any where else, when she had no thoughts of buying, and was going to Paul's church: for among the fashionable mercers, the fair dealer must keep before his own door, and to draw in random customers, make use of no other freedom or importunities than an obsequious air, with a submissive posture, and perhaps a bow to every well dressed female that offers to look towards his shop. What I have said last, makes me think on another way of inviting customers, the most distant in the world from what I have been speaking of, I mean that which is practised by the watermen, especially on those whom, by their mien and garb, they know to be peasants. It is not unpleasant to see half a dozen people surround a man they never saw in their lives before, and two of them that can get the nearest, clapping each an arm over his neck, hug him in as loving and familiar a manner, as if he was their brother newly come home from an East India voyage; a third lays hold of his hand, another of his sleeve, his coat, the buttons of it, or any thing he can come at, while a fifth or a sixth, who has scampered twice round him already, without being able to get at him, plants himself directly before the man in hold, and within three inches of his nose, contradicting his rivals with an open mouthed cry, shows him a dreadful set of large teeth, and a small remainder of chewed bread and cheese, which the countryman's arrival had hindered from being swallowed. At all this no offence is taken, and the peasant justly thinks they are making much of him; therefore, far from opposing them, he patiently suffers himself to be pushed or pulled which way the strength that surrounds him shall direct. He has not the delicacy to find fault with a man's breath, who has just blown out his pipe, or a greasy head of hair that is rubbing against his chops: Dirt and sweat he has been used to from his cradle, and it is no disturbance to him to hear half a score people, some of them at his ear, and the furthest not five foot from him, bawl out as if he was hundred yards off: He is conscious that he makes no less noise when he is merry himself, and is secretly pleased with their boisterous usages. The hawling and pulling him about he construes the way it is intended; it is a courtship he can feel and understand: He cannot help wishing them well for the esteem they seem to have for him: He loves to be taken notice of, and admires the Londoners for being so pressing in the offers of their service to him, for the value of threepence or less; whereas, in the country at the shop he uses, he can have nothing but he must first tell them what he wants, and, though he lays out three or four shillings at a time, has hardly a word spoke to him unless it be in answer to a question himself is forced to ask first. This alacrity in his behalf moves his gratitude, and, unwilling to disoblige any, from his heart he knows not whom to choose. I have seen a man think all this, or something like it, as plainly as I could see the nose in his face; and, at the same time, move along very contentedly under a load of watermen, and with a smiling countenance carry seven or eight stone more than his own weight to the water side. If the little mirth I have shown, in the drawing of these two images from low life, misbecomes me, I am sorry for it, but I promise not to be guilty of that fault any more, and will now, without loss of time, proceed with my argument in artless dull simplicity, and demonstrate the gross error of those, who imagine that the social virtues, and the amiable qualities that are praise-worthy in us, are equally beneficial to the public as they are to the individual persons that are possessed of them, and that the means of thriving, and whatever conduces to the welfare and real happiness of private families, must have the same effect upon the whole society. This, I confess, I have laboured for all along, and I flatter myself not unsuccessfully: But I hope nobody will like a problem the worse for seeing the truth of it proved more ways than one. It is certain, that the fewer desires a man has, and the less he covets, the more easy he is to himself; the more active he is to supply his own wants, and the less he requires to be waited upon, the more he will be beloved, and the less trouble he is in a family; the more he loves peace and concord, the more charity he has for his neighbour, and the more he shines in real virtue, there is no doubt but that in proportion he is acceptable to God and man. But let us be just, what benefit can these things be of, or what earthly good can they do, to promote the wealth, the glory, and worldly greatness of nations? It is the sensual courtier that sets no limits to his luxury; the fickle strumpet that invents new fashions every week; the haughty duchess that in equipage, entertainments, and all her behaviour, would imitate a princess; the profuse rake and lavish heir, that scatter about their money without wit or judgment, buy every thing they see, and either destroy or give it away the next day; the covetous and perjured villain that squeezed an immense treasure from the tears of widows and orphans, and left the prodigals the money to spend: It is these that are the prey and proper food of a full grown Leviathan; or, in other words, such is the calamitous condition of human affairs, that we stand in need of the plagues and monsters I named, to have all the variety of labour performed, which the skill of men is capable of inventing in order to procure an honest livelihood to the vast multitudes of working poor, that are required to make a large society: And it is folly to imagine, that great and wealthy nations can subsist, and be at once powerful and polite without. I protest against Popery as much as ever Luther and Calvin did, or Queen Elizabeth herself; but I believe from my heart, that the Reformation has scarce been more instrumental in rendering the kingdoms and states that have embraced it, flourishing beyond other nations, than the silly and capricious invention of hooped and quilted petticoats. But if this should be denied me by the enemies of priestly power, at least I am sure that, bar the great men who have fought for and against that layman's blessing, it has, from its beginning to this day, not employed so many hands, honest, industrious, labouring hands, as the abominable improvement on female luxury, I named, has done in few years. Religion is one thing, and trade is another. He that gives most trouble to thousands of his neighbours, and invents the most operose manufactures, is, right or wrong, the greatest friend to the society. What a bustle is there to be made in several parts of the world, before a fine scarlet or crimson cloth can be produced; what multiplicity of trades and artificers must be employed! Not only such as are obvious, as woolcombers, spinners, the weaver, the cloth worker, the scourer, the dyer, the setter, the drawer, and the packer; but others that are more remote, and might seem foreign to it; as the mill-wright, the pewterer, and the chemist, which yet are all necessary, as well as a great number of other handicrafts, to have the tools, utensils, and other implements belonging to the trades already named: But all these things are done at home, and may be performed without extraordinary fatigue or danger; the most frightful prospect is left behind, when we reflect on the toil and hazard that are to be undergone abroad, the vast seas we are to go over, the different climates we are to endure, and the several nations we must be obliged to for their assistance. Spain alone, it is true, might furnish us with wool to make the finest cloth; but what skill and pains, what experience and ingenuity, are required to dye it of those beautiful colours! How widely are the drugs, and other ingredients, dispersed through the universe that are to meet in one kettle! Allum, indeed, we have of our own; argol we might have from the Rhine, and vitriol from Hungary; all this is in Europe; but then for saltpetre in quantity, we are forced to go as far as the East Indies. Cocheneal, unknown to the ancients, is not much nearer to us, though in a quite different part of the earth: we buy it, it is true, from the Spaniards; but not being their product, they are forced to fetch it for us from the remotest corner of the new world in the East Indies. While so many sailors are broiling in the sun, and sweltered with heat in the east and west of us, another set of them are freezing in the north, to fetch potashes from Russia. When we are thoroughly acquainted with all the variety of toil and labour, the hardships and calamities that must be undergone to compass the end I speak of, and we consider the vast risks and perils that are run in those voyages, and that few of them are ever made but at the expence, not only of the health and welfare, but even the lives of many: When we are acquainted with, I say, and duly consider the things I named, it is scarce possible to conceive a tyrant so inhuman, and void of shame, that, beholding things in the same view, he should exact such terrible services from his innocent slaves; and, at the same time, dare to own, that he did it for no other reason, than the satisfaction a man receives from having a garment made of scarlet or crimson cloth. But to what height of luxury must a nation be arrived, where not only the king's officers, but likewise the guards, even the private soldiers, should have such impudent desires! But if we turn the prospect, and look on all those labours as so many voluntary actions, belonging to different callings and occupations, that men are brought up to for a livelihood, and in which every one works for himself, how much soever he may seem to labour for others: If we consider, that even the sailors who undergo the greatest hardships, as soon as one voyage is ended, even after shipwreck, are looking out, and soliciting for employment in another: If we consider, I say, and look on these things in another view, we shall find, that the labour of the poor is so far from being a burden and an imposition upon them, that to have employment is a blessing, which, in their addresses to Heaven, they pray for, and to procure it for the generality of them, is the greatest care of every legislature. As children, and even infants, are the apes of others, so all youth have an ardent desire of being men and women, and become often ridiculous by their impatient endeavours to appear what every body sees they are not; all large societies are not a little indebted to this folly for the perpetuity, or at least long continuance, of trades once established. What pains will young people take, and what violence will they not commit upon themselves, to attain to insignificant, and often blameable qualifications, which, for want of judgment and experience, they admire in others, that are superior to them in age! This fondness of imitation makes them accustom themselves, by degrees, to the use of things that were irksome, if not intolerable to them at first, till they know not how to leave them, and are often very sorry for having inconsiderately increased the necessaries of life without any necessity. What estates have been got by tea and coffee! What a vast traffic is drove, what a variety of labour is performed in the world, to the maintenance of thousands of families that altogether depend on two silly, if not odious customs; the taking of snuff, and smoking of tobacco; both which, it is certain, do infinitely more hurt than good to those that are addicted to them! I shall go further, and demonstrate the usefulness of private losses and misfortunes to the public, and the folly of our wishes, when we pretend to be most wise and serious. The fire of London was a great calamity; but if the carpenters, bricklayers, smiths, and all, not only that are employed in building, but likewise those that made and dealt in the same manufactures, and other merchandises that were burnt, and other trades again that got by them when they were in full employ, were to vote against those who lost by the fire, the rejoicings would equal, if not exceed the complaints. In recruiting what is lost and destroyed by fire, storms, sea-fights, sieges, battles, a considerable part of trade consists; the truth of which, and whatever I have said of the nature of society, will plainly appear from what follows. It would be a difficult task to enumerate all the advantages and different benefits, that accrue to a nation, on account of shipping and navigation; but if we only take into consideration the ships themselves, and every vessel great and small that is made use of for water-carriage, from the least wherry to a first rate man of war; the timber and hands that are employed in the building of them; and consider the pitch, tar, rosin, grease; the masts, yards, sails and riggings; the variety of smiths work; the cables, oars, and every thing else belonging to them; we shall find, that to furnish only such a nation as ours with all the necessaries, make up a considerable part of the traffic of Europe, without speaking of the stores and ammunition of all sorts, that are consumed in them, or the mariners, waterman and others, with their families, that are maintained by them. But should we, on the other hand, take a view of the manifold mischiefs and variety of evils, moral as well as natural, that befal nations on the score of seafaring, and their commerce with strangers, the prospect would be very frightful; and could we suppose a large populous island, that should be wholly unacquainted with ships and sea affairs, but otherwise a wise and well-governed people; and that some angel, or their genius, should lay before them a scheme or draught, where they might see on the one side, all the riches and real advantages that would be acquired by navigation in a thousand years; and on the other, the wealth and lives that would be lost, and all the other calamities, that would be unavoidably sustained on account of it during the same time, I am confident, they would look upon ships with horror and detestation, and that their prudent rulers would severely forbid the making and inventing all buildings or machines to go to sea with, of what shape or denomination soever, and prohibit all such abominable contrivances on great penalties, if not the pain of death. But to let alone the necessary consequence of foreign trade, the corruption of manners, as well as plagues, poxes, and other diseases, that are brought to us by shipping, should we only cast our eyes on what is either to be imputed to the wind and weather, the treachery of the seas, the ice of the north, the vermin of the south, the darkness of nights, and unwholesomeness of climates, or else occasioned by the want of good provisions, and the faults of mariners, and unskilfulness of some, and the neglect and drunkenness of others; and should we consider the losses of men and treasure swallowed up in the deep, the tears and necessities of widows and orphans made by the sea, the ruin of merchants and the consequences, the continual anxieties that parents and wives are in for the safety of their children and husbands, and not forget the many pangs and heart-aches that are felt throughout a trading nation, by owners and insurers, at every blast of wind; should we cast our eyes, I say, on these things, consider with due attention and give them the weight they deserve, would it not be amazing, how a nation of thinking people should talk of their ships and navigation as a peculiar blessing to them, and placing an uncommon felicity in having an infinity of vessels dispersed through the wide world, and always some going to and others coming from every part of the universe? But let us once, in our consideration on these things, confine ourselves to what the ships suffer only, the vessels themselves, with their rigging and appurtenances, without thinking on the freight they carry, or the hands that work them, and we shall find that the damage sustained that way only, is very considerable, and must one year with another amount to vast sums; the ships that are foundered at sea, split against rocks and swallowed up by sands, some by the fierceness of tempests altogether, others by that and the want of pilots, experience, and knowledge of the coasts: the masts that are blown down, or forced to be cut and thrown overboard, the yards, sails, and cordage of different sizes that are destroyed by storms, and the anchors that are lost: add to these the necessary repairs of leaks sprung, and other hurts received from the rage of winds, and the violence of the waves: many ships are set on fire by carelessness, and the effects of strong liquors, which none are more addicted to than sailors: sometimes unhealthy climates, at others the badness of provision breed fatal distempers, that sweep away the greatest part of the crew, and not a few ships are lost for want of hands. These are all calamities inseparable from navigation, and seem to be great impediments that clog the wheels of foreign commerce. How happy would a merchant think himself, if his ships should always have fine weather, and the wind he wished for, and every mariner he employed, from the highest to the lowest, be a knowing experienced sailor, and a careful, sober, good man! Was such a felicity to be had for prayers, what owner of ships is there, or dealer in Europe, nay, the whole world, who would not be all day long teazing Heaven to obtain such a blessing for himself, without regard to what detriment it would do to others? Such a petition would certainly be a very unconscionable one; yet where is the man who imagines not that he has a right to make it? And therefore, as every one pretends to an equal claim to those favours, let us, without reflecting on the impossibility of its being true, suppose all their prayers effectual and their wishes answered, and afterwards examine into the result of such a happiness. Ships would last as long as timber houses to the full, because they are as strongly built, and the latter are liable to suffer by high winds and other storms, which the first, by our supposition, are not to be: so that, before there would be any real occasion for new ships, the master builders now in being, and every body under them, that is set to work about them, would all die a natural death, if they were not starved or come to some untimely end: for, in the first place, all ships having prosperous gales, and never waiting for the wind, they would make very quick voyages both out and home: secondly, no merchandises would be damaged by the sea, or by stress of weather thrown overboard, but the entire lading would always come safe ashore; and hence it would follow, that three parts in four of the merchantmen already made, would be superfluous for the present, and the stock of ships that are now in the world, serve a vast many years. Masts and yards would last as long as the vessels themselves, and we should not need to trouble Norway on that score a great while yet. The sails and rigging, indeed, of the few ships made use of would wear out, but not a quarter part so fast as now they do, for they often suffer more in one hour's storm, than in ten days fair weather. Anchors and cables there would be seldom any occasion for, and one of each would last a ship time out of mind: this article alone, would yield many a tedious holiday to the anchor-smiths and the rope-yards. This general want of consumption would have such an influence on the timber-merchants, and all that import iron, sail-cloth, hemp, pitch, tar, &c. that four parts in five of what, in the beginning of this reflection on sea-affairs, I said, made a considerable branch of the traffic of Europe, would be entirely lost. I have only touched hitherto on the consequences of this blessing in relation to shipping, but it would be detrimental to all other branches of trade besides, and destructive to the poor of every country, that exports any thing of their own growth or manufacture. The goods and merchandises that every year go to the deep, that are spoiled at sea by salt water, by heat, by vermine, destroyed by fire, or lost to the merchant by other accidents, all owing to storms or tedious voyages, or else the neglect or rapacity of sailors; such goods, I say, and merchandises are a considerable part of what every year is sent abroad throughout the world, and must have employed great multitudes of poor, before they could come on board. A hundred bales of cloth that are burnt or sunk in the Mediterranean, are as beneficial to the poor in England, as if they had safely arrived at Smyrna or Aleppo, and every yard of them had been retailed on the grand Signior's dominions. The merchant may break, and by him the clothier, the dyer, the packer, and other tradesmen, the middling people, may suffer; but the poor that were set to work about them can never lose. Day-labourers commonly receive their earnings once a-week, and all the working people that were employed, either in any of the various branches of the manufacture itself, or the several land and water carriages it requires to be brought to perfection, from the sheep's back, to the vessel it was entered in, were paid, at least much the greatest part of them, before the parcel came on board. Should any of my readers draw conclusions in infinitum, from my assertions, that goods sunk or burnt are as beneficial to the poor, as if they had been well sold and put to their proper uses, I would count him a caviller and not worth answering: should it always rain and the sun never shine, the fruits of the earth would soon be rotten and destroyed; and yet it is no paradox to affirm, that, to have grass or corn, rain is as necessary as the sunshine. In what manner this blessing of fair winds and fine weather, would affect the mariners themselves, and the breed of sailors, may be easily conjectured from what has been said already. As there would hardly one ship in four be made use of, so the vessels themselves being always exempt from storms, fewer hands would be required to work them, and consequently five in six of the seamen we have might be spared, which in this nation, most employments of the poor being overstocked, would be but an untoward article. As soon as those superfluous seamen should be extinct, it would be impossible to man such large fleets as we could at present: but I do not look upon this as a detriment, or the least inconveniency: for the reduction of mariners, as to numbers being general throughout the world, all the consequence would be, that in case of war, the maritime powers would be obliged to fight with fewer ships, which would be an happiness instead of an evil: and would you carry this felicity to the highest pitch of perfection, it is but to add one desirable blessing more, and no nation shall ever fight at all: the blessing I hint at is, what all good Christians are bound to pray for, viz. that all princes and states would be true to their oaths and promises, and just to one another, as well as their own subjects; that they might have a greater regard for the dictates of conscience and religion, than those of state politics and worldly wisdom, and prefer the spiritual welfare of others to their own carnal desires, and the honesty, the safety, the peace and tranquillity of the nations they govern, to their own love of glory, spirit of revenge, avarice, and ambition. The last paragraph will to many seem a digression, that makes little for my purpose; but what I mean by it, is to demonstrate that goodness, integrity, and a peaceful disposition in rulers and governors of nations, are not the proper qualifications to aggrandize them, and increase their numbers; any more than the uninterrupted series of success that every private person would be blest with, if he could, and which I have shown would be injurious and destructive to a large society, that should place a felicity in worldly greatness, and being envied by their neighbours, and value themselves upon their honour and their strength. No man needs to guard himself against blessings, but calamities require hands to avert them. The amiable qualities of man put none of the species upon stirring: his honesty, his love of company, his goodness, content and frugality, are so many comforts to an indolent society, and the more real and unaffected they are, the more they keep every thing at rest and peace, and the more they will every where prevent trouble and motion itself. The same almost may be said of the gifts and munificence of Heaven, and all the bounties and benefits of nature: this is certain, that the more extensive they are, and the greater plenty we have of them, the more we save our labour. But the necessities, the vices, and imperfections of man, together with the various inclemencies of the air and other elements, contain in them the seeds of all arts, industry and labours: it is the extremities of heat and cold, the inconstancy and badness of seasons, the violence and uncertainty of winds, the vast power and treachery of water, the rage and untractableness of fire, and the stubbornness and sterility of the earth, that rack our invention, how we shall either avoid the mischiefs they may produce, or correct the malignity of them, and turn their several forces to our own advantage a thousand different ways; while we are employed in supplying the infinite variety of our wants, which will ever be multiplied as our knowledge is enlarged, and our desires increase. Hunger, thirst, and nakedness, are the first tyrants that force us to stir: afterwards, our pride, sloth, sensuality, and fickleness, are the great patrons that promote all arts and sciences, trades, handicrafts and callings; while the great task-masters, necessity, avarice, envy, and ambition, each in the class that belongs to him, keep the members of the society to their labour, and make them all submit, most of them cheerfully, to the drudgery of their station; kings and princes not excepted. The greater the variety of trades and manufactures the more operose they are, and the more they are divided in many branches, the greater numbers may be contained in a society without being in one another's way, and the more easily they may be rendered a rich, potent, and flourishing people. Few virtues employ any hands, and therefore they may render a small nation good, but they can never make a great one. To be strong and laborious, patient in difficulties, and assiduous in all business, are commendable qualities; but as they do their own work, so they are their own reward, and neither art nor industry have ever paid their compliments to them; whereas the excellency of human thought and contrivance, has been, and is yet no where more conspicuous than in the variety of tools and instruments of workmen and artificers, and the multiplicity of engines, that were all invented either to assist the weakness of man, to correct his many imperfections, to gratify his laziness, or obviate his impatience. It is in morality as it is in nature, there is nothing so perfectly good in creatures, that it cannot be hurtful to any one of the society, nor any thing so entirely evil, but it may prove beneficial to some part or other of the creation: so that things are only good and evil in reference to something else, and according to the light and position they are placed in. What pleases us is good in that regard, and by this rule every man wishes well for himself to the best of his capacity, with little respect to his neighbour. There never was any rain yet, though in a very dry season when public prayers had been made for it, but somebody or other who wanted to go abroad, wished it might be fair weather only for that day. When the corn stands thick in the spring, and the generality of the country rejoice at the pleasing object, the rich farmer who kept his last year's crop for a better market, pines at the sight, and inwardly grieves at the prospect of a plentiful harvest. Nay, we shall often hear your idle people openly wish for the possessions of others, and not to be injurious forsooth add this wise proviso, that it should be without detriment to the owners: but I am afraid they often do it without any such restriction in their hearts. It is a happiness that the prayers as well as wishes of most people, are insignificant and good for nothing; or else the only thing that could keep mankind fit for society, and the world from falling into confusion, would be the impossibility that all the petitions made to Heaven should be granted. A dutiful pretty young gentleman newly come from his travels, lies at the Briel waiting with impatience for an easterly wind, to waft him over to England, where a dying father, who wants to embrace and give him his blessing before he yields his breath, lies hoaning after him, melted with grief and tenderness: in the mean while a British minister, who is to take care of the Protestant interest in Germany, is riding post to Harwich, and in violent haste to be at Ratisbone before the diet breaks up. At the same time a rich fleet lies ready for the Mediterranean, and a fine squadron is bound for the Baltic. All these things may probably happen at once, at least there is no difficulty in supposing they should. If these people are not atheists, or very great reprobates, they will all have some good thoughts before they go to sleep, and consequently about bed-time, they must all differently pray for a fair wind and a prosperous voyage. I do not say but it is their duty, and it is possible they may be all heard, but I am sure they cannot be all served at the same time. After this, I flatter myself to have demonstrated that, neither the friendly qualities and kind affections that are natural to man, nor the real virtues he is capable of acquiring by reason and self-denial, are the foundation of society; but that what we call evil in this world, moral as well as natural, is the grand principle that makes us sociable creatures, the solid basis, the life and support of all trades and employments without exception: that there we must look for the true origin of all arts and sciences, and that the moment evil ceases, the society must be spoiled, if not totally dissolved. I could add a thousand things to enforce, and further illustrate this truth, with abundance of pleasure; but for fear of being troublesome, I shall make an end, though I confess that I have not been half so solicitous to gain the approbation of others, as I have studied to please myself in this amusement: yet if ever I hear, that by following this diversion I have given any to the intelligent reader, it will always add to the satisfaction I have received in the performance. In the hope my vanity forms of this, I leave him with regret, and conclude with repeating the seeming paradox, the substance of which is advanced in the title page; that private vices, by the dexterous management of a skilful politician, may be turned into public benefits. A VINDICATION OF THE Book, from the Aspersions contained in a Presentment of the Grand Jury of Middlesex, And an Abusive Letter to Lord C---- That the reader may be fully instructed in the merits of the cause between my adversaries and myself, it is requisite that, before he sees my defence, he should know the whole charge, and have before him all the accusations against me at large. The Presentment of the Grand Jury is worded thus: We the Grand Jury for the county of Middlesex, have, with the greatest sorrow and concern, observed the many books and pamphlets that are almost every week published against the sacred articles of our holy religion, and all discipline and order in the church, and the manner in which this is carried on, seems to us to have a direct tendency to propagate infidelity, and consequently corruption of all morals. We are justly sensible of the goodness of the Almighty, that has preserved us from the plague, which has visited our neighbouring nation, and for which great mercy, his Majesty was graciously pleased to command, by his proclamation, that thanks should be returned to Heaven; but how provoking must it be to the Almighty, that his mercies and deliverances extended to this nation, and our thanksgiving that was publicly commanded for it, should be attended with such flagrant impieties. We know of nothing that can be of greater service to his Majesty, and the Protestant succession (which is happily established among us for the defence of the Christian Religion), than the suppression of blasphemy and profaneness, which has a direct tendency to subvert the very foundation on which his Majesty's government is fixed. So restless have these zealots for infidelity been in their diabolical attempts against religion, that they have, First, Openly blasphemed and denied the doctrine of the ever Blessed Trinity, endeavouring, by species pretences, to revive the Arian heresy, which was never introduced into any nation, but the vengeance of Heaven pursued it. Secondly, They affirm an absolute fate, and deny the Providence and government of the Almighty in the world. Thirdly, They have endeavoured to subvert all order and discipline of the church, and by vile and unjust reflections on the clergy, they strive to bring contempt on all religion; that by the libertinism of their opinions they may encourage and draw others into the immoralities of their practice. Fourthly, That a general libertinism may the more effectually be established, the universities are decried, and all instructions of youth in the principles of the Christian religion are exploded with the greatest malice and falsity. Fifthly, The more effectually to carry on these works of darkness, studied artifices, and invented colours, have been made use of to run down religion and virtue as prejudicial to society, and detrimental to the state; and to recommend luxury, avarice, pride, and all kind of vices, as being necessary to public welfare, and not tending to the destruction of the constitution: nay, the very stews themselves have had strained apologies and forced encomiums made in their favour, and produced in print, with design, we conceive, to debauch the nation. These principles having a direct tendency to the subversion of all religion and civil government, our duty to the Almighty, our love to our country, and regard to our oaths, oblige us to present as the publisher of a book, intituled the Fable of the Bees; or Private Vices Public Benefits. 2d. Edit. 1723. And also as the publisher of a weekly paper, called the British Journal, Numb. 26, 35, 36, and 39. The Letter I complain of is this: My Lord, It is welcome news to all the king's loyal subjects and true friends to the established government and succession in the illustrious house of Hanover, that your Lordship is said to be contriving some effectual means of securing us from the dangers, wherewith his Majesty's happy government seems to be threatened by Catiline, under the name of Cato; by the writer of a book, intituled, The Fable of the Bees, &c. and by others of their fraternity, who are undoubtedly useful friends to the Pretender, and diligent, for his sake, in labouring to subvert and ruin our constitution, under a specious pretence of defending it. Your Lordship's wise resolution, totally to suppress such impious writings, and the direction already given for having them presented, immediately, by some of the grand juries, will effectually convince the nation, that no attempts against Christianity will be suffered or endured here. And this conviction will at once rid men's minds of the uneasiness which this flagitious race of writers has endeavoured to raise in them; will therefore be a firm bulwark to the Protestant religion; will effectually defeat the projects and hopes of the Pretender; and best secure us against any change in the ministry. And no faithful Briton could be unconcerned, if the people should imagine any the least neglect in any single person bearing a part in the ministry, or begin to grow jealous, that any thing could be done, which is not done, in defending their religion from every the least appearance of danger approaching towards it. And, my Lord, this jealousy might have been apt to rise, if no measures had been taken to discourage and crush the open advocates of irreligion. It is no easy matter to get jealousy out of one's brains, when it is once got into them. Jealousy, my Lord! it is as furious a fiend as any of them all. I have seen a little thin weak woman so invigorated by a fit of jealousy, that five grenadiers could not hold her. My Lord, go on with your just methods of keeping the people clear of this cursed jealousy: for amongst the various kinds and occasions of it, that which concerns their religion, is the most violent, flagrant, frantic sort of all; and accordingly has, in former reigns, produced those various mischiefs, which your Lordship has faithfully determined to prevent, dutifully regarding the royal authority, and conforming to the example of his Majesty, who has graciously given directions (which are well known to your Lordship) for the preserving of unity in the church; and the purity of the Christian faith. It is in vain to think that the people of England will ever give up their religion, or be very fond of any ministry that will not support it, as the wisdom of this ministry has done, against such audacious attacks as are made upon it by the scribblers; for scribbler, your Lordship knows, is the just appellation of every author, who, under whatever plausible appearance of good sense, attempts to undermine the religion, and therefore the content and quiet, the peace and happiness of his fellow-subjects, by subtle and artful, and fallacious arguments and insinuations. May Heaven avert those insufferable miseries, which the Church of Rome would bring upon us! tyranny is the bane of human society, and there is no tyranny heavier than that of the triple crown. And, therefore, this free and happy people has justly conceived an utter abhorrence and dread of Popery, and of every thing that looks like encouragement or tendency to it; but they do also abhor and dread the violence offered to Christianity itself, by our British Catilines, who shelter their treacherous designs against it, under the false colours of regard and good will to our blessed Protestant religion, while they demonstrate, too plainly demonstrate, that the title of Protestants does not belong to them, unless it can belong to those who are in effect protestors against all religion. And really the people cannot be much blamed for being a little unwilling to part with their religion: for they tell ye that there is a God; and that God governs the world; and that he is wont to bless or blast a kingdom, in proportion to the degrees of religion or irreligion prevailing in it. Your Lordship has a fine collection of books; and, which is a finer thing still, you do certainly understand them, and can turn to an account of any important affair in a trice. I would therefore fain know, whether your Lordship can show, from any writer, let him be as profane as the scribblers would have him, that any one empire, kingdom, country, or province, great or small, did not dwindle and sink, and was confounded, when it once failed of providing studiously for the support of religion. The scribblers talk much of the Roman government, and liberty, and the spirit of the old Romans. But it is undeniable, that their most plausible talk of these things is all pretence, and grimace, and an artifice to serve the purposes of irreligion; and by consequence to render the people uneasy, and ruin the kingdom. For if they did in reality esteem, and would faithfully recommend to their countrymen, the sentiments and principles, the main purposes and practices of the wise and prosperous Romans, they would, in the first place, put us in mind, that old Rome was as remarkable for observing and promoting natural religion, as new Rome has been for corrupting that which is revealed. And as the old Romans did signally recommend themselves to the favour of heaven, by their faithful care of religion; so were they abundantly convinced, and did accordingly acknowledge, with universal consent, that their care of religion was the great means [8] of God's preserving the empire, and crowning it with conquest and success, prosperity and glory. Hence it was, that when their orators were bent upon exerting their utmost in moving and persuading the people, upon any occasion, they ever put them in mind of their religion, if that could be any way affected by the point in debate; not doubting that the people would determine in their favour, if they could but demonstrate, that the safety of religion depended upon the success of their cause. And, indeed, neither the Romans, nor any other nation upon earth, did ever suffer their established religion to be openly ridiculed, exploded, or opposed: and I am sure, your Lordship would not, for all the world, that this thing would be done with impunity amongst us, which was never endured in the world before. Did ever any man, since the blessed revelation of the gospel, run riot upon Christianity, as some men, nay, and some few women too, have lately done? must the devil grow rampant at this rate, and not to be called coram nobis? Why should not he content himself to carry off people in the common way, the way of cursing and swearing, Sabbath breaking and cheating, bribery, and hypocrisy, drunkenness and whoring, and such kind of things as he used to do? never let him domineer in mens mouths and writings, as he does now, with loud, tremendous infidelity, blasphemy and profaneness, enough to frighten the King's subjects out of their wits. We are now come to a short question: God or the devil? that is the word; and time will show, who and who goes together. Thus much may be said at present, that those have abundantly shown their spirit of opposition to sacred things, who have not only inveighed against the national profession and exercise of religion; and endeavoured, with bitterness and dexterity, to render it odious and contemptible, but are solicitous to hinder multitudes of the natives of this island from having the very seeds of religion sown among them with advantage. Arguments are urged, with the utmost vehemence, against the education of poor children in the charity schools, though there hath not one just reason been offered against the provision made for that education. The things that have been objected against it are not, in fact, true; and nothing ought to be regarded, by serious and wise men, as a weighty or just argument, if it is not a true one. How hath Catiline the confidence left to look any man in the face, after he hath spent more confidence than most mens whole stock amounts to, in saying, that this pretended charity has, in effect, destroyed all other charities, which were before given to the aged, sick, and impotent. It seems pretty clear, that if those, who do not contribute to any charity school, are become more uncharitable to any other object than formerly they were, their want of charity to the one, is not owing to their contribution to the other. And as to those who do contribute to these schools; they are so far from being more sparing in their relief of other objects, than they were before, that the poor widows, the aged and the impotent do plainly receive more relief from them, in proportion to their numbers and abilities, than from any the same numbers of men under the same circumstances of fortune, who do not concern themselves with charity schools, in any respect, but in condemning and decrying them. I will meet Catiline at the Grecian coffee-house any day in the week, and by an enumeration of particular persons, in as great a number as he pleaseth, demonstrate the truth of what I say. But I do not much depend upon his giving me the meeting, because it is his business, not to encourage demonstrations of the truth, but to throw disguises upon it; otherwise, he never could have allowed himself, after representing the charity schools as intended to breed up children to reading and writing, and a sober behaviour, that they may be qualified to be servants, immediately to add these words, a sort of idle and rioting vermin, by which the kingdom is already almost devoured, and are become every where a public nuisance, &c. What? Is it owing to the charity schools, that servants are become so idle, such rioting vermin, such a public nuisance; that women-servants turn whores, and the men-servants robbers, house-breakers, and sharpers? (as he says they commonly do). Is this owing to the charity schools? or, if it is not, how comes he to allow himself the liberty of representing these schools as a means of increasing this load of mischief, which is indeed too plainly fallen upon the public? The imbibing principles of virtue hath not, usually, been thought the chief occasion of running into vice. If the early knowledge of truth, and of our obligations to it, were the surest means of departing from it, nobody would doubt, that the knowledge of truth was instilled into Catiline very early, and with the utmost care. It is a good pretty thing in him to spread a report, and to lay so much stress upon it as he does, that there is more collected at the church doors in a day, to make these poor boys and girls appear in caps and livery-coats, than for all the poor in a year. O rare Catiline! This point you will carry most swimmingly; for you have no witnesses against you, nor any living soul to contradict you, except the collectors and overseers of the poor, and all other principal inhabitants of most of the parishes, where any charity schools are in England. The jest of it is, my Lord, that these scribblers would still be thought good moral men. But, when men make it their business to mislead and deceive their neighbours, and that in matters of moment, by distorting and disguising the truth, by misrepresentations and false insinuations; if such men are not guilty of usurpation, while they take upon them the character of good moral men, then it is not immoral, in any man, to be false and deceitful, in cases where the law cannot touch him for being so, and morality bears no relation to truth and fair dealing. However, I shall not be very willing to meet one of these moral men upon Hounslow-heath, if I should happen to ride that way without pistols. For I have a notion, that they who have no conscience in one point, do not much abound with it in another. Your Lordship, who judges accurately of men, as well as books, will easily imagine, if you had no other knowledge of the charity schools, that there must be something very excellent in them because such kind of men as these are so warm in opposing them. They tell you, that these schools are hindrances to husbandry and to manufacture. As to husbandry; the children are not kept in the schools longer than till they are of age and strength to perform the principal parts of it, or to bear constant labour in it; and even while they are under this course of education, your Lordship may depend upon it, that they shall never be hindered from working in the fields, or being employed in such labour as they are capable of, in any parts of the year, when they can get such employment for the support of their parents and themselves. In this case, the parents, in the several counties, are proper judges of their several situations and circumstances, and at the same time, not so very fond of their children getting a little knowledge, rather than a little money, but that they will find other employment for them than going to school, whenever they can get a penny by so doing. And the case is the same as to the manufactures; the trustees of the charity schools, and the parents of the children bred in them, would be thankful to those gentlemen who make the objection, if they would assist in removing it, by subscribing to a fund for joining the employment of manufacture, to the business of learning to read and write in the charity schools. This would be a noble work: it is already effected by the supporters of some charity schools, and is aimed at, and earnestly desired by all the rest: but Rome was not built in a day. Till this great thing can be brought about, let the masters and managers of the manufactures in the several places of the kingdom, be so charitable as to employ the poor children for a certain number of hours in every day, in the respective manufactures, while the trustees are taking care to fill up their other hours of the day, in the usual duties of the charity schools. It is an easy matter for party-men, for designing and perverted minds, to invent colourable, fallacious arguments, and to offer railing, under the appearance of reasoning, against the best things in the world. But undoubtedly, no impartial man, who is affected with a serious sense of goodness, and a real love of his country, can think this proper and just view of the charity schools, liable to any just weighty objection, or refuse to contribute his endeavours to improve and raise them to that perfection which is proposed in them. In the mean time, let no man be so weak or so wicked as to deny, that when poor children cannot meet with employment in any other honest way, rather than suffer their tender age to be spent in idleness, or in learning the arts of lying, and swearing, and stealing, it is true charity to them, and good service done to our country, to employ them in learning the principles of religion and virtue, till their age and strength will enable them to become servants in families, or to be engaged in husbandry, or manufacture, or any kind of mechanic trade or laborious employment; for to these laborious employments are the charity children generally, if not always turned, as soon as they become capable of them: and therefore Catiline may be pleased to retract his objection concerning shop-keepers, or retailers of commodities, wherein he has affirmed, that their employments, which he says ought to fall to the share of children of their own degree, are mostly anticipated and engrossed by the managers of the charity schools. He must excuse my acquainting your Lordship, that this affirmation is in fact directly false, which is an inconvenience very apt to fall upon his affirmations, as it has particularly done upon one of them more, which I would mention. For he is not ashamed roundly to assert, That the principles of our common people are debauched in our charity schools, who are taught, as soon as they can speak, to blabber out High-church and Ormond, and so are bred up to be traitors before they know what treason signifies. Your Lordship, and other persons of integrity, whose words are the faithful representatives of their meaning, would now think, if I had not given you a key to Catiline's talk, that he has been fully convinced, that the children in the charity schools are bred up to be traitors. My Lord, if any one master be suffered by the trustees to continue in any charity school, against whom proof can be brought, that he is disaffected to the government, or that he does not as faithfully teach the children obedience and loyalty to the King, as any other duty in the catechism, then I will gratify Catiline with a licence to pull down the schools, and hang up the masters, according to his heart's desire. These, and such things as these, are urged with the like bitterness, and as little truth, in the book mentioned above, viz. The Fable of the Bees; or, Private Vices, Public Benefits, &c. Catiline explodes the fundamental articles of faith, impiously comparing the doctrine of the blessed Trinity to fee-fa-fum: this profligate author of the Fable is not only an auxiliary to Catiline in opposition to faith, but has taken upon him to tear up the very foundations of moral virtue, and establish vice in its room. The best physician in the world did never labour more, to purge the natural body of bad qualities, than this bumble-bee has done to purge the body-politic of good ones. He himself bears testimony to the truth of this charge against him: for when he comes to the conclusion of his book, he makes this observation upon himself and his performance: "After this, I flatter myself to have demonstrated, that neither the friendly qualities and kind affections that are natural to man, nor the real virtues he is capable of acquiring by reason and self-denial, are the foundation of society; but that what we call evil in this world, moral as well as natural, is the grand principle that makes us sociable creatures, the solid basis, the life and support of all trades and employments without exception: that there we must look for the true origin of all arts and sciences, and that the moment evil ceases, the society must be spoiled, if not totally dissolved." Now, my Lord, you see the grand design, the main drift of Catiline and his confederates; now the scene opens, and the secret springs appear; now the fraternity adventure to speak out, and surely no band of men ever dared to speak at this rate before; now you see the true cause of all their enmity to the poor charity schools; it is levelled against religion: religion, my Lord, which the schools are instituted to promote, and which this confederacy is resolved to destroy; for the schools are certainly one of the greatest instruments of religion and virtue, one of the firmest bulwarks against Popery, one of the best recommendations of this people to the Divine favour, and therefore one of the greatest blessings to our country of any thing that has been set on foot since our happy Reformation and deliverance from the idolatry and tyranny of Rome. If any trivial inconvenience did arise from so excellent a work, as some little inconvenience attends all human institutions and affairs, the excellency of the work would still be matter of joy, and find encouragement with all the wise and the good, who despise such insignificant objections against it, as other men are not ashamed to raise and defend. Now your Lordship also sees the true cause of the satire, which is continually formed against the clergy, by Catiline and his confederates. Why should Mr. Hall's conviction and execution be any more an objection against the clergy, than Mr. Layer's against the gentlemen of the long robe? Why, because the profession of the law does not immediately relate to religion: and therefore Catiline will allow, that if any persons of that profession should be traitors, or otherwise vicious, all the rest may, notwithstanding the iniquity of a brother, be as loyal and virtuous as any other subjects in the King's dominions: but because matters of religion are the professed concern, and the employment of the clergy; therefore Catiline's logic makes it out, as clear as the day, that if any of them be disaffected to the government, all the rest are so too; or if any of them be chargeable with vice, this consequence from it is plain, that all or most of the rest are as vicious as the devil can make them. I shall not trouble your Lordship with a particular vindication of the clergy, nor is there any reason that I should, for they are already secure of your Lordship's good affection to them, and they are able to vindicate themselves wheresoever such a vindication is wanted, being as faithful, and virtuous, and learned, a body of men as any in Europe; and yet they suspend the publication of arguments in a solemn defence of themselves, because they neither expect nor desire approbation and esteem from impious and abandoned men; and, at the same time, they cannot doubt that all persons, not only of great penetration, but of common sense, do now clearly see, that the arrows shot against the clergy are intended to wound and destroy the divine institution of the ministerial offices, and to extirpate the religion which the sacred offices were appointed to preserve and promote. This was always supposed and suspected by every honest and impartial man; but it is now demonstrated by those who before had given occasion to such suspicions, for they have now openly declared, that faith, in the principal articles of it, is not only needless, but ridiculous, that the welfare of human society must sink and perish under the encouragement of virtue, and that immorality is the only firm foundation whereon the happiness of mankind can be built and subsist. The publication of such tenets as these, an open avowed proposal to extirpate the Christian faith and all virtue, and to fix moral evil for the basis of the government, is so stunning, so shocking, so frightful, so flagrant an enormity, that if it should be imputed to us as a national guilt, the Divine vengeance must inevitably fall upon us. And how far this enormity would become a national guilt, if it should pass disregarded and unpunished, a casuist less skilful and discerning than your Lordship may easily guess. And, no doubt, your Lordship's good judgment, in so plain and important a case, has made you, like a wise and faithful patriot, resolve to use your utmost endeavours in your high station, to defend religion from the bold attacks made upon it. As soon as I have seen a copy of the bill, for the better security of his Majesty and his happy government, by the better security of religion in Great Britain, your Lordship's just scheme of politics, your love of your country, and your great services done to it, shall again be acknowledged by, My Lord, Your most faithful humble Servant; Theophilus Philo-Britannus. These violent accusations, and the great clamour every where raised against the book, by governors, masters, and other champions of charity schools, together with the advice of friends, and the reflection on what I owed to myself, drew from me the following answer. The candid reader, in the perusal of it, will not be offended at the repetition of some passages, one of which he may have met with twice already, when he shall consider that, to make my defence by itself to the public, I was obliged to repeat what had been quoted in the Letter, since the paper would unavoidably fall into the hands of many who had never seen either the Fable of the Bees, or the Defamatory Letter wrote against it. The Answer was published in the London Journal of August 10, 1723, in these words: Whereas, in the Evening Post of Thursday July 11, a presentment was inserted of the Grand Jury of Middlesex, against the publisher of a book, intituled, The Fable of the Bees; or, Private Vices, Public Benefits; and since that, a passionate and abusive Letter has been published against the same book, and the author of it, in the London Journal of Saturday, July 27; I think myself indispensably obliged to vindicate the above said book against the black aspersions that undeservedly have been cast upon it, being conscious that I have not had the least ill design in composing it. The accusations against it having been made openly in the public papers, it is not equitable the defence of it should appear in a more private manner. What I have to say in my behalf, I shall address to all men of sense and sincerity, asking no other favour of them, than their patience and attention. Setting aside what in that Letter relates to others, and every thing that is foreign and immaterial, I shall begin with the passage that is quoted from the book, viz. "After this, I flatter myself to have demonstrated, that neither the friendly qualities and kind affections that are natural to man, nor the real virtues he is capable of acquiring by reason and self-denial, are the foundation of society; but that what we call evil in this world, moral as well as natural, is the grand principle that makes us sociable creatures; the solid basis, the life and support of all trades and employments without exception: That there we must look for the true origin of all arts and sciences; and that the moment evil ceases, the society must be spoiled, if not totally dissolved." These words, I own, are in the book, and, being both innocent and true, like to remain there in all future impressions. But I will likewise own very freely, that, if I had wrote with a design to be understood by the meanest capacities, I would not have chose the subject there treated of; or if I had, I would have amplified and explained every period, talked and distinguished magisterially, and never appeared without the fescue in my hand. As for example; to make the passage pointed at intelligible, I would have bestowed a page or two on the meaning of the word Evil; after that I would have taught them, that every defect, every want, was an evil; that on the multiplicity of those wants depended all those mutual services which the individual members of a society pay to each other; and that consequently, the greater variety there was of wants, the larger number of individuals might find their private interest in labouring for the good of others, and, united together, compose one body. Is there a trade or handicraft but what supplies us with something we wanted? This want certainly, before it was supplied, was an evil, which that trade or handicraft was to remedy, and without which it could never have been thought of. Is there an art or science that was not invented to mend some defect! Had this latter not existed, there could have been no occasion for the former to move it. I say, p. 236. "The excellency of human thought and contrivance has been, and is yet nowhere more conspicuous, than in the variety of tools and instruments of workmen and artificers, and the multiplicity of engines, that were all invented, either to assist the weakness of man, to correct his many imperfections, to gratify his laziness, or obviate his impatience." Several foregoing pages run in the same strain. But what relation has all this to religion or infidelity, more than it has to navigation or the peace in the north? The many hands that are employed to supply our natural wants, that are really such, as hunger, thirst, and nakedness, are inconsiderable to the vast numbers that are all innocently gratifying the depravity of our corrupt nature, I mean the industrious, who get a livelihood by their honest labour, to which the vain and voluptuous must be beholden for all their tools and implements of ease and luxury. "The short-sighted vulgar, in the chain of causes, seldom can see farther than one link; but those who can enlarge their view, and will give themselves leisure of gazing on the prospect of concatenated events, may, in a hundred places, see good spring up, and pullulate from evil, as naturally as chickens do from eggs." The words are to be found p. 46. in the Remark made on the seeming paradox; that in the grumbling hive, The worst of all the multitude Did something for the common good. Where, in many instances, may be amply discovered, how unsearchable Providence daily orders the comforts of the laborious, and even the deliverances of the oppressed, secretly to come forth, not only from the vices of the luxurious, but likewise the crimes of the flagitious and most abandoned. Men of candour and capacity perceive, at first sight, that in the passage censured, there is no meaning hid or expressed that is not altogether contained in the following words: "Man is a necessitous creature on innumerable accounts, and yet from those very necessities, and nothing else, arise all trades and employments." But it is ridiculous for men to meddle with books above their sphere. The Fable of the Bees was designed for the entertainment of people of knowledge and education, when they have an idle hour which they know not how to spend better: it is a book of severe and exalted morality, that contains a strict test of virtue, an infallible touchstone to distinguish the real from the counterfeited, and shows many actions to be faulty that are palmed upon the world for good ones: it describes the nature and symptoms of human passions, detects their force and disguises; and traces self-love in its darkest recesses; I might safely add, beyond any other system of ethics: the whole is a rhapsody void of order or method, but no part of it has any thing in it that is sour or pedantic; the style, I confess, is very unequal, sometimes very high and rhetorical, and sometimes very low, and even very trivial; such as it is, I am satisfied that it has diverted persons of great probity and virtue, and unquestionable good sense; and I am in no fear that it will ever cease to do so while it is read by such. Whoever has seen the violent charge against this book, will pardon me for saying more in commendation of it, than a man, not labouring under the same necessity, would do of his own work on any other occasion. The encomiums upon stews complained of in the presentment are no where in the book. What might give a handle to this charge, must be a political dissertation concerning the best method to guard and preserve women of honour and virtue from the insults of dissolute men, whose passions are often ungovernable: As in this there is a dilemma between two evils, which it is impracticable to shun both, so I have treated it with the utmost caution, and begin thus: "I am far from encouraging vice, and should think it an unspeakable felicity for a state, if the sin of uncleanness could be utterly banished from it; but I am afraid it is impossible." I give my reasons why I think it so; and, speaking occasionally of the music-houses at Amsterdam, I give a short account of them, than which nothing can be more harmless; and I appeal to all impartial judges, whether, what I have said of them is not ten times more proper to give men (even the voluptuous of any state) a disgust and aversion against them, than it is to raise any criminal desire. I am sorry the Grand Jury should conceive that I published this with a design to debauch the nation, without considering, that, in the first place, there is not a sentence nor a syllable that can either offend the chastest ear, or sully the imagination of the most vicious; or, in the second, that the matter complained of is manifestly addressed to magistrates and politicians, or, at least, the more serious and thinking part of mankind; whereas a general corruption of manners as to lewdness, to be produced by reading, can only be apprehended from obscenities easily purchased, and every way adapted to the tastes and capacities of the heedless multitude and unexperienced youth of both sexes: but that the performance, so outrageously exclaimed against, was never calculated for either of these classes of people, is self-evident from every circumstance. The beginning of the prose is altogether philosophical, and hardly intelligible to any that have not been used to matters of speculation; and the running title of it is so far from being specious or inviting, that without having read the book itself, nobody knows what to make of it, while, at the same time, the price is five shillings. From all which it is plain, that if the book contains any dangerous tenets, I have not been very solicitous to scatter them among the people. I have not said a word to please or engage them, and the greatest compliment I have made them has been, Apage vulgus. But as nothing (I say, p. 138) would more clearly demonstrate the falsity of my notions than that, the generality of the people should fall in with them, so I do not expect the approbation of the multitude. I write not to many, nor seek for any well-wishers, but among the few that can think abstractly, and have their minds elevated above the vulgar." Of this I have made no ill use, and ever preserved such a tender regard to the public, that when I have advanced any uncommon sentiments, I have used all the precautions imaginable, that they might not be hurtful to weak minds that might casually dip into the book. When (p. 137.) I owned, "That it was my sentiment that no society could be raised into a rich and mighty kingdom, or so raised subsist in their wealth and power for any considerable time, without the vices of man," I had premised, what was true, "That I had never said or imagined, that man could not be virtuous as well in a rich and mighty kingdom, as in the most pitiful commonwealth:" which caution, a man less scrupulous than myself might have thought superfluous, when he had already explained himself on that head in the very same paragraph which begins thus: "I lay down, as a first principle, that in all societies, great or small, it is the duty of every member of it to be good; that virtue ought to be encouraged, vice discountenanced, the laws obeyed, and the transgressors punished." There is not a line in the book that contradicts this doctrine, and I defy my enemies to disprove what I have advanced, p. 139, "That if I have shown the way to worldly greatness, I have always, without hesitation, preferred the road that leads to virtue." No man ever took more pains not to be misconstrued than myself: mind p. 138, when I say, "That societies cannot be raised to wealth and power, and the top of earthly glory, without vices; I do not think, that by so saying, I bid men be vicious, any more than I bid them be quarrelsome or covetous, when I affirm, that the profession of the law could not be maintained in such numbers and splendour, if there was not abundance of too selfish and litigious people." A caution of the same nature I had already given towards the end of the Preface, on account of a palpable evil inseparable from the felicity of London. To search into the real causes of things, imports no ill design, nor has any tendency to do harm. A man may write on poisons, and be an excellent physician. Page 235, I say, "No man needs to guard himself against blessings, but calamities require hands to avert them." And lower, "It is the extremities of heat and cold, the inconstancy and badness of seasons, the violence and uncertainty of winds, the vast power and treachery of water, the rage and untractableness of fire, and the stubbornness and sterility of the earth, that rack our invention, how we shall either avoid the mischiefs they produce, or correct the malignity of them, and turn their several forces to our own advantage a thousand different ways." While a man is inquiring into the occupation of vast multitudes, I cannot see why he may not say all this and much more, without being accused of depreciating and speaking slightly of the gifts and munificence of heaven; when, at the same time, he demonstrates, that without rain and sunshine this globe would not be habitable to creatures like ourselves. It is an out-of-the-way subject, and I would never quarrel with the man who should tell me that it might as well have been let alone: yet I always thought it would please men of any tolerable taste, and not be easily lost. My vanity I could never conquer, so well as I could wish; and I am too proud to commit crimes, and as to the main scope, the intent of the book, I mean the view it was wrote with, I protest that it has been with the utmost sincerity, what I have declared of it in the Preface, where you will find these words: "If you ask me, why I have done all this, cui bono? And what good these notions will produce? Truly, besides the reader's diversion, I believe none at all; but if I was asked, what naturally ought to be expected from them? I would answer, That, in the first place, the people who continually find fault with others, by reading them would be taught to look at home, and examining their own consciences, be made ashamed of always railing at what they are more or less guilty of themselves; and that, in the next, those who are so fond of the ease and comforts of a great and flourishing nation, would learn more patiently to submit to those inconveniences, which no government upon earth can remedy, when they should see the impossibility of enjoying any great share of the first, without partaking likewise of the latter." The first impression of the Fable of the Bees, which came out in 1714, was never carped at, or publicly taken notice of; and all the reason I can think on, why this second edition should be so unmercifully treated, though it has many precautions which the former wanted, is an Essay on Charity and Charity Schools, which is added to what was printed before. I confess, that it is my sentiment, that all hard and dirty work, ought, in a well-governed nation, to be the lot and portion of the poor, and that to divert their children from useful labour till they are fourteen or fifteen years old, is a wrong method to qualify them for it when are they grown up. I have given several reasons for my opinion in that Essay, to which I refer all impartial men of understanding, assuring them that they will not meet with such monstrous impiety in it as reported. What an advocate I have been for libertinism and immorality, and what an enemy to all instructions of youth in the Christian faith, may be collected from the pains I have taken on education for above seven pages together: and afterwards again, page 193, where speaking of the instructions the children of the poor might receive at church; from which, I say, "Or some other place of worship, I would not have the meanest of a parish that is able to walk to it, be absent on Sundays," I have these words: "It is the Sabbath, the most useful day in seven, that is set apart for divine service and religious exercise, as well as resting from bodily labour; and it is a duty incumbent on all magistrates, to take a particular care of that day. The poor more especially, and their children, should be made to go to church on it, both in the fore and the afternoon, because they have no time on any other. By precept and example, they ought to be encouraged to it from their very infancy: the wilful neglect of it ought to be counted scandalous; and if downright compulsion to what I urge might seem too harsh, and perhaps impracticable, all diversions at least ought strictly to be prohibited, and the poor hindered from every amusement abroad, that might allure or draw them from it." If the arguments I have made use of are not convincing, I desire they may be refuted, and I will acknowledge it as a favour in any one that shall convince me of my error, without ill language, by showing me wherein I have been mistaken: but calumny, it seems, is the shortest way of confuting an adversary, when men are touched in a sensible part. Vast sums are gathered for these charity schools, and I understand human nature too well to imagine, that the sharers of the money should hear them spoke against with any patience. I foresaw, therefore, the usage I was to receive, and having repeated the common cant that is made for charity schools, I told my readers, page 165. "This is the general cry, and he that speaks the least word against it, is an uncharitable, hard-hearted, and inhuman, if not a wicked, profane and atheistical wretch." For this reason, it cannot be thought, that it was a great surprise to me, when in that extraordinary letter to Lord C. I saw myself called "profligate author; the publication of my tenets, an open and avowed proposal to extirpate the Christian faith and all virtue, and what I had done so stunning, so shocking, so frightful, so flagrant an enormity, that it cried for the vengeance of Heaven." This is no more than what I have already expected from the enemies to truth and fair dealing, and I shall retort nothing on the angry author of that letter, who endeavours to expose me to the public fury. I pity him, and have charity enough to believe that he has been imposed upon himself, by trusting to fame and the hearsay of others; for no man in his wits can imagine that he should have read one quarter part of my book, and write as he does. I am sorry if the words Private Vices, Public Benefits, have ever given any offence to a well-meaning man. The mystery of them is soon unfolded, when once they are rightly understood; but no man of sincerity will question the innocence of them, that has read the last paragraph, where I take my leave of the reader, "and conclude with repeating the seeming paradox, the substance of which is advanced in the title page; that private vices, by the dexterous management of a skilful politician, may be turned into public benefits." These are the last words of the book, printed in the same large character with the rest. But I set aside all what I have said in my vindication; and if, in the whole book called the Fable of the Bees, and presented by the grand jury of Middlesex to the judges of the King's Bench, there is to be found the least title of blasphemy or profaneness, or any thing tending to immorality or the corruption of manners, I desire it may be published; and if this be done without invective, personal reflections, or setting the mob upon me, things I never design to answer, I will not only recant, but likewise beg pardon of the offended public in the most solemn manner: and (if the hangman might be thought too good for the office) burn the book myself, at any reasonable time and place my adversaries shall be pleased to appoint. The Author of the Fable of the Bees. THE FABLE OF THE BEES. PART II. Opinionum enim Commenta delet dies; Naturæ judicia confirmat. Cicero de Nat. Deor. Lib. 2. PREFACE. Considering the manifold clamours, that have been raised from several quarters, against the Fable of the Bees, even after I had published the vindication of it, many of my readers will wonder to see me come out with a second part, before I have taken any further notice of what has been said against the first. Whatever is published, I take it for granted, is submitted to the judgment of all the world that see it; but it is very unreasonable, that authors should not be upon the same footing with their critics. The treatment I have received, and the liberties some gentlemen have taken with me, being well known, the public must be convinced before now, that, in point of civility, I owe my adversaries nothing: and if those, who have taken upon them to school and reprimand me, had an undoubted right to censure what they thought fit, without asking my leave, and to say of me what they pleased, I ought to have an equal privilege to examine their censures, and, without consulting them, to judge in my turn, whether they are worth answering or not. The public must be the umpire between us. From the Appendix that has been added to the first part, ever since the third edition, it is manifest, that I have been far from endeavouring to stifle, either the arguments or the invectives that were made against me; and, not to have left the reader uninformed of any thing extant of either sort, I once thought to have taken this opportunity of presenting him with a list of the adversaries that have appeared in print against me: but as they are in nothing so considerable as they are in their numbers, I was afraid it would have looked like ostentation, unless I would have answered them all, which I shall never attempt. The reason, therefore, of my obstinate silence has been all along, that hitherto I have not been accused of any thing that is criminal or immoral, for which every middling capacity could not have framed a very good answer, from some part or other, either of the vindication or the book itself. However, I have wrote, and had by me near two years, a defence of the Fable of the Bees, in which I have stated and endeavoured to solve all the objections that might reasonably be made against it, as to the doctrine contained in it, and the detriment it might be of to others: for this is the only thing about which I ever had any concern. Being conscious, that I have wrote with no ill design, I should be sorry to lie under the imputation of it: but as to the goodness or badness of the performance itself, the thought was never worth my care; and therefore those critics, that found fault with my bad reasoning, and said of the book, that it is ill wrote, that there is nothing new in it, that it is incoherent stuff, that the language is barbarous, the humour low, and the style mean and pitiful; those critics, I say, are all very welcome to say what they please: In the main, I believe they are in the right; but if they are not, I shall never give myself the trouble to contradict them; for I never think an author more foolishly employed, than when he is vindicating his own abilities. As I wrote it for my diversion, so I had my ends; if those who read it have not had theirs, I am sorry for it, though I think myself not at all answerable for the disappointment. It was not wrote by subscription, nor have I ever warranted, any where, what use or goodness it would be of: on the contrary, in the very preface, I have called it an inconsiderable trifle; and since that, I have publicly owned that it was a rhapsody. If people will buy books without looking into them, or knowing what they are, I cannot see whom they have to blame but themselves, when they do not answer expectations. Besides, it is no new thing for people to dislike books after they have bought them: this will happen sometimes, even when men of considerable figure had given them the strongest assurances, before hand, that they would be pleased with them. A considerable part of the defence I mentioned, has been seen by several of my friends, who have been in expectation of it for some time. I have stayed neither for types nor paper, and yet I have several reasons, why I do not yet publish it; which, having touched nobody's money, nor made any promise concerning it, I beg leave to keep to myself. Most of my adversaries, whenever it comes out, will think it soon enough; and nobody suffers by the delay but myself. Since I was first attacked, it has long been a matter of wonder and perplexity to me to find out, why and how men should conceive, that I had wrote with an intent to debauch the nation, and promote all manner of vice: and it was a great while before I could derive the charge from any thing, but wilful mistake and premeditated malice. But since I have seen, that men could be serious in apprehending the increase of rogues and robberies, from the frequent representations of the Beggar's Opera, I am persuaded, that there really are such wrongheads in the world, as will fancy vices to be encouraged, when they see them exposed. To the same perverseness of judgment it must have been owing, that some of my adversaries were highly incensed with me, for having owned, in the Vindication, that hitherto I had not been able to conquer my vanity, as well as I could have wished. From their censure it is manifest, that they must have imagined, that to complain of a frailty, was the same as to brag of it. But if these angry gentlemen had been less blinded with passion, or seen with better eyes, they would easily have perceived, unless they were too well pleased with their pride, that to have made the same confession themselves, they wanted nothing but sincerity. Whoever boasts of his vanity, and at the same time shows his arrogance, is unpardonable. But when we hear a man complain of an infirmity, and his want of power entirely to cure it, whilst he suffers no symptoms of it to appear, that we could justly upbraid him with, we are so far from being offended, that we are pleased with the ingenuity, and applaud his candour; and when such an author takes no greater liberties with his readers, than what is usual in the same manner of writing, and owns that to be the result of vanity, which others tell a thousand lies about, his confession is a compliment, and the frankness of it ought not to be looked upon otherwise, than as a civility to the public, a condescension he was not obliged to make. It is not in feeling the passions, or in being affected with the frailties of nature, that vice consists; but in indulging and obeying the call of them, contrary to the dictates of reason. Whoever pays great deference to his readers, respectfully submitting himself to their judgment, and tells them at the same time, that he is entirely destitute of pride; whoever, I say, does this, spoils his compliment whilst he is making of it: for it is no better than bragging, that it costs him nothing. Persons of taste, and the least delicacy, can be but little affected with a man's modesty, of whom they are sure, that he is wholly void of pride within: the absence of the one makes the virtue of the other cease; at least the merit of it is not greater than that of chastity in an eunuch, or humility in a beggar. What glory would it be to the memory of Cato, that he refused to touch the water that was brought him, if it was not supposed that he was very thirsty when he did it? The reader will find, that in this second part I have endeavoured to illustrate and explain several things, that were obscure and only hinted at in the first. Whilst I was forming this design, I found, on the one hand, that, as to myself, the easiest way of executing it, would be by dialogue; but I knew, on the other, that to discuss opinions, and manage controversies, it is counted the most unfair manner of writing. When partial men have a mind to demolish an adversary, and triumph over him with little expence, it has long been a frequent practice to attack him with dialogues, in which the champion, who is to lose the battle, appears at the very beginning of the engagement, to be the victim that is to be sacrificed, and seldom makes a better figure than cocks on Shrove-Tuesday, that receive blows, but return none, and are visibly set up on purpose to be knocked down. That this is to be said against dialogues, is certainly true; but it is as true, that there is no other manner of writing, by which greater reputation has been obtained. Those, who have most excelled all others in it, were the two most famous authors of all antiquity, Plato and Cicero: the one wrote almost all his philosophical works in dialogues, and the other has left us nothing else. It is evident, then, that the fault of those, who have not succeeded in dialogues; was in the management, and not in the manner of writing; and that nothing but the ill use that has been made of it, could ever have brought it into disrepute. The reason why Plato preferred dialogues to any other manner of writing, he said, was, that things thereby might look, as if they were acted, rather than told: the same was afterwards given by Cicero in the same words, rendered into his own language. The greatest objection that in reality lies against it, is the difficulty there is in writing them well. The chief of Plato's interlocutors was always his master Socrates, who every where maintains his character with great dignity; but it would have been impossible to have made such an extraordinary person speak like himself on so many emergencies, if Plato had not been as great a man as Socrates. Cicero, who studied nothing more than to imitate Plato, introduced in his dialogues some of the greatest men in Rome, his contemporaries, that were known to be of different opinions, and made them maintain and defend every one his own sentiments, as strenuously, and in as lively a manner, as they could possibly have done themselves; and in reading his dialogues a man may easily imagine himself to be in company with several learned men of different tastes and studies. But to do this, a man must have Cicero's capacity. Lucian likewise, and several others among the ancients, chose for their speakers, persons of known characters. That this interests and engages the reader more than strange names, is undeniable; but then, when the personages fall short of those characters, it plainly shows, that the author undertook what he was not able to execute. To avoid this inconveniency, most dialogue-writers among the moderns, have made use of fictitious names, which they either invented themselves or borrowed of others. These are, generally speaking, judicious compounds, taken from the Greek, that serve for short characters of the imaginary persons they are given to, denoting either the party they side with, or what it is they love or hate. But of all these happy compounds, there is not one that has appeared equally charming to so many authors of different views and talents, as Philalethes; a plain demonstration of the great regard mankind generally have to truth. There has not been a paper-war of note, these two hundred years, in which both parties, at one time or other, have not made use of this victorious champion; who, which side soever he has fought on, has hitherto, like Dryden's Almanzor, been conqueror, and constantly carried all before him. But, as by this means the event of the battle must always be known, as soon as the combatants are named, and before a blow is struck; and as all men are not equally peaceable in their dispositions, many readers have complained, that they had not sport enough for their money, and that knowing so much before hand, spoiled all their diversion. This humour having prevailed for some time, authors are grown less solicitous about the names of the personages they introduce. This careless way, seeming to me at least as reasonable as any other, I have followed; and had no other meaning by the names I have given my interlocutors, than to distinguish them, without the least regard to the derivation of words, or any thing relating to the etymology of them: all the care I have taken about them, that I know of, is, that the pronunciation of them should not be harsh, nor the sounds offensive. But though the names I have chosen are feigned, and the circumstances of the persons fictitious, the characters themselves are real, and as faithfully copied from nature as I have been able to take them. I have known critics find fault with play-wrights for annexing short characters to the names they gave the persons of the drama; alleging, that it is forestalling their pleasure, and that whatever the actors are represented to be, they want no monitor, and are wise enough to find it out themselves. But I could never approve of this censure: there is a satisfaction, I think, in knowing one's company; and when I am to converse with people for a considerable time, I desire to be well acquainted with them, and the sooner the better. It is for this reason, I thought it proper to give the reader some account of the persons that are to entertain him. As they are supposed to be people of quality, I beg leave, before I come to particulars, to premise some things concerning the beau monde in general; which, though most people perhaps know them every body does not always attend to. Among the fashionable part of mankind throughout Christendom, there are, in all countries, persons, who, though they feel a just abhorrence to atheism and professed infidelity, yet have very little religion, and are scarce half-believers, when their lives come to be looked into, and their sentiments examined. What is chiefly aimed at in a refined education, is to procure as much ease and pleasure upon earth, as that can afford: therefore men are first instructed in all the various arts of rendering their behaviour agreeable to others, with the least disturbance to themselves. Secondly, they are imbued with the knowledge of all the elegant comforts of life, as well as the lessons of human prudence, to avoid pain and trouble, in order to enjoy as much of the world, and with as little opposition, as it is possible. Whilst thus men study their own private interest, in assisting each other to promote and increase the pleasures of life in general, they find by experience, that to compass those ends, every thing ought to be banished from conversation, that can have the least tendency of making others uneasy; and to reproach men with their faults or imperfections, neglects or omissions, or to put them in mind of their duty, are offices that none are allowed to take upon them, but parents or professed masters and tutors; nor even they before company: but to reprove and pretend to teach others, we have no authority over, is ill manners, even in a clergyman out of the pulpit; nor is he there to talk magisterially, or ever to mention things, that are melancholy or dismal, if he should pass for a polite preacher: but whatever we may vouchsafe to hear at church, neither the certainty of a future state, nor the necessity of repentance, nor any thing else relating to the essentials of Christianity, are ever to be talked of when we are out of it, among the beau monde, upon any account whatever. The subject is not diverting: besides, every body is supposed to know those things, and to take care accordingly; nay, it is unmannerly to think otherwise. The decency in fashion being the chief, if not the only, rule, all modish people walk by, not a few of them go to church, and receive the sacrament, from the same principle that obliges them to pay visits to one another, and now and then to make an entertainment. But as the greatest care of the beau monde is to be agreeable, and appear well-bred, so most of them take particular care, and many against their consciences, not to seem burdened with more religion than it is fashionable to have, for fear of being thought to be either hypocrites or bigots. Virtue, however, is a very fashionable word, and some of the most luxurious are extremely fond of the amiable sound; though they mean nothing by it, but a great veneration for whatever is courtly or sublime, and an equal aversion to every thing that is vulgar or unbecoming. They seem to imagine, that it chiefly consists in a strict compliance to the rules of politeness, and all the laws of honour, that have any regard to the respect that is due to themselves. It is the existence of this virtue, that is often maintained with so much pomp of words, and for the eternity of which so many champions are ready to take up arms: whilst the votaries of it deny themselves no pleasure, they can enjoy, either fashionably or in secret, and, instead of sacrificing the heart to the love of real virtue, can only condescend to abandon the outward deformity of vice, for the satisfaction they receive from appearing to be well-bred. It is counted ridiculous for men to commit violence upon themselves, or to maintain, that virtue requires self-denial: all court philosophers are agreed, that nothing can be lovely or desirable, that is mortifying or uneasy. A civil behaviour among the fair in public, and a deportment inoffensive both in words and actions, is all the chastity the polite world requires in men. What liberties soever a man gives himself in private, his reputation shall never suffer, whilst he conceals his amours from all those that are not unmannerly inquisitive, and takes care that nothing criminal can ever be proved upon him. Si non caste, saltem caute, is a precept that sufficiently shows what every body expects; and though incontinence is owned to be a sin, yet never to have been guilty of it is a character which most single men under thirty would not be fond of, even amongst modest women. As the world everywhere, in compliment itself, desires to be counted really virtuous, so bare-faced vices, and all trespasses committed in sight of it, are heinous and unpardonable. To see a man drunk in the open street, or any serious assembly at noon-day, is shocking; because it is a violation of the laws of decency, and plainly shows a want of respect, and neglect of duty, which every body is supposed to owe to the public. Men of mean circumstances likewise may be blamed for spending more time or money in drinking, than they can afford; but when these and all worldly considerations are out of the question, drunkenness itself, as it is a sin, an offence to Heaven, is seldom censured; and no man of fortune scruples to own, that he was at such a time in such a company, where they drank very hard. Where nothing is committed, that is either beastly, or otherwise extravagant, societies, that meet on purpose to drink and be merry, reckon their manner of passing away the time as innocent as any other, though most days in the year they spend five or six hours of the four and twenty in that diversion. No man had ever the reputation of being a good companion, that would never drink to excess; and if a man's constitution be so strong, or himself so cautious, that the dose he takes overnight, never disorders him the next day, the worst that shall be said of him, is, that he loves his bottle with moderation: though every night constantly he makes drinking his pastime, and hardly ever goes to bed entirely sober. Avarice, it is true, is generally detested; but as men may be as guilty of it by scraping money together, as they can be by hoarding it up, so all the base, the sordid, and unreasonable means of acquiring wealth, ought to be equally condemned and exploded, with the vile, the pitiful, and penurious way of saving it: but the world is more indulgent; no man is taxed with avarice, that will conform with the beau monde, and live every way in splendour, though he should always be raising the rents of his estate, and hardly suffer his tenants to live under him; though he should enrich himself by usury, and all the barbarous advantages that extortion can make of the necessities of others: and though, moreover, he should be a bad paymaster himself, and an unmerciful creditor to the unfortunate; it is all one, no man is counted covetous, who entertains well, and will allow his family what is fashionable for a person in his condition. How often do we see men of very large estates unreasonably solicitous after greater riches! What greediness do some men discover in extending the perquisites of their offices! What dishonourable condescensions are made for places of profit! What slavish attendance is given, and what low submissions and unmanly cringes are made to favourites for pensions, by men that could subsist without them! Yet these things are no reproach to men, and they are never upbraided with them but by their enemies, or those that envy them, and perhaps the discontented and the poor. On the contrary, most of the well-bred people, that live in affluence themselves, will commend them for their diligence and activity; and say of them, that they take care of the main chance; that they are industrious men for their families, and that they know how, and are fit, to live in the world. But these kind constructions are not more hurtful to the practice of Christianity, than the high opinion which, in an artful education, men are taught to have of their species, is to the belief of its doctrine, if a right use be not made of it. That the great pre-eminence we have over all other creatures we are acquainted with, consists in our rational faculty, is very true; but it is as true, that the more we are taught to admire ourselves, the more our pride increases, and the greater stress we lay on the sufficiency of our reason: For as experience teaches us, that the greater and the more transcendent the esteem is, which men have for their own worth, the less capable they generally are to bear injuries without resentment; so we see, in like manner, that the more exalted the notions are which men entertain of their better part, their reasoning faculty, the more remote and averse they will be from giving their assent to any thing that seems to insult over or contradict it: And asking a man to admit of any thing he cannot comprehend, the proud reasoner calls an affront to human understanding. But as ease and pleasure are the grand aim of the beau monde, and civility is inseparable from their behaviour, whether they are believers or not, so well-bred people never quarrel with the religion they are brought up in: They will readily comply with every ceremony in divine worship they have been used to, and never dispute with you either about the Old or the New Testament, if, in your turn, you will forbear laying great stress upon faith and mysteries, and allow them to give an allegorical, or any other figurative sense to the History of the Creation, and whatever else they cannot comprehend or account for by the light of nature. I am far from believing, that, among the fashionable people, there are not, in all Christian countries, many persons of stricter virtue, and greater sincerity in religion, than I have here described; but that a considerable part of mankind have a great resemblance to the picture I have been drawing, I appeal to every knowing and candid reader. Horatio, Cleomenes, and Fulvia, are the names I have given to my interlocutors: The first represents one of the modish people I have been speaking of, but rather of the better sort of them as to morality, though he seems to have a greater distrust of the sincerity of clergymen, than he has of that of any other profession, and to be of the opinion, which is expressed in that trite and specious, as well as false and injurious saying, priests of all religions are the same. As to his studies, he is supposed to be tolerably well versed in the classics, and to have read more than is usual for people of quality, that are born to great estates. He is a man of strict honour, and of justice as well as humanity; rather profuse than covetous, and altogether disinterested in his principles. He has been abroad, seen the world, and is supposed to be possessed of the greatest part of the accomplishments that usually gain a man the reputation of being very much of a gentleman. Cleomenes had been just such another, but was much reformed. As he had formerly, for his amusement only, been dipping into anatomy, and several parts of natural philosophy; so, since he was come home from his travels, he had studied human nature, and the knowledge of himself, with great application. It is supposed, that, whilst he was thus employing most of his leisure hours, he met with the Fable of the Bees; and, making a great use of what he read, compared what he felt himself within, as well as what he had seen in the world, with the sentiments set forth in that book, and found the insincerity of men fully as universal, as it was there represented. He had no opinion of the pleas and excuses that are commonly made to cover the real desires of the heart; and he ever suspected the sincerity of men, whom he saw to be fond of the world, and with eagerness grasping at wealth and power, when they pretended that the great end of their labours was to have opportunities of doing good to others upon earth, and becoming themselves more thankful to Heaven; especially, if they conformed with the beau monde, and seemed to take delight in a fashionable way of living: He had the same suspicion of all men of sense, who, having read and considered the gospel, would maintain the possibility that persons might pursue worldly glory with all their strength, and, at the same time, be good Christians. Cleomenes himself believed the Bible to be the word of God, without reserve, and was entirely convinced of the mysterious, as well as historical truths that are contained in it. But as he was fully persuaded, not only of the veracity of the Christian religion, but likewise of the severity of its precepts, so he attacked his passions with vigour, but never scrupled to own his want of power to subdue them, or the violent opposition he felt from within; often complaining, that the obstacles he met with from flesh and blood, were insurmountable. As he understood perfectly well the difficulty of the task required in the gospel, so he ever opposed those easy casuists, that endeavoured to lessen and extenuate it for their own ends; and he loudly maintained, that men's gratitude to Heaven was an unacceptable offering, whilst they continued to live in ease and luxury, and were visibly solicitous after their share of the pomp and vanity of this world. In the very politeness of conversation, the complacency with which fashionable people are continually soothing each other's frailties, and in almost every part of a gentleman's behaviour, he thought there was a disagreement between the outward appearances, and what is felt within, that was clashing with uprightness and sincerity. Cleomenes was of opinion, that of all religious virtues, nothing was more scarce, or more difficult to acquire, than Christian humility; and that to destroy the possibility of ever attaining to it, nothing was so effectual as what is called a gentleman's education; and that the more dexterous, by this means, men grew in concealing the outward signs, and every symptom of pride, the more entirely they became enslaved by it within. He carefully examined into the felicity that accrues from the applause of others, and the invisible wages which men of sense and judicious fancy received for their labours; and what it was at the bottom that rendered those airy rewards so ravishing to mortals. He had often observed, and watched narrowly the countenances and behaviour of men, when any thing of theirs was admired or commended, such as the choice of their furniture, the politeness of their entertainments, the elegancy of their equipages, their dress, their diversions, or the fine taste displayed in their buildings. Cleomenes seemed charitable, and was a man of strict morals, yet he would often complain that he was not possessed of one Christian virtue, and found fault with his own actions, that had all the appearances of goodness; because he was conscious, he said, that they were performed from a wrong principle. The effects of his education, and his aversion to infamy, had always been strong enough to keep him from turpitude; but this he ascribed to his vanity, which he complained was in such full possession of his heart, that he knew no gratification of any appetite from which he was able to exclude it. Having always been a man of unblameable behaviour, the sincerity of his belief had made no visible alteration in his conduct to outward appearances; but in private he never ceased from examining himself. As no man was less prone to enthusiasm than himself, so his life was very uniform; and as he never pretended to high flights of devotion, so he never was guilty of enormous offences. He had a strong aversion to rigorists of all sorts; and when he saw men quarrelling about forms and creeds, and the interpretation of obscure places, and requiring of others the strictest compliance to their own opinions in disputable matters, it raised his indignation to see the generality of them want charity, and many of them scandalously remiss in the plainest and most necessary duties. He took uncommon pains to search into human nature, and left no stone unturned, to detect the pride and hypocrisy of it, and, among his intimate friends, to expose the stratagems of the one, and the exorbitant power of the other. He was sure, that the satisfaction which arose from worldly enjoyments, was something distinct from gratitude, and foreign to religion; and he felt plainly, that as it proceeded from within, so it centered in himself: The very relish of life, he said, was accompanied with an elevation of mind, that seemed to be inseparable from his being. Whatever principle was the cause of this, he was convinced within himself, that the sacrifice of the heart, which the gospel requires, consisted in the utter extirpation of that principle; confessing, at the same time, that this satisfaction he found in himself, this elevation of mind, caused his chief pleasure; and that, in all the comforts of life, it made the greatest part of the enjoyment. Cleomenes, with grief, often owned his fears, that his attachment to the world would never cease whilst he lived; the reasons he gave, were the great regard he continued to have for the opinion of worldly men; the stubbornness of his indocile heart, that could not be brought to change the objects of its pride; and refused to be ashamed of what, from his infancy, it had been taught to glory in; and, lastly, the impossibility, he found in himself, of being ever reconciled to contempt, and enduring, with patience, to be laughed at and despised for any cause, or on any consideration whatever. These were the obstacles, he said, that hindered him from breaking off all commerce with the beau monde, and entirely changing his manner of living; without which, he thought it mockery to talk of renouncing the world, and bidding adieu to all the pomp and vanity of it. The part of Fulvia, which is the third person, is so inconsiderable, she just appearing only in the first dialogue, that it would be impertinent to trouble the reader with a character of her. I had a mind to say some things on painting and operas, which I thought might, by introducing her, be brought in more naturally, and with less trouble, than they could have been without her. The ladies, I hope, will find no reason, from the little she does say, to suspect that she wants either virtue or understanding. As to the fable, or what is supposed to have occasioned the first dialogue between Horatio and Cleomenes, it is this. Horatio, who had found great delight in my Lord Shaftsbury's polite manner of writing, his fine raillery, and blending virtue with good manners, was a great stickler for the social system; and wondered how Cleomenes could be an advocate for such a book as the Fable of the Bees, of which he had heard a very vile character from several quarters. Cleomenes, who loved and had a great friendship for Horatio, wanted to undeceive him; but the other, who hated satire, was prepossessed, and having been told likewise, that martial courage, and honour itself, were ridiculed in that book, he was very much exasperated against the author and his whole scheme: he had two or three times heard Cleomenes discourse on this subject with others; but would never enter into the argument himself; and finding his friend often pressing to come to it, he began to look cooly upon him, and at last to avoid all opportunities of being alone with him: till Cleomenes drew him in, by the stratagem which the reader will see he made use of, as Horatio was one day taking his leave after a short complimentary visit. I should not wonder to see men of candour, as well as good sense, find fault with the manner, in which I have chose to publish these thoughts of mine to the world: There certainly is something in it, which I confess I do not know how to justify to my own satisfaction. That such a man as Cleomenes, having met with a book agreeable to his own sentiments, should desire to be acquainted with the author of it, has nothing in it that is improbable or unseemly; but then it will be objected, that, whoever the interlocutors are, it was I myself who wrote the dialogues; and that it is contrary to all decency, that a man should proclaim concerning his own work, all that a friend of his, perhaps, might be allowed to say: this is true; and the best answer which I think can be made to it, is, that such an impartial man, and such a lover of truth, as Cleomenes is represented to be, would be as cautious in speaking of his friend's merit, as he would be of his own. It might be urged likewise, that when a man professes himself to be an author's friend, and exactly to entertain the same sentiments with another, it must naturally put every reader upon his guard, and render him as suspicious and distrustful of such a man, as he would be of the author himself. But how good soever the excuses are, that might be made for this manner of writing, I would never have ventured upon it, if I had not liked it in the famous Gassendus, who, by the help of several dialogues and a friend, who is the chief personage in them, has not only explained and illustrated his system, but likewise refuted his adversaries: him I have followed, and I hope the reader will find, that whatever opportunity I have had by this means, of speaking well of myself indirectly, I had no design to make that, or any other ill use of it. As it is supposed, that Cleomenes is my friend, and speaks my sentiments, so it is but justice, that every thing which he advances should be looked upon and considered as my own; but no man in his senses would think, that I ought to be equally responsible for every thing that Horatio says, who is his antagonist. If ever he offers any thing that favours of libertinism, or is otherwise exceptionable, which Cleomenes does not reprove him for in the best and most serious manner, or to which he gives not the most satisfactory and convincing answer that can be made, I am to blame, otherwise not. Yet from the fate the first part has met with, I expect to see in a little time several things transcribed and cited from this, in that manner, by themselves, without the replies that are made to them, and so shown to the world, as my words and my opinion. The opportunity of doing this will be greater in this part than it was in the former, and should I always have fair play, and never be attacked, but by such adversaries, as would make their quotations from me without artifice, and use me with common honesty, it would go a great way to the refuting of me; and I should myself begin to suspect the truth of several things I have advanced, and which hitherto I cannot help believing. A stroke made in this manner,----which the reader will sometimes meet with in the following dialogues, is a sign, either of interruption, when the person speaking is not suffered to go on with what he was going to say, or else of a pause, during which something is supposed to be said or done, not relating to the discourse. As in this part I have not altered the subject, on which a former, known by the name of the Fable of the Bees, was wrote; and the same unbiassed method of searching after truth, and inquiring into the nature of man and society, made use of in that, is continued in this, I thought it unnecessary to look out for another title; and being myself a great lover of simplicity, and my invention none of the most fruitful, the reader, I hope, will pardon the bald, inelegant aspect, and unusual emptiness of the title page. Here I would have made an end of my Preface, which I know very well is too long already: but the world having been very grossly imposed upon by a false report, that some months ago was very solemnly made, and as industriously spread in most of the newspapers, for a considerable time, I think it would be an unpardonable neglect in me, of the public, should I suffer them; to remain in the error they were led into, when I am actually addressing them; and there is no other person, from whom they can so justly expect to be undeceived. In the London Evening Post of Saturday March 9, 1727-8, the following paragraph was printed in small Italic, at the end of the home news. On Friday evening the first instant, a gentleman, well-dressed, appeared at the bonfire before St. James's Gate, who declared himself the author of a book, intituled, the Fable of the Bees; and that he was sorry for writing the same: and recollecting his former promise, pronounced these words: I commit my book to the flames; and threw it in accordingly. The Monday following, the same piece of news was repeated in the Daily Journal, and after that for a considerable time, as I have said, in most of the papers: but since the Saturday mentioned, which was the only time it was printed by itself, it appeared always with a small addition to it, and annexed (with a N. B. before it) to the following advertisement. ARET�-LOGIA: Or an Inquiry into the Original of Moral Virtue, wherein the false notions of Machiavel, Hobbs, Spinosa, and Mr. Bayle, as they are collected and digested by the Author of the Fable of the Bees, are examined and confuted; and the eternal and unalterable nature and obligation of moral virtue is stated and vindicated; to which is prefixed, a Prefatory Introduction, in a Letter to that Author, By Alexander Innes, D. D. Preacher Assistant at St. Margaret's, Westminster. The small addition which I said was made to that notable piece of news, after it came to be annexed to this advertisement, consisted of these five words (upon reading the above book), which were put in after, "sorry for writing the same." This story having been often repeated in the papers, and never publicly contradicted, many people, it seems, were credulous enough to believe, notwithstanding the improbability of it. But the least attentive would have suspected the whole, as soon as they had seen the addition that was made to it, the second time it was published; for supposing it to be intelligible, as it follows the advertisement, it cannot be pretended, that the repenting gentleman pronounced those very words. He must have named the book; and if he had said, that his sorrow was occasioned by reading the ARET�-LOGIA, or the new book of the reverend Dr. Innes, how came such a remarkable part of his confession to be omitted in the first publication, where the well-dressed gentleman's words and actions seemed to be set down with so much care and exactness? Besides, every body knows the great industry, and general intelligence of our news-writers: if such a farce had really been acted, and a man had been hired to pronounce the words mentioned, and throw a book into the fire, which I have often wondered was not done, is it credible at all, that a thing so remarkable, done so openly, and before so many witnesses, the first day of March, should not be taken notice of in any of the papers before the ninth, and never be repeated afterwards, or ever mentioned but as an appendix of the advertisement to recommend Dr. Innes's book? However, this story has been much talked of, and occasioned a great deal of mirth among my acquaintance, several of whom have earnestly pressed me more than once to advertise the falsity of it, which I would never comply with for fear of being laughed at, as some years ago poor Dr. Patridge was, for seriously maintaining that he was not dead. But all this while we were in the dark, and nobody could tell how this report came into the world, or what it could be that had given a handle to it, when one evening a friend of mine, who had borrowed Dr. Innes's book, which till then I had never seen, showed me in it the following lines. But à propos Sir, if I rightly remember, the ingenuous Mr. Law, in his Remarks upon your Fable of the Bees, puts you in mind of a promise you had made, by which you obliged yourself to burn that book at any time or place your adversary should appoint, if any thing should be found in it tending to immorality or the corruption of manners. I have a great respect for that gentleman, though I am not personally acquainted with him, but I cannot but condemn his excessive credulity and good nature, in believing that a man of your principles could be a slave to his word; for my own part, I think, I know you too well to be so easily imposed upon; or if, after all, you should. really persist in your resolution, and commit it to the flames, I appoint the first of March, before St. James's Gate, for that purpose, it being the birthday of the best and most glorious queen upon earth; and the burning of your book the smallest atonement you can make, for endeavouring to corrupt and debauch his majesty's subjects in their principles. Now, Sir, if you agree to this, I hope you are not so destitute of friends, but that you may find some charitable neighbour or other, who will lend you a helping hand, and throw in the author at the same time by way of appendix; the doing of which will, in my opinion, complete the solemnity of the day. I am not your patient, but, your most humble servant. Thus ends what, in the ARET�-LOGIA Doctor Innes is pleased to call a Prefatory Introduction, in a Letter to the Author of the Fable of the Bees. It is signed A. I. and dated Tot-hill-fields, Westminster, Jan. 20. 1727-8. Now all our wonder ceased. The judicious reader will easily allow me, that, having read thus much, I had an ample dispensation from going on any further; therefore I can say nothing of the book: and as to the reverend author of it, who seems to think himself so well acquainted with my principles, I have not the honour to know either him or his morals, otherwise than from what I have quoted here. Ex pede Herculem. London, October 20. 1728. THE FIRST DIALOGUE. BETWEEN HORATIO, CLEOMENES, and FULVIA. CLEOMENES. Always in haste, Horatio? Hor. I must beg of you to excuse me, I am obliged to go. Cleo. Whether you have other engagements than you used to have, or whether your temper is changed, I cannot tell, but something has made an alteration in you, of which I cannot comprehend the cause. There is no man in the world whose friendship I value more than I do yours, or whose company I like better, yet I can never have it. I profess I have thought sometimes that you have avoided me on purpose. Hor. I am sorry, Cleomenes, I should have been wanting in civility to you; I come every week constantly to pay my respects to you, and if ever I fail, I always send to inquire after your health. Cleo. No man outdoes Horatio in civility; but I thought something more was due to our affections and long acquaintance, besides compliments and ceremony: Of late I have never been to wait upon you, but you are gone abroad, or I find you engaged; and when I have the honour to see you here, your stay is only momentary. Pray pardon my rudeness for once: What is it that hinders you now from keeping me company for an hour or two? My cousin talks of going out, and I shall be all alone. Hor. I know better than to rob you of such an opportunity for speculation? Cleo. Speculation! on what, pray? Hor. That vileness of our species in the refined way of thinking you have of late been so fond of, I call it the scheme of deformity, the partisans of which study chiefly to make every thing in our nature appear as ugly and contemptible as it is possible, and take uncommon pains to persuade men that they are devils. Cleo. If that be all, I shall soon convince you. Hor. No conviction to me, I beseech you: I am determined, and fully persuaded, that there is good in the world as well as evil; and that the words, honesty, benevolence, and humanity, and even charity, are not empty sounds only, but that there are such things in spite of the Fable of the Bees; and I am resolved to believe, that, notwithstanding the degeneracy of mankind, and the wickedness of the age, there are men now living, who are actually possessed of those virtues. Cleo. But you do not know what I am going to say: I am---- Hor. That may be, but I will not hear one word; all you can say is lost upon me, and if you will not give me leave to speak out, I am gone this moment. That cursed book has bewitched you, and made you deny the existence of those very virtues that had gained you the esteem of your friends. You know this is not my usual language; I hate to say harsh things: But what regard can, or ought one to have for an author that treats every body de haut en bas, makes a jest of virtue and honour, calls Alexander the Great a madman, and spares kings and princes no more than any one, would the most abject of the people? The business of his philosophy is just the reverse to that of the herald's office; for, as there they are always contriving and finding out high and illustrious pedigrees for low and obscure people, so your author is ever searching after, and inventing mean contemptible origins for worthy and honourable actions. I am your very humble servant. Cleo. Stay. I am of your opinion; what I offered to convince you of, was, how entirely I am recovered of the folly which you have so justly exposed: I have left that error. Hor. Are you in earnest? Cleo. No man more: There is no greater stickler for the social virtues than myself; and I much question, whether there is any of Lord Shaftsbury's admirers that will go my lengths! Hor. I shall be glad to see you go my lengths first, and as many more as you please. You cannot conceive, Cleomenes, how it has grieved me, when I have seen how many enemies you made yourself by that extravagant way of arguing. If you are but serious, whence comes this change? Cleo. In the first place, I grew weary of having every body against me: and, in the second, there is more room for invention in the other system. Poets and orators in the social system have fine opportunities of exerting themselves. Hor. I very much suspect the recovery you boast of: Are you convinced, that the other system was false, which you might have easily learned from seeing every body against you? Cleo. False to be sure; but what you allege is no proof of it: for if the greatest part of mankind were not against that scheme of deformity, as you justly call it, insincerity could not be so general, as the scheme itself supposes it to be: But since my eyes have been opened, I have found out that truth and probability are the silliest things in the world; they are of no manner of use, especially among the people de bon gout. Hor. I thought what a convert you was: but what new madness has seized you now? Cleo. No madness at all: I say, and will maintain it to the world, that truth, in the sublime, is very impertinent; and that in the arts and sciences, fit for men of taste to look into, a master cannot commit a more unpardonable fault, than sticking to, or being influenced by truth, where it interferes with what is agreeable. Hor. Homely truths indeed---- Cleo. Look upon that Dutch piece of the nativity: what charming colouring there is! What a fine pencil, and how just are the outlines for a piece so curiously finished! But what a fool the fellow was to draw hay, and straw, and water, and a rack as well as a manger: it is a wonder he did not put the bambino into the manger. Ful. The bambino? That is the child, I suppose: why it should be in the manger; should it not? Does not the history tell us, that the child was laid in the manger? I have no skill in painting; but I can see whether things are drawn to the life or not: sure nothing can be more like the head of an ox than that there. A picture then pleases me best when the art in such a manner deceives my eye, that, without making any allowance, I can imagine I see the things in reality which the painter has endeavoured to represent. I have always thought it an admirable piece; sure nothing in the world can be more like nature. Cleo. Like nature! So much the worse: Indeed, cousin, it is easily seen, that you have no skill in painting. It is not nature, but agreeable nature, la belle nature, that is to be represented: all things that are abject, low, pitiful, and mean, are carefully to be avoided, and kept out of sight; because, to men of the true taste, they are as offensive as things that are shocking, and really nasty. Ful. At that rate, the Virgin Mary's condition, and our Saviour's birth, are never to be painted. Cleo. That is your mistake; the subject itself is noble: Let us go but in the next room, and I will show you the difference.----Look upon that picture, which is the same history. There is fine architecture, there is a colonnade; can any thing be thought of more magnificent? How skilfully is that ass removed, and how little you see of the ox: pray, mind the obscurity they are both placed in. It hangs in a strong light, or else one might look ten times upon the picture without observing them: Behold these pillars of the Corinthian order, how lofty they are, and what an effect they have, what a noble space, what an area here is! How nobly every thing concurs to express the majestic grandeur of the subject, and strikes the soul with awe and admiration at the same time! Ful. Pray cousin, has good sense ever any share in the judgment which your men of true taste form about pictures? Hor. Madam! Ful. I beg pardon, Sir, if I have offended: but to me it seems strange to hear such commendations given to a painter, for turning the stable of a country inn into a palace of extraordinary magnificence: This is a great deal worse than Swift's Metamorphosis of Philemon and Baucis; for there some show of resemblance is kept in the changes. Hor. In a country stable, Madam, there is nothing but filth and nastiness, or vile abject things not fit to be seen, at least not capable of entertaining persons of quality. Ful. The Dutch picture in the next room has nothing that is offensive: but an Augean stable, even before Hercules had cleaned it, would be less shocking to me than those fluted pillars; for nobody can please my eye that affronts my understanding: When I desire a man to paint a considerable history, which every body knows to have been transacted at a country inn, does he not strangely impose upon me, because he understands architecture, to draw me a room that might have served for a great hall, or banqueting-house, to any Roman emperor? Besides, that the poor and abject state in which our Saviour chose to appear at his coming into the world, is the most material circumstance of the history: it contains an excellent moral against vain pomp, and is the strongest persuasive to humility, which, in the Italian, are more than lost. Hor. Indeed, Madam, experience is against you; and it is certain, that, even among the vulgar, the representations of mean and abject things, and such as they are familiar with, have not that effect, and either breed contempt, or are insignificant: whereas vast piles, stately buildings, roofs of uncommon height, surprising ornaments, and all the architecture of the grand taste, are the fittest to raise devotion, and inspire men with veneration, and a religious awe for the places that have these excellencies to boast of. Is there ever a meeting-house or barn to be compared to a fine cathedral, for this purpose? Ful. I believe there is a mechanical way of raising devotion in silly superstitious creatures; but an attentive contemplation on the works of God, I am sure---- Cleo. Pray, cousin, say no more in defence of your low taste: The painter has nothing to do with the truth of the history; his business is to express the dignity of the subject, and, in compliment to his judges, never to forget the excellency of our species: All his art and good sense must be employed in raising that to the highest pitch; Great masters do not paint for the common people, but for persons of refined understanding: What you complain o£ is the effect of the good manners and complaisance of the painter. When he had drawn the Infant and the Madona, he thought the least glimpse of the ox and the ass would be sufficient to acquaint you with the history: They who want more fescuing, and a broader explanation, he does not desire his picture should ever be shown to; for the rest, he entertains you with nothing but what is noble and worthy your attention: You see he is an architect, and completely skilled in perspective, and he shows you how finely he can round a pillar, and that both the depth, and the height of a space, may be drawn on a flat, with all the other wonders he performs by his skill in that inconceivable mystery of light and shadows. Ful. Why then is it pretended that painting is an imitation of nature? Cleo. At first setting out a scholar is to copy things exactly as he sees them; but from a great matter, when he is left to his own invention, it is expected he should take the perfections of nature, and not paint it as it is, but as we would wish it to be. Zeuxis, to draw a goddess, took five beautiful women, from which he culled what was most graceful in each. Ful. Still every grace he painted was taken from nature. Cleo. That's true; but he left nature her rubbish, and imitated nothing but what was excellent, which made the assemblage superior to any thing in nature. Demetrius was taxed for being too natural; Dionysus was also blamed for drawing men like us. Nearer our times, Michael Angelo was esteemed too natural, and Lysippus of old upbraided the common sort of sculptors for making men such as they were found in nature. Ful. Are these things real? Cleo. You may read it yourself in Graham's Preface to The Art of Painting: the book is above in the library. Hor. These things may seem strange to you, Madam, but they are of immense use to the public: the higher we can carry the excellency of our species, the more those beautiful images will fill noble minds with worthy and suitable ideas of their own dignity, that will seldom fail of spurring them on to virtue and heroic actions. There is a grandeur to be expressed in things that far surpasses the beauties of simple nature. You take delight in operas, Madam, I do not question; you must have minded the noble manner and stateliness beyond nature, which every thing there is executed with. What gentle touches, what slight and yet majestic motions are made use of to express the most boisterous passions! As the subject is always lofty, so no posture is to be chosen but what is serious and significant, as well as comely and agreeable; should the actions there be represented as they are in common life, they would ruin the sublime, and at once rob you of all your pleasure. Ful. I never expected any thing natural at an opera; but as persons of distinction resort thither, and every body comes dressed, it is a sort of employment, and I seldom miss a night, because it is the fashion to go: besides, the royal family, and the monarch himself, generally honouring them with their presence, it is almost become a duty to attend them, as much as it is to go to court. What diverts me there is the company, the lights, the music, the scenes, and other decorations: but as I understand but very few words of Italian, so what is most admired in the recitativo is lost upon me, which makes the acting part to me rather ridiculous than---- Hor. Ridiculous, Madam! For Heaven's sake---- Ful. I beg pardon, Sir, for the expression, I never laughed at an opera in my life; but I confess, as to the entertainment itself, that a good play is infinitely more diverting to me; and I prefer any thing that informs my understanding beyond all the recreations which either my eyes or my ears can be regaled with. Hor. I am sorry to hear a lady of your good sense make such a choice. Have you no taste for music, Madam? Ful. I named that as part of my diversion. Cleo. My cousin plays very well upon the harpsichord herself. Ful. I love to hear good music; but it does not throw me into those raptures, I hear others speak of. Hor. Nothing certainly can elevate the mind beyond a fine concert: it seems to disengage the soul from the body, and lift it up to heaven. It is in this situation, that we are most capable of receiving extraordinary impressions: when the instruments cease, our temper is subdued, and beautiful action joins with the skilful voice, in setting before us in a transcendent light, the heroic labours we are come to admire, and which the word Opera imports. The powerful harmony between the engaging sounds and speaking gestures invades the heart, and forcibly inspires us with those noble sentiments, which to entertain, the most expressive words can only attempt to persuade us. Few comedies are tolerable, and in the best of them, if the levity of the expressions does not corrupt, the meanness of the subject must debase the manners; at least to persons of quality. In tragedies the style is more sublime; and the subjects generally great; but all violent passions, and even the representations of them, ruffle and discompose the mind: besides, when men endeavour to express things strongly, and they are acted to the life, it often happens that the images do mischief, because they are too moving, and that the action is faulty for being too natural; and experience teaches us, that in unguarded minds, by those pathetic performances, flames are often raised that are prejudicial to virtue. The playhouses themselves are far from being inviting, much less the companies, at least the greatest part of them that frequent them, some of which are almost of the lowest rank of all. The disgust that persons of the least elegance receive from these people are many; besides, the ill scents, and unseemly sights one meets with, of careless rakes and impudent wenches, that, having paid their money, reckon themselves to be all upon the level with every body there; the oaths, scurrilities, and vile jests one is often obliged to hear, without resenting them; and the odd mixture of high and low that are all partaking of the same diversion, without regard to dress or quality, are all very offensive; and it cannot but be very disagreeable to polite people to be in the same crowd with a variety of persons, some of them below mediocrity, that pay no deference to one another. At the opera, every thing charms and concurs to make happiness complete. The sweetness of voice, in the first place, and the solemn composure of the action, serve to mitigate and allay every passion; it is the gentleness of them, and the calm serenity of the mind, that make us amiable, and bring us the nearest to the perfection of angels; whereas, the violence of the passions, in which the corruption of the heart chiefly consists, dethrones our reason, and renders us more like unto savages. It is incredible, how prone we are to imitation, and how strangely, unknown to ourselves, we are shaped and fashioned after the models and examples that are often set before us. No anger nor jealousy are ever to be seen at an opera, that distort the features; no flames that are noxious, nor is any love represented in them, that is not pure and next to seraphic; and it is impossible for the remembrance to carry any thing away from them, that can sully the imagination. Secondly, the company is of another sort: the place itself is a security to peace, as well as every one's honour; and it is impossible to name another, where blooming innocence and irresistible beauty stand in so little need of guardians. Here we are sure never to meet with petulancy or ill manners, and to be free from immodest ribaldry, libertine wit, and detestable satire. If you will mind, on the one hand, the richness and splendour of dress, and the quality of the persons that appear in them; the variety of colours, and the lustre of the fair in a spacious theatre, well illuminated and adorned; and on the other, the grave deportment of the assembly, and the consciousness that appears in every countenance, of the respect they owe to each other, you will be forced to confess, that upon earth there cannot be a pastime more agreeable: believe me, Madam, there is no place, where both sexes have such opportunities of imbibing exalted sentiments, and raising themselves above the vulgar, as they have at the opera; and there is no other sort of diversion or assembly, from the frequenting of which, young persons of quality can have equal hopes of forming their manners, and contracting a strong and lasting habit of virtue. Ful. You have said more in commendation of operas, Horatio, than I ever heard or thought of before; and I think every body who loves that diversion is highly obliged to you. The grand gout, I believe, is a great help in panegyric, especially, where it is an incivility strictly to examine and over-curiously to look into matters. Cleo. What say you now, Fulvia, of nature and good sense, are they not quite beat out of doors? Ful. I have heard nothing yet, to make me out of conceit with good sense; though what you insinuated of nature, as if it was not to be imitated in painting, is an opinion, I must confess, which hitherto I more admire at, than I can approve of it. Hor. I would never recommend any thing, Madam, that is repugnant to good sense; but Cleomenes must have some design in over-acting the part he pretends to have chosen. What he said about painting is very true, whether he spoke it in jest or in earnest; but he talks so diametrically opposite to the opinion which he is known every where to defend of late, that I do not know what to make of him. Ful. I am convinced of the narrowness of my own understanding, and am going to visit some persons, with whom I shall be more upon the level. Hor. You will give me leave to wait upon you to your coach, Madam.----Pray, Cleomenes, what is it you have got in your head? Cleo. Nothing at all: I told you before, that I was so entirely recovered from my folly, that few people went my lengths. What jealousy you entertain of me I do not know; but I find myself much improved in the social system. Formerly I thought, that chief ministers, and all those at the helm of affairs, acted from principles of avarice and ambition; that in all the pains they took, and even in the slaveries they underwent for the public good, they had their private ends, and that they were supported in the fatigue by secret enjoyments they were unwilling to own. It is not a month ago, that I imagined that the inward care and real solicitude of all great men centered within themselves; and that to enrich themselves, acquire titles of honour, and raise their families on the one hand, and to have opportunities on the other of displaying a judicious fancy to all the elegant comforts of life, and establishing, without the least trouble of self-denial, the reputation of being wise, humane, and munificent, were the things, which, besides the satisfaction there is in superiority and the pleasure of governing, all candidates to high offices and great posts proposed to themselves, from the places they sued for: I was so narrow minded, that I could not conceive how a man would ever voluntarily submit to be a slave but to serve himself. But I have abandoned that ill-natured way of judging: I plainly perceive the public good, in all the designs of politicians, the social virtues shine in every action, and I find that the national interest is the compass that all statesmen steer by. Hor. That is more than I can prove; but certainly there have been such men, there have been patriots, that without selfish views have taken incredible pains for their country's welfare: nay, there are men now that would do the same, if they were employed; and we have had princes that have neglected their ease and pleasure, and sacrificed their quiet, to promote the prosperity and increase the wealth and honour of the kingdom, and had nothing so much at heart as the happiness of their subjects. Cleo. No disaffection, I beg of you. The difference between past and present times, and persons in and out of places, is perhaps clearer to you than it is to me; but it is many years ago, you know, that it has been agreed between us never to enter into party disputes: what I desire your attention to, is my reformation, which you seem to doubt of, and the great change that is wrought in me. The religion of most kings and other high potentates, I formerly had but a slender opinion of, but now I measure their piety by what they say of it themselves to their subjects. Hor. That is very kindly done. Cleo. By thinking meanly of things, I once had strange blundering notions concerning foreign wars: I thought that many of them arose from trifling causes, magnified by politicians for their own ends; that the most ruinous misunderstandings between states and kingdoms might spring from the hidden malice, folly, or caprice of one man; that many of them had been owing to the private quarrels, piques, resentments, and the haughtiness of the chief ministers of the respective nations, that were the sufferers; and that what is called personal hatred between princes seldom was more at first, than either an open or secret animosity which the two great favourites of those courts had against one another: but now I have learned to derive those things from higher causes. I am reconciled likewise to the luxury of the voluptuous, which I used to be offended at, because now I am convinced that the money of most rich men, is laid out with the social design of promoting arts and sciences, and that in the most expensive undertakings their principal aim is the employment of the poor. Hor. These are lengths indeed. Cleo. I have a strong aversion to satire, and detest it every whit as much as you do: the most instructive writings to understand the world, and penetrate into the heart of man, I take to be addresses, epithets, dedications, and above all, the preambles to patents, of which I am making a large collection. Hor. A very useful undertaking! Cleo. But to remove all your doubts of my conversion, I will show you some easy rules I have laid down for young beginners. Hor. What to do? Cleo. To judge of mens actions by the lovely system of Lord Shaftsbury, in a manner diametrically opposite to that of the Fable of the Bees. Hor. I do not understand you. Cleo. You will presently. I have called them rules, but they are rather examples from which the rules are to be gathered: as for instance, if we see an industrious poor woman, who has pinched her belly, and gone in rags for a considerable time to save forty shillings, part with her money to put out her son at six years of age to a chimney-sweeper; to judge of her charitably, according to the system of the social virtues, we must imagine, that though she never paid for the sweeping of a chimney in her life, she knows by experience, that for want of this necessary cleanliness the broth has been often spoiled, and many a chimney has been set on fire, and therefore to do good in her generation, as far as she is able, she gives up her all, both offspring and estate, to assist in preventing the several mischiefs that are often occasioned by great quantities of soot disregarded; and, free from selfishness, sacrifices her only son to the most wretched employment for the public welfare. Hor. You do not vie I see with Lord Shaftsbury, for loftiness of subjects. Cleo. When in a starry night with amazement we behold the glory of the firmament, nothing is more obvious than that the whole, the beautiful all, must be the workmanship of one great Architect of power and wisdom stupendous; and it is as evident, that every thing in the universe is a constituent part of one entire fabric. Hor. Would you make a jest of this too. Cleo. Far from it: they are awful truths, of which I am as much convinced as I am of my own existence; but I was going to name the consequences, which Lord Shaftsbury draws from them, in order to demonstrate to you, that I am a convert, and a very punctual observer of his Lordship's instructions, and that, in my judgment on the poor woman's conduct, there is nothing that is not entirely agreeable to the generous way of thinking set forth and recommended in the Characteristics. Hor. Is it possible a man should read such a book, and make no better use of it! I desire you would name the consequences you speak of. Cleo. As that infinity of luminous bodies, however different in magnitude, velocity, and the figures they describe in their courses, concur all of them to make up the universe, so this little spot we inhabit is likewise a compound of air, water, fire, minerals, vegetables, and living creatures, which, though vastly differing from one another in their nature, do altogether make up the body of this terraqueous globe. Hor. This is very right, and in the same manner as our whole species is composed of many nations of different religions, forms of government, interests and manners that divide and share the earth between them; so the civil society in every nation consists in great multitudes of both sexes, that widely differing from each other in age, constitution, strength, temper, wisdom and possessions, all help to make up one body politic. Cleo. The same exactly which I would have said: now, pray Sir, is not the great end of men's forming themselves into such societies, mutual happiness; I mean, do not all individual persons, from being thus combined, propose to themselves a more comfortable condition of life, than human creatures, if they were to live like other wild animals, without tie or dependance, could enjoy in a free and savage state? Hor. This certainly is not only the end, but the end which is every where attained to by government and society, in some degree or other. Cleo. Hence it must follow, that it is always wrong for men to pursue gain or pleasure, by means that are visibly detrimental to the civil society, and that creatures who can do this must be narrow-souled, short-sighted, selfish people; whereas, wise men never look upon themselves as individual persons, without considering the whole, of which they are but trifling parts in respect to bulk, and are incapable of receiving any satisfaction from things that interfere with the public welfare. This being undeniably true, ought not all private advantage to give way to this general interest; and ought it not to be every one's endeavour, to increase this common stock of happiness; and, in order to it, do what he can to render himself a serviceable and useful member of that whole body which he belongs to? Hor. What of all this? Cleo. Has not my poor woman, in what I have related of her, acted in conformity to this social system? Hor. Can any one in his senses imagine, that an indigent thoughtless wretch, without sense or education, should ever act from such generous principles? Cleo. Poor I told you the woman was, and I will not insist upon her education; but as for her being thoughtless and void of sense, you will give me leave to say, that it is an aspersion for which you have no manner of foundation; and from the account I have given of her, nothing can be gathered but that she was a considerate, virtuous, wise woman, in poverty. Hor. I suppose you would persuade me that you are in earnest. Cleo. I am much more so than you imagine; and say once, more, that, in the example I have given, I have trod exactly in my Lord Shaftsbury's steps, and closely followed the social system. If I have committed any error, show it me. Hor. Did that author ever meddle with any thing so low and pitiful. Cleo. There can be nothing mean in noble actions, whoever the persons are that perform them. But if the vulgar are to be all excluded from the social virtues, what rule or instruction shall the labouring poor, which are by far the greatest part of the nation, have left them to walk by, when the Characteristics have made a jest of all revealed religion, especially the Christian? but if you despise the poor and illiterate, I can, in the same method, judge of men in higher stations. Let the enemies to the social system behold the venerable counsellor, now grown eminent for his wealth, that at his great age continues sweltering at the bar to plead the doubtful cause, and, regardless of his dinner, shorten his own life in endeavouring to secure the possessions of others. How conspicuous is the benevolence of the physician to his kind, who, from morning till night, visiting the sick, keeps several sets of horses to be more serviceable to many, and still grudges himself the time for the necessary functions of life! In the same manner the indefatigable clergyman, who, with his ministry, supplies a very large parish already, solicits with zeal to be as useful and beneficent to another, though fifty of his order, yet unemployed, offer their service for the same purpose. Hor. I perceive your drift: from the strained panegyrics you labour at, you would form arguments ad absurdum: the banter is ingenious enough, and, at proper times, might serve to raise a laugh; but then you must own likewise, that those studied encomiums will not bear to be seriously examined into. When we consider that the great business as well as perpetual solicitude of the poor, are to supply their immediate wants, and keep themselves from starving, and that their children are a burden to them, which they groan under, and desire to be delivered from by all possible means, that are not clashing with the low involuntary affection which nature forces them to have for their offspring: when, I say, we consider this, the virtues of your industrious make no great figure. The public spirit likewise, and the generous principles, your sagacity has found out in the three faculties, to which men are brought up for a livelihood, seem to be very far fetched. Fame, wealth, and greatness, every age can witness: but whatever labour or fatigue they submit to, the motives of their actions are as conspicuous as their calling themselves. Cleo. Are they not beneficial to mankind, and of use to the public? Hor. I do not deny that; we often receive inestimable benefits from them, and the good ones in either profession are not only useful, but very necessary to the society: but though there are several that sacrifice their whole lives, and all the comforts of them, to their business, there is not one of them that would take a quarter of the pains he now is at, if, without taking any, he could acquire the same money, reputation, and other advantages that may accrue to him from the esteem or gratitude of those whom he has been serviceable to; and I do not believe, there is an eminent man among them that would not own this if the question was put to him. Therefore, when ambition and the love of money are avowed principles men act from, it is very silly to ascribe virtues to them, which they themselves pretend to lay no manner of claim to. But your encomium upon the parson is the merriest jest of all: I have heard many excuses made, and some of them very frivolous, for the covetousness of priests; but what you have picked out in their praise is more extraordinary than any thing I ever met with; and the most partial advocate and admirer of the clergy never yet discovered before yourself a great virtue in their hunting after pluralities, when they were well provided for themselves, and many others for want of employ were ready to starve. Cleo. But if there be any reality in the social system, it would be better for the public, if men, in, all professions, were to act from those generous principles; and you will allow, that the society would be the gainers, if the generality in the three faculties would mind others more, and themselves less than they do now. Hor. I do not know that; and considering what slavery some lawyers, as well as physicians, undergo, I much question whether it would be possible for them to exert themselves in the same manner though they would, if the constant baits and refreshments of large fees did not help to support human nature, by continually stimulating this darling passion. Cleo. Indeed, Horatio, this is a stronger argument against the social system, and more injurious to it than any thing that has been said by the author whom you have exclaimed against with so much bitterness. Hor. I deny that: I do not conclude from the selfishness in some, that there is no virtue in others. Cleo. Nor he neither, and you very much wrong him if you assert that he ever did. Hor. I refuse to commend what is not praise-worthy; but as bad as mankind are, virtue has an existence as well as vice, though it is more scarce. Cleo. What you said last, nobody ever contradicted; but I do not know what you would be at: does not the Lord Shaftsbury endeavour to do good, and promote the social virtues, and am I not doing the very same? suppose me to be in the wrong in the favourable constructions I have made of things, still it is to be wished for at least, that men had a greater regard to the public welfare, less fondness for their private interest, and more charity for their neighbours, than the generality of them have. Hor. To be wished for, perhaps, it may be, but what probability is there that this ever will come to pass? Cleo. And unless that can come to pass, it is the idlest thing in the world to discourse upon, and demonstrate the excellency of virtue; what signifies it to set forth the beauty of it, unless it was possible that men should fall in love with it? Hor. If virtue was never recommended, men might grow worse than they are. Cleo. Then, by the same reason, if it was recommended more, men might grow better than they are. But I see perfectly well the reason of these shifts and evasions you make use of against your opinion: You find yourself under a necessity of allowing my panegyrics, as you call them, to be just; or finding the same fault with most of my Lord Shaftsbury's; and you would do neither if you could help it: From mens preferring company to solitude, his Lordship pretends to prove the love and natural affection we have for our own species: If this was examined into with the same strictness as you have done every thing I have said in behalf of the three faculties, I believe that the solidity of the consequences would be pretty equal in both. But I stick to my text, and stand up for the social virtues: The noble author of that system had a most charitable opinion of his species, and extolled the dignity of it in an extraordinary manner, and why my imitation of him should be called a banter, I see no reason. He certainly wrote with a good design, and endeavoured to inspire his readers with refined notions, and a public spirit abstract from religion: The world enjoys the fruits of his labours; but the advantage that is justly expected from his writings, can never be so universally felt, before that public spirit, which he recommended, comes down to the meanest tradesmen, whom you would endeavour to exclude from the generous sentiments and noble pleasures that are already so visible in many. I am now thinking on two sorts of people that stand very much in need of, and yet hardly ever meet with one another: This misfortune must have caused such a chasm in the band of society, that no depth of thought, or happiness of contrivance, could have filled up the vacuity, if a most tender regard for the commonwealth, and the height of benevolence did not influence and oblige others, mere strangers to those people, and commonly men of small education, to afflict them with their good offices, and stop up the gap. Many ingenious workmen, in obscure dwellings, would be starved in spite of industry, only for want of knowing where to sell the product of their labour, if there were not others to dispose of it for them: And again, the rich and extravagant are daily furnished with an infinite variety of superfluous knicknacks and elaborate trifles, every one of them invented to gratify either a needless curiosity, or else wantonness and folly; and which they could never have thought of, much less wanted, had they never seen or known where to buy them. What a blessing, then, to the public, is the social toyman, who lays out a considerable estate to gratify the desires of these two different classes of people? He procures food and raiment for the deserving poor, and searches with great diligence after the most skilful artificers, that no man shall be able to produce better workmanship than himself: with studied civilities, and a serene countenance, he entertains the greatest strangers; and, often speaking to them first, kindly offers to guess at their wants: He confines not his attendance to a few stated hours, but waits their leisure all day long in an open shop, where he bears the summer's heat, and winter's cold, with equal cheerfulness. What a beautiful prospect is here of natural affection to our kind! For, if he acts from that principle, who only furnishes us with necessaries of life, certainly he shows a more superlative love and indulgence to his species, who will not suffer the most whimsical of it to be an hour destitute of what he shall fancy, even things the most unnecessary. Hor. You have made the most of it indeed, but are you not tired yet with these fooleries yourself? Cleo. What fault do you find with these kind constructions; do they detract from the dignity of our species? Hor. I admire your invention, and thus much I will own, that, by overacting the part in that extravagant manner, you have set the social system in a more disadvantageous light than ever I had considered it before: But the best things, you know, may be ridiculed. Cleo. Whether I know that or not, Lord Shaftsbury has flatly denied it; and takes joke and banter to be the best and surest touchstone to prove the worth of things: It is his opinion, that no ridicule can be fastened upon what is really great and good. His Lordship has made use of that test to try the Scriptures and the Christian religion by, and exposed them because it seems they could not stand it. Hor. He has exposed superstition, and the miserable notions the vulgar were taught to have of God; but no man ever had more sublime ideas of the Supreme Being, and the universe, than himself. Cleo. You are convinced, that what I charge him with is true. Hor. I do not pretend to defend every syllable that noble Lord has wrote. His style is engaging, his language is polite, his reasoning strong; many of his thoughts are beautifully expressed, and his images, for the greatest part, inimitably fine. I may be pleased with an author, without obliging myself to answer every cavil that shall be made against him. As to what you call your imitation of him, I have no taste in burlesque: but the laugh you would raise might be turned upon you with less trouble than you seem to have taken. Pray, when you consider the hard and dirty labours that are performed to supply the mob with the vast quantities of strong beer they swill, do not you discover social virtue in a drayman? Cleo. Yes, and in a dray-horse too; at least as well as I can in some great men, who yet would be very angry should we refuse to believe, that the most selfish actions of theirs, if the society received but the least benefit from them, were chiefly owing to principles of virtue, and a generous regard to the public. Do you believe that, in the choice of a Pope, the greatest dependence of the Cardinals, and what they principally rely upon, is the influence of the Holy Ghost? Hor. No more than I do transubstantiation. Cleo. But if you had been brought up a Roman Catholic, you would believe both. Hor. I do not know that. Cleo. You would, if you was sincere in your religion, as thousands of them are, that are no more destitute of reason and good sense than you or I. Hor. I have nothing to say as to that: there are many things incomprehensible, that yet are certainly true: These are properly the objects of faith; and, therefore, when matters are above my capacity, and really surpass my understanding, I am silent, and submit with great humility: but I will swallow nothing which I plainly apprehend to be contrary to my reason, and is directly clashing with my senses. Cleo. If you believe a Providence, what demonstration can you have, that God does not direct men in an affair of higher importance to all Christendom, than any other you can name? Hor. This is an ensnaring, and a very unfair question. Providence superintends and governs every thing without exception. To defend my negative, and give a reason for my unbelief, it is sufficient, if I prove, that all the instruments, and the means they make use of in those elections, are visibly human and mundane, and many of them unwarrantable and wicked. Cleo. Not all the means; because every day they have prayers, and solemnly invoke the Divine assistance. Hor. But what stress they lay upon it may be easily gathered from the rest of their behaviour. The court of Rome is, without dispute, the greatest academy of refined politics, and the best school to learn the art of caballing: there ordinary cunning, and known stratagems, are counted rusticity, and designs are pursued through all the mazes of human subtlety. Genius there must give way to finesse, as strength does to art in wrestling; and a certain skill some men have in concealing their capacities from others, is of far greater use with them, than real knowledge, or the soundest understanding. In the sacred college, where every thing is auro venale, truth and justice bear the lowest price: Cardinal Palavicini, and other Jesuits, that have been the stanch advocates of the Papal authority, have owned with ostentation the Politia religiosa della chiésa, and not hid from us the virtues and accomplishments, that were only valuable among the Purpurati, in whose judgment over-reaching, at any rate, is the highest honour, and to be outwitted, though by the basest artifice, the greatest shame. In conclaves, more especially, nothing is carried on without tricks and intrigue; and in them the heart of man is so deep, and so dark an abyss, that the finest air of dissimulation is sometimes found to have been insincere, and men often deceive one another, by counterfeiting hypocrisy. And is it credible, that holiness, religion, or the least concern for spirituals, should have any share in the plots, machinations, brigues, and contrivances of a society, of which each member, besides the gratification of his own passions, has nothing at heart but the interest of his party, right or wrong, and to distress every faction that opposes it? Cleo. These sentiments confirm to me what I have often heard, that renegadoes are the most cruel enemies. Hor. Was ever I a Roman Catholic? Cleo. I mean from the social system, of which you have been the most strenuous assertor; and now no man can judge of actions more severely, and indeed less charitably, than yourself, especially of the poor cardinals. I little thought, if once I quitted the scheme of deformity, to have found an adversary in you; but we have both changed sides it seems. Hor. Much alike, I believe. Cleo. Nay, what could any body think to hear me making the kindest interpretations of things that can be imagined, and yourself doing quite the reverse? Hor. What ignorant people, that knew neither of us, might have done, I do not know: but it has been very manifest from our discourse, that you have maintained your cause, by endeavouring to show the absurdity of the contrary side, and that I have defended mine by letting you see, that we were not such fools as you would represent us to be. I had taken a resolution never to engage with you on this topic, but you see I have broke it: I hate to be thought uncivil; it was mere complaisance drew me in; though I am not sorry that we talked of it so much as we did, because I found your opinion less dangerous than 1 imagined: you have owned the existence of virtue, and that there are men who act from it as a principle, both which I thought you denied: but I would not have you flatter yourself that you deceived me, by hanging out false colours. Cleo. I did not lay on the disguise so thick, as not to have you see through it, nor would I ever have discoursed upon this subject with any body, who could have been so easily imposed upon. I know you to be a man of very good sense and sound judgment; and it is for that very reason I so heartily wish you would suffer me to explain myself, and demonstrate to you, how small the difference is between us, which you imagine to be so considerable: There is not a man in the world, in whose opinion I would less pass for an ill man than in yours; but I am so scrupulously fearful of offending you, that I never dared to touch upon some points, unless you had given me leave. Yield something to our friendship, and condescend for once to read the Fable of the Bees for my sake: It is a handsome volume: you love books: I have one extremely well bound; do; let me, suffer me to make you a present of it. Hor. I am no bigot, Cleomenes; but I am a man of honour, and, you know, of strict honour: I cannot endure to hear that ridiculed, and the least attempt of it chafes my blood: Honour is the strongest and noblest tie of society by far, and therefore, believe me, can never be innocently sported with. It is a thing so solid and awful, as well as serious, that it can at no time become the object of mirth or diversion; and it is impossible for any pleasantry to be so ingenious, or any jest so witty, that I could bear with it on that head. Perhaps I am singular in this, and, if you will, in the wrong; be that as it will, all I can say is, Je ne'entens pas Raillerie la dessus; and therefore, no Fable of the Bees for me, if we are to remain friends: I have heard enough of that. Cleo. Pray, Horatio, can there be honour without justice? Hor. No: Who affirms there can? Cleo. Have you not owned, that you have thought worse of me, than now you find me to deserve? No men, nor their works, ought to be condemned upon hearsays and bare surmises, much less upon the accusations of their enemies, without being examined into. Hor. There you are in the right: I heartily beg your pardon, and to atone for the wrong I have done you, say what you please, I will hear it with patience, be it never so shocking; but I beg of you be serious. Cleo. I have nothing to say to you that is distasteful, much less shocking: all I desire is, to convince you, that I am neither so ill-natured nor uncharitable, in my opinion of mankind, as you take me to be: and that the notions I entertain of the worth of things, will not differ much from yours, when both come to be looked into. Do but consider what we have been doing: I have endeavoured to set every thing in the handsomest light I could think of; you say, to ridicule the social system; I own it; now reflect on your own conduct, which has been to show the folly of my strained panegyrics, and replace things in that natural view, which all just, knowing men would certainly behold them in. This is very well done: but it is contrary to the scheme you pretended to maintain; and if you judge of all actions in the same manner, there is an end of the social system; or, at least, it will be evident, that it is a theory never to be put into practice. You argue for the generality of men, that they are possessed of these virtues, but when we come to particulars, you can find none. I have tried you every where: you are as little satisfied with persons of the highest rank, as you are with them of the lowest, and you count it ridiculous to think better of the middling people. Is this otherwise than standing up for the goodness of a design, at the same time you confess, that it never was, or ever can be executed? What sort of people are they, and where must we look for them, whom you will own to act from those principles of virtue? Hor. Are there not in all countries men of birth and ample fortune, that would not accept of places, though they were offered, that are generous and beneficent, and mind nothing but what is great and noble? Cleo. Yes: But examine their conduct, look into their lives, and scan their actions with as little indulgence as you did those of the cardinals, or the lawyers and physicians, and then see what figure their virtues will make beyond those of the poor industrious woman. There is, generally speaking, less truth in panegyrics, than there is in satires. When all our senses are soothed, when we have no distemper of body or mind to disturb us, and meet with nothing that is disagreeable, we are pleased with our being: it is in this situation that we are most apt to mistake outward appearances for realities, and judge of things more favourably than they deserve. Remember, Horatio, how feelingly you spoke half an hour ago in commendation of operas: Your soul seemed to be lifted up whilst you was thinking on the many charms you find in them. I have nothing to say against the elegancy of the diversion, or the politeness of those that frequent them: but I am afraid you lost yourself in the contemplation of the lovely idea, when you asserted that they were the most proper means to contract a strong and lasting habit of virtue; do you think, that among the same number of people, there is more real virtue at an opera, than there is at a bear-garden? Hor. What a comparison! Cleo. I am very serious. Hor. The noise of dogs, and bulls, and bears, make a fine harmony! Cleo. It is impossible you should mistake me, and you know very well, that it is not the different pleasures of those two places I would compare together. The things you mentioned are the least to be complained of: the continual sounds of oaths and imprecations, the frequent repetitions of the word lie, and other more filthy expressions, the loudness and dissonance of many strained and untuneful voices, are a perfect torment to a delicate ear. The frowsiness of the place, and the ill scents of different kinds, are a perpetual nuisance; but in all mob meetings---- Hor. L'odorat souffre beaucoup. Cleo. The entertainment in general is abominable, and all the senses suffer. I allow all this. The greasy heads, some of them bloody, the jarring looks, and threatening, wild, and horrid aspects, that one meets with in those ever-restless assemblies, must be very shocking to the sight, and so indeed is every thing else that can be seen among a rude and ragged multitude, that are covered with dirt, and have in none of their pastimes one action that is inoffensive: but, after all, vice and what is criminal, are not to be confounded with roughness and want of manners, no more than politeness and an artful behaviour ought to be with virtue or religion. To tell a premeditated falsehood in order to do mischief, is a greater sin, than to give a man the lie, who speaks an untruth; and it is possible, that a person may suffer greater damage, and more injury to his ruin, from slander in the low whisper of a secret enemy, than he could have received from all the dreadful swearing and cursing, the most noisy antagonist could pelt him with. Incontinence, and adultery itself, persons of quality are not more free from all over Christendom, than the meaner people: but if there are some vices, which the vulgar are more guilty of than the better sort, there are others the reverse. Envy, detraction, and the spirit of revenge, are more raging and mischievous in courts than they are in cottages. Excess of vanity and hurtful ambition are unknown among the poor; they are seldom tainted with avarice, with irreligion never; and they have much less opportunity of robbing the public than their betters. There are few persons of distinction, whom you are not acquainted with: I desire, you would seriously reflect on the lives of as many as you can think of, and next opera night on the virtues of the assembly. Hor. You make me laugh. There is a good deal in what you say; and I am persuaded, all is not gold that glisters. Would you add any more? Cleo. Since you have given me leave to talk, and you are such a patient hearer, I would not slip the opportunity of laying before you some things of high concern, that perhaps you never considered in the light, which you shall own yourself they ought to be seen in. Hor. I am sorry to leave you; but I have really business that must be done to-night: it is about my law-suit, and I have stayed beyond my time already: but if you will come and eat a bit of mutton with me to-morrow, I will see nobody but yourself, and we will converse as long as you please. Cleo. With all my heart. I will not fail to wait on you. THE SECOND DIALOGUE BETWEEN HORATIO AND CLEOMENES HORATIO. The discourse we had yesterday, has made a great impression upon me; you said several things that were very entertaining, and some which I shall not easily forget: I do not remember I ever looked into myself so much as I have done since last night after I left you. Cleo. To do that faithfully, is a more difficult and a severer talk than is commonly imagined. When, yesterday, I asked you where and among what sort of people we were to look for those whom you would allow to act from principles of virtue, you named a class, among whom I have found very agreeable characters of men, that yet all have their failings. If these could be left out, and the best were picked and culled from the different good qualities that are to be seen in several, the compound would make a very handsome picture. Hor. To finish it well every way would be a great masterpiece. Cleo. That I shall not attempt: but I do not think it would be very difficult to make a little sketch of it, that yet should exceed nature, and be a better pattern for imitation than any can be shown alive. I have a mind to try; the very thought enlivens me. How charming is the portrait of a complete gentleman, and how ravishing is the figure which a person of great birth and fortune, to whom nature has been no niggard, makes, when he understands the world, and is thoroughly well-bred! Hor. I think them so, I can assure you, whether you are in jest or in earnest. Cleo. How entirely well hid are his greatest imperfections! though money is his idol, and he is covetous in his heart, yet his inward avarice is forced to give way to his outward liberality, and an open generosity shines through all his actions. Hor. There lies your fault: it is this I cannot endure in you. Cleo. What is the matter? Hor. I know what you are about, you are going to give me the caricatura of a gentleman, under pretence of drawing his portrait. Cleo. You wrong me, I have no such thought. Hor. But why is it impossible for human nature ever to be good? instead of leaving out, you put in failings without the least grounds or colour. When things have a handsome appearance every way, what reason have you to suspect them still to be bad? How came you to know, and which way have you discovered imperfections that are entirely well hid; and why should you suppose a person to be covetous in his heart, and that money is his idol, when you own yourself that he never shews it, and that an open generosity shines through all his actions? This is monstrous. Cleo. I have made no such supposition of any man, and I protest to you, that, in what I said, I had no other meaning than to observe, that whatever frailties and natural infirmities persons might be conscious of within, good sense and good manners were capable, and, without any other assistance, sufficient to keep them out of sight: but your questions are very reasonable, and since you have started this, I will be very open to you, and acquaint you before hand with my design of the description I am going to make; and the use I intend it for; which in short is, to demonstrate to you, that a most beautiful superstructure may be raised upon a rotten and despicable foundation. You will understand me better presently. Hor. But how do you know a foundation to be rotten that supports the building, and is wholly concealed from you? Cleo. Have patience, and I promise you, that I shall take nothing for granted, which you shall not allow of yourself. Hor. Stick close to that, and I desire no more: now say what you will. Cleo. The true object of pride or vain glory is the opinion of others; and the most superlative wish, which a man possessed, and entirely filled with it can make, is, that he may be well thought of, applauded, and admired by the whole world, not only in the present but all future ages. This passion is generally exploded; but it is incredible, how many strange and widely different miracles are, and may be performed by the force of it; as persons differ in circumstances and inclinations. In the first place, there is no danger so great, but by the help of his pride a man may slight and confront it; nor any manner of death so terrible, but with the same assistance he may court, and if he has a firm constitution, undergo it with alacrity. In the second, there are no good offices or duties, either to others or ourselves, that Cicero has spoke of, nor any instance of benevolence, humanity, or other social virtue, that Lord Shaftsbury has hinted at, but a man of good sense and knowledge may learn to practise them from no better principle than vain glory, if it be strong enough to subdue and keep under all other passions that may thwart and interfere with his design. Hor. Shall I allow all this? Cleo. Yes. Hor. When? Cleo. Before we part. Hor. Very well. Cleo. Men of tolerable parts in plentiful circumstances, that were artfully educated, and are not singular in their temper, can hardly fail of a genteel behaviour: the more pride they have, and the greater value they set on the esteem of others, the more they will make it their study to render themselves acceptable to all they converse with; and they will take uncommon pains to conceal and stifle in their bosoms, every thing which their good sense tells them ought not to be seen or understood. Hor. I must interrupt you, and cannot suffer you to go on thus. What is all this but the old story over again, that every thing is pride, and all we see hypocrisy, without proof or argument? Nothing in the world is more false than what you have advanced now; for, according to that, the most noble, the most gallant, and the best bred man would be the proudest; which is so clashing with daily experience, that the very reverse is true. Pride and insolence are no where more common than among upstarts; men of no family, that raise estates out of nothing, and the most ordinary people, that having had no education, are puffed up with their fortune whenever they are lifted up above mediocrity, and from mean stations advanced to posts of honour: whereas, no men upon earth, generally speaking, are more courteous, humane, or polite, than persons of high birth, that enjoy the large possessions and known seats of their ancestors; men illustrious by descent, that have been used to grandeur and titles of honour from their infancy, and received an education suitable to their quality. I do not believe there ever was a nation, that were not savages, in which the youth of both sexes were not expressly taught never to be proud or haughty: did you ever know a school, a tutor, or a parent, that did not continually inculcate to those under their care to be civil and obliging; nay, does not the word mannerly itself import as much? Cleo. I beg of you, let us be calm, and speak with exactness. The doctrine of good manners furnishes us with a thousand lessons, against the various appearances and outward symptoms of pride, but it has not one precept against the passion itself. Hor. How is that? Cleo. No, not one against the passion itself; the conquest of it is never attempted, nor talked of in a gentleman's education, where men are to be continually inspired and kept warm with the sense of their honour, and the inward value they must put upon themselves on all emergencies. Hor. This is worth consideration, and requires time to be examined into; but where is your fine gentleman, the picture you promised? Cleo. I am ready, and shall begin with his dwelling: Though he has several noble seats in different countries, yet I shall only take notice of his chief mansion-house that bears the name, and does the honours of the family: this is amply magnificent, and yet, commodious to admiration. His gardens are very extensive, and contain an infinite variety of pleasing objects: they are divided into many branches for divers purposes, and every where filled with improvements of art upon nature; yet a beautiful order and happy contrivance are conspicuous through every part; and though nothing is omitted to render them stately and delightful; the whole is laid out to the best advantage. Within doors, every thing bespeaks the grandeur and judgment of the master; and as no cost is spared any where to procure beauty or conveniency, so you see none impertinently lavished. All his plate and furniture are completely fine, and you see nothing but what is fashionable. He has no pictures but of the most eminent hands: the rarities he shows are really such; he hoards up no trifles, nor offers any thing to your sight that is shocking: but the several collections he has of this sort, are agreeable as well as extraordinary, and rather valuable than large: but curiosities and wealth are not confined to his cabinet; the marble and sculpture that are displayed up and down are a treasure themselves; and there is abundance of admirable gilding and excellent carving to be seen in many places. What has been laid out on the great hall, and one gallery, would be a considerable estate; and there is a salloon and a stair-case not inferior to either; these are all very spacious and lofty; the architecture of them is of the best taste, and the decorations surprising. Throughout the whole there appears a delicate mixture and astonishing variety of lively embellishments, the splendour of which, joined to a perfect cleanliness, no where neglected, are highly entertaining to the most careless and least observing eye; whilst the exactness of the workmanship bestowed on every part of the meanest utensil, gives a more solid satisfaction, and is ravishing to the curious. But the greatest excellency in this model of perfection is this; that as in the most ordinary rooms there is nothing wanting for their purpose, and the least passage is handsomely finished; so in those of the greatest eclat there is nothing overcharged, nor any part of them encumbered with ornaments. Hor. This is a studied piece; but I do not like it the worse for it, pray go on. Cleo. I have thought of it before, I own. His equipage is rich and well chosen, and there is nothing to be seen about him that art or expence, within the compass of reason, could make better. At his own table his looks are ever jovial; and his heart seems to be as open as his countenance. His chief business there is to take care of others, without being troublesome; and all his happiness seems to consist in being able to please his friends: in his greatest mirth, he is wanting in respect to no man; and never makes use of abbreviations in names, or unhandsome familiarities with the meanest of his guests. To every one that speaks to him, he gives an obliging attention, and seems never to disregard any thing but what is said in commendation of his fare: he never interrupts any discourse but what is made in his praise, and seldom assents to any encomiums, though the most equitable that are made on any thing that is his. When he is abroad he never spies faults; and whatever is amiss, he either says nothing, or, in answer to the complaints and uneasiness of others, gives every thing the best-natured turn it can bear; but he seldom leaves a house before he finds out something to extol in it, without wronging his judgment. His conversation is always facetious and good-humoured, but as solid as it is diverting. He never utters a syllable that has the least tincture of obscenity or profaneness; nor ever made a jest that was offensive. Hor. Very fine! Cleo. He seems to be entirely free from bigotry and superstition, avoids all disputes about religion; but goes constantly to church, and is seldom absent from his family devotions. Hor. A very godly gentleman! Cleo. I expected we should differ there. Hor. I do not find fault. Proceed, pray. Cleo. As he is a man of erudition himself, so he is a promoter of arts and sciences; he is a friend to merit, a rewarder of industry, and a professed enemy to nothing but immorality and oppression. Though no man's table is better furnished, nor cellars better stored; he is temperate in his eating, and never commits excess in drinking: though he has an exquisite palate, he always prefers wholesome meats to those that are delicious only, and never indulges his appetite in any thing that might probably be prejudicial to his health. Hor. Admirably good! Cleo. As he is in all other things, so he is elegant in his clothes, and has often new ones: neatness he prefers to finery in his own dress; but his retinue is rich. He seldom wears gold or silver himself, but on very solemn occasions, in compliment to others; and to demonstrate that these pompous habits are made for no other purpose, he is never seen twice in the same; but having appeared in them one day, he gives them away the next. Though of every thing he has the best of the sort, and might be called curious in apparel; yet he leaves the care of it to others; and no man has his clothes put on better that seem so little to regard them. Hor. Perfectly right; to be well dressed is a necessary article, and yet to be solicitous about it is below a person of quality. Cleo. Therefore he has a domestic of good taste, a judicious man, who saves him that trouble; and the management likewise of his lace and linen, is the province of a skilful woman. His language is courtly, but natural and intelligible; it is neither low nor bombastic, and ever free from pedantic and vulgar expressions. All his motions are genteel without affectation; his mien is rather sedate than airy, and his manner noble: for though he is ever civil and condescending, and no man less arrogant, yet in all his carriage there is something gracefully majestic; and as there is nothing mean in his humility, so his loftiness has nothing disobliging. Hor. Prodigiously good! Cleo. He is charitable to the poor; his house is never shut to strangers; and all his neighbours he counts to be his friends. He is a father to his tenants; and looks upon their welfare as inseparable from his interest. No man is less uneasy at little offences, or more ready to forgive all trespasses without design. The injuries that are suffered from other landlords, he turns into benefits; and whatever damages, great or small, are sustained on his account, either from his diversions or otherwise, he doubly makes good. He takes care to be early informed of such losses, and commonly repairs them before they are complained of. Hor. Oh rare humanity; hearken ye foxhunters! Cleo. He never chides any of his people; yet no man is better served; and though nothing is wanting in his housekeeping, and his family is very numerous, yet the regularity of it is no less remarkable than the plenty they live in. His orders he will have strictly obeyed; but his commands are always reasonable, and he never speaks to the meanest footman without regard to humanity. Extraordinary diligence in servants, and all laudable actions he takes notice of himself, and often commends them to their faces; but leaves it to his steward to reprove or dismiss those he dislikes. Hor. Well judged. Cleo. Whoever lives with him is taken care of in sickness as well as in health. The wages he gives are above double those of other masters; and he often makes presents to those that are more than ordinary observing and industrious to please: but he suffers nobody to take a penny of his friends or others, that come to his house, on any account whatever. Many faults are connived at, or pardoned for the first time, but a breach of this order is ever attended with the loss of their places as soon as it is found out; and there is a premium for the discovery. Hor. This is the only exceptionable thing, in my opinion, that I have heard yet. Cleo. I wonder at that: why so, pray? Hor. In the first place, it is very difficult to enforce obedience to such a command; secondly, if it could be executed, it would be of little use; unless it could be made general, which is impossible: and therefore I look upon the attempt of introducing this maxim to be singular and fantastical. It would please misers and others, that would never follow the example at home; but it would take away from generous men a handsome opportunity of showing their liberal and beneficent disposition: besides, it would manifestly make ones house too open to all sorts of people. Cleo. Ways might be found to prevent that; but then it would be a blessing, and do great kindness to men of parts and education, that have little to spare, to many of whom this money to servants is a very grievous burden. Hor. What you mention is the only thing that can be said for it, and I own, of great weight: but I beg your pardon for interrupting you. Cleo. In all his dealings he is punctual and just. As he has an immense estate, so he has good managers to take care of it: but though all his accounts are very neatly kept, yet he makes it part of his business to look them over himself. He suffers no tradesman's bill to lie by unexamined; and though he meddles not with his ready cash himself, yet he is a quick and cheerful, as well as an exact paymaster; and the only singularity he is guilty of, is, that he never will owe any thing on a new-year's day. Hor. I like that very well. Cleo. He is affable with discretion, of easy access, and never ruffled with passion. To sum up all, no man seems to be less elevated with his condition than himself; and in the full enjoyment of so many personal accomplishments, as well as other possessions, his modesty is equal to the rest of his happiness; and in the midst of the pomp and distinction he lives in, he never appears to be entertained with his greatness, but rather unacquainted with the things he excels in. Hor. It is an admirable character, and pleases me exceedingly; but I will freely own to you, that I should have been more highly delighted with the description, if I had not known your design, and the use you intend to make of it; which, I think, is barbarous: to raise so fine, so elegant, and so complete an edifice, in order to throw it down, is taking great pains to show one's skill in doing mischief. I have observed the several places where you left room for evasions, and lapping the foundation you have built upon. His heart seems to be as open; and he never appears to be entertained with his greatness, I am persuaded, that wherever you have put in this seeming and appearing, you have done it designedly, and with an intent to make use of them as so many back doors to creep out at. I could never have taken notice of these things, if you had not acquainted me with your intention before hand. Cleo. I have made use of the caution you speak of: but with no other view than to avoid just censure and prevent your accusing me of incorrectness, or judging with too much precipitation; if it should be proved afterwards, that this gentleman had acted from an ill principle, which is the thing I own I purposed to convince you of; but seeing, that it would be unpleasant to you, I will be satisfied with having given you some small entertainment of the description, and for the rest, I give you leave to think me in the wrong. Hor. Why so? I thought the character was made and contrived on purpose for my instruction. Cleo. I do not pretend to instruct you: I would have offered something, and appealed to your judgment; but I have been mistaken, and plainly see my error. Both last night and now, when we began our discourse, I took you to be in another disposition of thinking than I perceive you are. You spoke of an impression that had been made upon you, and of looking into yourself, and gave some other hints, which too rashly I misconstrued in my favour; but I have found since, that you are as warm as ever against the sentiments I profess myself to be of; and therefore I will desist. I expect no pleasure from any triumph, and I know nothing that would vex me more, than the thoughts of disobliging you. Pray let us do in this as we do in another matter of importance, never touch upon it: friends in prudence should avoid all subjects in which they are known essentially to differ. Believe me, Horatio, if it was in my power to divert or give you any pleasure, I would grudge no pains to compass that end: but to make you uneasy, is a thing that I shall never be knowingly guilty of, and I beg a thousand pardons for having said so much both yesterday and to-day. Have you heard any thing from Gibraltar? Hor. I am ashamed of my weakness and your civility: you have not been mistaken in the hints you speak of; what you have said has certainly made a great impression upon me, and I have endeavoured to examine myself: but, as you say, it is a severe task to do it faithfully. I desired you to dine with me on purpose, that we might talk of these things. It is I that have offended, and it is I that ought to ask pardon for the ill manners I have been guilty of; but you know the principles I have always adhered to; it is impossible to recede from them at once. I see great difficulties, and now and then a glimpse of truth, that makes me start: I sometimes feel great struggles within; but I have been so used to derive all actions that are really good from laudable motives, that as soon as I return to my accustomed way of thinking, it carries all before it. Pray bear with my infirmities. I am in love with your fine gentleman, and I confess, I cannot see how a person so universally good, so far remote from all selfishness, can act in such an extraordinary manner every way, but from principles of virtue and religion. Where is there such a landlord in the world? If I am in an error, I shall be glad to be undeceived. Pray inform me, and say what you will, I promise you to keep my temper, and I beg of you speak your mind with freedom. Cleo. You have bid me before say what I would, and when I did, you seemed displeased; but since you command me I will try once more.----Whether there is or ever was such a man as I have described, in the world, is not very material: but I will easily allow, that most people would think it less difficult to conceive one, than to imagine that such a clear and beautiful stream could flow from so mean and muddy a spring, as an excessive thirst after praise, and an immoderate desire of general applause from the most knowing judges; yet it is certain, that great parts and extraordinary riches may compass all this in a man, who is not deformed, and has had a refined education; and that there are many persons naturally no better than a thousand others, who by the helps mentioned, might attain to those good qualities and accomplishments, if they had but resolution and perseverance enough, to render every appetite and every faculty subservient to that one predominant passion, which, if continually gratified, will always enable them to govern, and, if required, to subdue all the rest without exception, even in the most difficult cases. Hor. To enter into an argument concerning the possibility of what you say, might occasion a long dispute; but the probability, I think, is very clear against you, and if there was such a man, it would be much more credible, that he acted from the excellency of his nature, in which so many virtues and rare endowments were assembled, than that all his good qualities sprung from vicious motives. If pride could be the cause of all this, the effect of it would sometimes appear in others. According to your system, there is no scarcity of it, and there are men of great parts and prodigious estates all over Europe: why are there not several such patterns to be seen up and down, as you have drawn as one; and why is it so very seldom, that many virtues and good qualities are seen to meet in one individual? Cleo. Why so few persons, though there are so many men of immense fortune, ever arrive at any thing like this high pitch of accomplishments; there are several reasons that are very obvious. In the first place, men differ in temperament: some are naturally of an active, stirring; others of an indolent, quiet disposition; some of a bold, others of a meek spirit. In the second, it is to be considered, that this temperament in men come to maturity is more or less conspicuous, according as it has been either checked or encouraged by education. Thirdly, that on these two depend the different perception men have of happiness, according to which the love of glory determines them different ways. Some think it the greatest felicity to govern and rule over others: some take the praise of bravery and undauntedness in dangers to be the most valuable: others, erudition, and to be a celebrated author: so that, though they all love glory, they set out differently to acquire it. But a man who hates a bustle, and is naturally of a quiet easy temper, and which has been encouraged in him by education, it is very likely might think nothing more desirable than the character of a fine gentleman; and if he did, I dare say that he would endeavour to behave himself pretty near the pattern I have given you; I say pretty near, because I may have been mistaken in some things, and as I have not touched upon every thing, some will say, that I have left out several necessary ones: but in the main I believe, that in the country and age we live in, the qualifications I have named would get a man the reputation I have supposed him to desire. Hor. Without doubt, I make no manner of scruple about what you said last; and I told you before that it was an admirable character, and pleased me exceedingly. That I took notice of your making your gentleman so very godly as you did, was because it is not common; but I intended it not as a reflection. One thing, indeed, there was in which I differed from you; but that was merely speculative; and, since I have reflected on what you have answered me, I do not know but I may be in the wrong, as I should certainly believe myself to be, if there really was such a man, and he was of the contrary opinion: to such a fine genius I would pay an uncommon deference, and with great readiness submit my understanding to his superior capacity. But the reasons you give why those effects which you ascribe to pride, are not more common, the cause being so universal, I think are insufficient. That men are prompted to follow different ends, as their inclinations differ, I can easily allow; but there are great numbers of rich men that are likewise of a quiet and indolent disposition, and moreover very desirous of being thought fine gentlemen. How comes it, that among so many persons of high birth, princely estates, and the most refined education, as there are in Christendom, that study, travel, and take great pains to be well accomplished, there is not one, to whom all the good qualities, and every thing you named, could be applied without flattery? Cleo. It is very possible that thousands may aim at this, and not one of them succeed to that degree: in some, perhaps the predominant passion is not strong enough entirely to subdue the rest: love or covetousness may divert others: drinking, gaming, may draw away many, and break in upon their resolution; they may not have strength to persevere in a design, and steadily to pursue the same ends; or they may want a true taste or knowledge of what is esteemed by men of judgment; or, lastly, they may not be so thoroughly well-bred, as is required to conceal themselves on all emergencies: for the practical part of dissimulation is infinitely more difficult than the theory: and any one of these obstacles is sufficient to spoil all, and hinder the finishing of such a piece. Hor. I shall not dispute that with you: but all this while you have proved nothing; nor given the least reason why you should imagine, that a man of a character, to all outward appearance so bright and beautiful, acted from vicious motives. You would not condemn him without so much as naming the cause why you suspect him. Cleo. By no means; nor have I advanced any thing that is ill natured or uncharitable: for I have not said, that if I found a gentleman in possession of all the things I mentioned, I would give his rare endowments this turn, and think all his perfections derived from no better stock, than an extraordinary love of glory. What I argue for, and insist upon, is, the possibility that all these things might be performed by a man from no other views, and with no other helps, than those I have named: nay, I believe moreover, that a gentleman so accomplished, all his knowledge and great parts notwithstanding, may himself be ignorant, or at least not well assured of the motive he acts from. Hor. This is more unintelligible than any thing you have said yet; why will you heap difficulties upon one another, without solving any? I desire you would clear up this last paradox, before you do any thing else. Cleo. In order to obey you, I must put you in mind of what happens in early education, by the first rudiments of which, infants are taught in the choice of actions to prefer the precepts of others to the dictates of their own inclinations; which, in short, is no more than doing as they are bid. To gain this point, punishments and rewards are not neglected, and many different methods are made use of; but it is certain, that nothing proves more often effectual for this purpose, or has a greater influence upon children, than the handle that is made of shame; which, though a natural passion, they would not be sensible of so soon, if we did not artfully rouse and stir it up in them, before they can speak or go: by which means, their judgment being then weak, we may teach them to be ashamed of what we please, as soon as we can perceive them to be any ways affected with the passion itself: but as the fear of shame is very insignificant, where there is but little pride, so it is impossible to augment the first, without increasing the latter in the same proportion. Hor. I should have thought that this increase of pride would render children more stubborn and less docile. Cleo. You judge right; it would so, and must have been a great hinderance to good manners, till experience taught men, that though pride was not to be destroyed by force, it might be governed by stratagem, and that the best way to manage it, is by playing the passion against itself. Hence it is, that in an artful education, we are allowed to place as much pride as we please in our dexterity of concealing it. I do not suppose, that this covering ourselves, notwithstanding the pride we take in it, is performed without a difficulty that is plainly felt, and perhaps very unpleasant at first; but this wears off as we grow up; and when a man has behaved himself with so much prudence as I have described, lived up to the strictest rules of good-breeding for many years, and has gained the esteem of all that know him, when this noble and polite manner is become habitual to him, it is possible he may in time forget the principle he set out with, and become ignorant, or at least insensible of the hidden spring that gives life and motion to all his actions. Hor. I am convinced of the great use that may be made of pride, if you will call it so; but I am not satisfied yet, how a man of so much sense, knowledge, and penetration, one that understands himself so entirely well, should be ignorant of his own heart, and the motives he acts from. What is it that induces you to believe this, besides the possibility of his forgetfulness? Cleo. I have two reasons for it, which I desire may be seriously considered. The first is, that in what relates to ourselves, especially our own worth and excellency, pride blinds the understanding in men of sense and great parts as well as in others, and the greater value we may reasonably set upon ourselves, the fitter we are to swallow the grossest flatteries, in spite of all our knowledge and abilities in other matters: witness Alexander the Great, whose vast genius could not hinder him from doubting seriously, whether he was a god or not. My second reason will prove to us, that if the person in question was capable of examining himself, it is yet highly improbable, that he would ever set about it: for, it must be granted, that, in order to search into ourselves, it is required we should be willing as well as able; and we have all the reason in the world to think, that there is nothing which a very proud man of such high qualifications would avoid more carefully than such an inquiry: because, for all other acts of self-denial, he is repaid in his darling passion; but this alone is really mortifying, and the only sacrifice of his quiet for which he can have no equivalent. If the hearts of the best and sincerest men are corrupt and deceitful, what condition must theirs be in, whose whole life is one continued scene of hypocrisy! therefore inquiring within, and boldly searching into ones own bosom, must be the most shocking employment, that a man can give his mind to, whose greatest pleasure consists in secretly admiring himself. It would be ill manners, after this, to appeal to yourself; but the severity of the task---- Hor. Say no more, I yield this point, though I own I cannot conceive what advantage you can expect from it: for, instead of removing, it will rather help to increase the grand difficulty, which is to prove, that this complete person you have described, acts from a vicious motive: and if that be not your design, I cannot see what you drive at. Cleo. I told you it was. Hor. You must have a prodigious sagacity in detecting abstruse matters before other men. Cleo. You wonder, I know, which way I arrogate to myself such a superlative degree of penetration, as to know an artful cunning man better than he does himself, and how I dare pretend to enter and look into a heart, which I have owned to be completely well concealed from all the world; which in strictness is an impossibility, and consequently not to be bragged of but by a coxcomb. Hor. You may treat yourself as you please, I have said no such thing; but I own that I long to see it proved, that you have this capacity. I remember the character very well: Notwithstanding the precautions you have taken, it is very full: I told you before, that where things have a handsome appearance every way, there can be no just cause to suspect them. I will stick close to that; your gentleman is all of a piece: You shall alter nothing, either by retracting any of the good qualities you have given him, or making additions that are either clashing with, or unsuitable to what you have allowed already. Cleo. I shall attempt neither: And without that decisive trials may be made, by which it will plainly appear whether a person acts from inward goodness, and a principle of religion, or only from a motive of vain glory; and, in the latter case, there is an infallible way of dragging the lurking fiend from his darkest recesses into a glaring light, where all the world shall know him. Hor. I do not think myself a match for you in argument; but I have a great mind to be your gentleman's advocate against all your infallibility: I never liked a cause better in my life. Come, I undertake to defend him in all the suppositions you can make that are reasonable and consistent with what you have said before. Cleo. Very well: let us suppose what may happen to the most inoffensive, the most prudent, and best-bred man; that our fine gentleman differs in opinion before company, with another, who is his equal in birth and quality, but not so much master over his outward behaviour, and less guarded in his conduct; let this adversary, mal á propos, grow warm, and seem to be wanting in the respect that is due to the other, and reflect on his honour in ambiguous terms. What is your client to do? Hor. Immediately to ask for an explanation. Cleo. Which, if the hot man disregards with scorn, or flatly refuses to give, satisfaction must be demanded, and tilt they must. Hor. You are too hasty: it happened before company; in such cases, friends, or any gentlemen present, should interpose and take care, that if threatening words ensue, they are, by the civil authority, both put under arrest; and before they came to uncourteous language, they ought to have been parted by friendly force, if it were possible. After that, overtures may be made of reconciliation with the nicest regard to the point of honour. Cleo. I do not ask for directions to prevent a quarrel; what you say may be done, or it may not be done: The good offices of friends may succeed, and they may not succeed. I am to make what suppositions I think fit within the verge of possibility, so they are reasonable and consistent with the character I have drawn: can we not suppose these two persons in such a situation that you yourself would advise your friend to send his adversary a challenge? Hor. Without doubt such a thing may happen. Cleo. That is enough. After that a duel must ensue, in which, without determining any thing, the fine gentleman, we will say, behaves himself with the utmost gallantry. Hor. To have suspected or supposed otherwise would have been unreasonable. Cleo. You see, therefore, how fair I am. But what is it, pray, that so suddenly disposes a courteous sweet-tempered man, for so small an evil, to seek a remedy of that extreme violence? But above all, what is it that buoys up and supports him against the fear of death? for there lies the greatest difficulty. Hor. His natural courage and intrepidity, built on the innocence of his life, and the rectitude of his manners. Cleo. But what makes so just and prudent a man, that has the good of society so much at heart, act knowingly against the laws of his country? Hor. The strict obedience he pays to the laws of honour, which are superior to all others. Cleo. If men of honour would act confidently, they ought all to be Roman Catholics. Hor. Why, pray? Cleo. Because they prefer oral tradition to all written laws: for nobody can tell when, in what king's or emperor's reign, in what country, or by what authority these laws of honour were first enacted: it is very strange they should be of such force. Hor. They are wrote and engraved in every ones breast that is a man of honour: there is no denying of it; you are conscious of it yourself; every body feels it within. Cleo. Let them be wrote or engraved wherever you please, they are directly opposite to and clashing with the laws of God; and if the gentleman I described was as sincere in his religion as he appeared to be, he must have been of an opinion contrary to yours; for Christians of all persuasions are unanimous in allowing the divine laws to be far above all other; and that all other considerations ought to give way to them. How, and under what pretence can a Christian, who is a man of sense, submit or agree to laws that prescribe revenge, and countenance murder; both which are so expressly forbid by the precepts of his religion? Hor. I am no casuist: but you know, that what I say is true; and that, among persons of honour, a man would be laughed at, that should make such a scruple. Not but that I think killing a man to be a great sin, where it can be helped; and that all prudent men ought to avoid the occasion, as much as it is in their power. He is highly blameable who is the first aggressor, and gives the affront; and whoever enters upon it out of levity, or seeks a quarrel out of wantonness, ought to be hanged. Nobody would choose it, who is not a fool; and yet, when it is forced upon one, all the wisdom in the world cannot teach him how to avoid it. It has been my case you know: I shall never forget the reluctancy I had against it; but necessity has no law. Cleo. I saw you that very morning, and you seemed to be sedate and void of passion: you could have no concern. Hor. It is silly to show any at such times; but I know best what I felt; the struggle I had within was unspeakable: it is a terrible thing. I would then have given a considerable part of my estate, that the thing which forced me into it had not happened; and yet, upon less provocation, I would act the same part again to-morrow. Cleo. Do you remember what your concern was chiefly about? Hor. How can you ask? It is an affair of the highest importance that can occur in life; I was no boy; it was after we came from Italy; I was in my nine and twentieth year, had very good acquaintance, and was not ill received: a man of that age, in health and vigour, who has seven thousand a-year, and the prospect of being a peer of England, has no reason to quarrel with the world, or wish himself out of it. It is a very great hazard a man runs in a duel; besides the remorse and uneasiness one must feel as long as he lives, if he has the misfortune of killing his adversary. It is impossible to reflect on all these things, and at the same time resolve to run those hazards (though there are other considerations of still greater moment), without being under a prodigious concern. Cleo. You say nothing about the sin. Hor. The thoughts of that, without doubt, are a great addition; but the other things are so weighty of themselves, that a man's condition at such a time, is very perplexed without further reflection. Cleo. You have now a very fine opportunity, Horatio, of looking into your heart, and with a little of my assistance, examining yourself. If you can condescend to this, I promise you that you shall make great discoveries, and be convinced of truths you are now unwilling to believe. A lover of justice and probity, as you are, ought not to be fond of a road of thinking, where he is always forced to skulk, and never dares to meet with light or reason. Will you suffer me to ask you some questions, and will you answer them directly and in good humour? Hor. I will, without reserve. Cleo. Do you remember the storm upon the coast of Genoa? Hor. Going to Naples? Very well; it makes me cold to think of it. Cleo. Was you afraid? Hor. Never more in my life: I hate that fickle element; I cannot endure the sea. Cleo. What was you afraid of? Hor. That is a pretty question: do you think a young fellow of six-and-twenty, as I was then, and in my circumstances, had a great mind to be drowned? The captain himself said we were in danger. Cleo. But neither he nor any body else discovered half so much fear and anxiety as you did. Hor. There was nobody there, yourself excepted, that had half a quarter so much to lose as I had: besides, they are used to the sea; storms are familiar to them. I had never been at sea before, but that fine afternoon we crossed from Dover to Calais. Cleo. Want of knowledge or experience may make men apprehend danger where there is none; but real dangers, when they are known to be such, try the natural courage of all men; whether they have been used to them or not: sailors are as unwilling to lose their lives as other people. Hor. I am not ashamed to own, that I am a great coward at sea: give me terra firma, and then-- Cleo. Six or seven months after you fought that duel, I remember you had the small-pox; you was then very much afraid of dying. Hor. Not without a cause. Cleo. I heard your physicians say, that the violent apprehension you was under, hindered your sleep, increased your fever, and was as mischievous to you as the distemper itself. Hor. That was a terrible time; I am glad it is over: I had a sister died of it. Before I had it, I was in perpetual dread of it, and many times to hear it named only has made me uneasy. Cleo. Natural courage is a general armour against the fear of death, whatever shape that appears in, Si fractus illabatur erbis. It supports a man in tempestuous seas, and in a burning fever, whilst he is in his senses, as well as in a siege before a town, or in a duel with seconds. Hor. What! you are going to show me, that I have no courage. Cleo. Far from it; it would be ridiculous to doubt a man's bravery, that has shown it in such an extraordinary manner as you have done more than once: what I question, is the epithet you joined to it at first, the word natural; for there is a great difference between that and artificial courage. Hor. That is a chicane I will not enter into: but I am not of your opinion, as to what you said before. A gentleman is not required to show his bravery, but where his honour is concerned; and if he dares to fight for his king, his friend, his mistress, and every thing where his reputation is engaged, you shall think of him what you please for the rest. Besides, that in sickness and other dangers, as well as afflictions, where the hand of God is plainly to be seen, courage and intrepidity are impious as well as impertinent. Undauntedness in chastisements is a kind of rebellion: it is waging war with Heaven, which none but atheists and freethinkers would be guilty of; it is only they that can glory in impenitence, and talk of dying hard. All others that have any sense of religion, desire to repent before they go out of the world: the best of us do not always live, as we could wish to die. Cleo. I am very glad to hear you are so religious: but do not you perceive yet, how inconsistent you are with yourself: how can a man sincerely wish to repent, that wilfully plunges himself into a mortal sin, and an action where he runs a greater and more immediate hazard of his life, than he could have done in almost any other, without force or necessity? Hor. I have over and over owned to you that duelling is a sin; and, unless a man is forced to it by necessity, I believe, a mortal one: but this was not my case, and therefore I hope God will forgive me: let them look to it that make a sport of it. But when a man comes to an action with the utmost reluctancy, and what he does is not possibly to be avoided, I think he then may justly be said to be forced to it, and to act from necessity. You may blame the rigorous laws of honour, and the tyranny of custom, but a man that will live in the world must, and is bound to obey them. Would not you do it yourself? Cleo. Do not ask me what I would do: the question is, what every body ought to do. Can a man believe the Bible, and at the same time apprehend a tyrant more crafty or malicious, more unrelenting or inhuman than the devil, or a mischief worse than hell, and pains either more exquisite or more durable than torments unspeakable and yet everlasting? You do not answer. What evil is it? Think of it, and tell me what dismal thing it is you apprehend, should you neglect these laws, and despise that tyrant: what calamity could befall you? Let me know the worst that can be feared. Hor. Would you be posted for a coward? Cleo. For what? For not daring to violate all human and divine laws? Hor. Strictly speaking you are in the right, it is unanswerable; but who will consider things in that light? Cleo. All good Christians. Hor. Where are they then? For all mankind in general would despise and laugh at a man, who should move those scruples. I have heard and seen clergymen themselves in company show their contempt of poltrons, whatever they might talk or recommend in the pulpit. Entirely to quit the world, and at once to renounce the conversation of all persons that are valuable in it, is a terrible thing to resolve upon. Would you become a town and table-talk? Could you submit to be the jest and scorn of public-houses, stage-coaches, and market-places? Is not this the certain fate of a man, who should refuse to fight, or bear an affront without resentment? be just, Cleomenes; is it to be avoided? Must he not be made a common laughing-stock, be pointed at in the streets, and serve for diversion to the very children; to link-boys and hackney-coachmen? Is it a thought to be born with patience? Cleo. How come you now to have such an anxious regard for what may be the opinion of the vulgar, whom at other times you so heartily despise? Hor. All this is reasoning, and you know the thing will not bear it: how can you be so cruel? Cleo. How can you be so backward in discovering and owning the passion, that is so conspicuously the occasion of all this, the palpable and only cause of the uneasiness we feel at the thoughts of being despised? Hor. I am not sensible of any; and I declare to you, that I feel nothing that moves me to speak as I do, but the sense and principle of honour within me. Cleo. Do you think that the lowest of the mob, and the scum of the people, are possessed of any part of this principle? Hor. No, indeed. Cleo. Or that among the highest quality, infants can be affected with it before they are two years old? Hor. Ridiculous. Cleo. If neither of these are affected with it, then honour should be either adventitious, and acquired by culture; or, if contained in the blood of those that are nobly born, imperceptible until the years of discretion; and neither of them can be said of the principle, the palpable cause I speak of. For we plainly see on the one hand, that scorn and ridicule are intolerable to the poorest wretches, and that there is no beggar so mean or miserable, that contempt will never offend him: on the other, that human creatures are so early influenced by the sense of shame; that children, by being laughed at and made a jest of, may be set a crying before they can well speak or go. Whatever, therefore, this mighty principle is, it is born with us, and belongs to our nature: are you unacquainted with the proper, genuine, homely name of it? Hor. I know you call it pride. I will not dispute with you about principles and origins of things; but that high value which men of honour set upon themselves as such, and which is no more than what is due to the dignity of our nature, when well cultivated, is the foundation of their character, and a support to them in all difficulties, that is of great use to the society. The desire, likewise, of being thought well of, and the love of praise and even of glory are commendable qualities, that are beneficial to the public. The truth of this is manifest in the reverse; all shameless people that are below infamy, and matter not what is said or thought of them, these, we see nobody can trust; they stick at nothing, and if they can but avoid death, pain, and penal laws, are always ready to execute all manner of mischief, their selfishness or any brutal appetite shall prompt them to, without regard to the opinion of others: such are justly called men of no principles, because they have nothing of any strength within, that can either spur them on to brave and virtuous actions, or restrain them from villany and baseness. Cleo. The first part of your assertion is very true, when that high value, that desire, and that love are kept within the bounds of reason: But, in the second, there is a mistake; those whom we call shameless, are not more destitute of pride, than their betters. Remember what I have said of education, and the power of it; you may add inclinations, knowledge, and circumstances; for, as men differ in all these, so they are differently influenced and wrought upon by all the passions. There is nothing that some men may not be taught to be ashamed of. The same passion that makes the well-bred man, and prudent officer, value and secretly admire themselves for the honour and fidelity they display, may make the rake and scoundrel brag of their vices, and boast of their impudence. Hor. I cannot comprehend, how a man of honour, and one that has none, should both act from the same principle. Cleo. This is not more strange, than that self-love may make a man destroy himself, yet nothing is more true; and it is as certain, that some men indulge their pride in being shameless. To understand human nature, requires study and application, as well as penetration and sagacity. All passions and instincts in general, were given to all animals for some wise end, tending to the preservation and happiness of themselves, or their species: It is our duty to hinder them from being detrimental or offensive to any part of the society; but why should we be ashamed of having them? The instinct of high value, which every individual has for himself, is a very useful passion: but a passion it is, and though I could demonstrate, that we should be miserable creatures without it, yet, when it is excessive, it often is the cause of endless mischiefs. Hor. But in well-bred people it never is excessive. Cleo. You mean the excess of it never appears outwardly: But we ought never to judge of its height or strength from what we can discover of the passion itself, but from the effects it produces: It often is most superlative, where it is most concealed; and nothing increases and influences it more, than what is called a refined education, and a continual commerce with the beau monde: The only thing that can subdue, or any ways curb it, is a strict adherence to the Christian religion. Hor. Why do you so much insist upon it, that this principle, this value men set upon themselves, is a passion? And why will you choose to call it pride rather than honour? Cleo. For very good reasons. Fixing this principle in human nature, in the first place, takes away all ambiguity: Who is a man of honour, and who is not, is often a disputable point; and, among those that are allowed to be such, the several degrees of strictness, in complying with the rules of it, make great difference in the principle itself. But a passion that is born with us is unalterable, and part of our frame, whether it exerts itself or not: The essence of it is the same, which way soever it is taught to turn. Honour is the undoubted offspring of pride, but the same cause produces not always the same effect. All the vulgar, children, savages, and many others that are not affected with any sense of honour, have all of them pride, as is evident from the symptoms. Secondly, it helps us to explain the phenomena that occur in quarrels and affronts, and the behaviour of men of honour on these occasions, which cannot be accounted for any other way. But what moves me to it most of all, is the prodigious force and exorbitant power of this principle of self esteem, where it has been long gratified and encouraged. You remember the concern you was under, when you had that duel upon your hands, and the great reluctancy you felt in doing what you did; you knew it to be a crime, and, at the same time, had a strong aversion to it; what secret power was it that subdued your will, and gained the victory over that great reluctancy you felt against it? You call it honour, and the too strict, though unavoidable adherence to the rules of it: But men never commit violence upon themselves, but in struggling with the passions that are innate and natural to them. Honour is acquired, and the rules of it are taught: Nothing adventitious, that some are possessed, and others destitute of, could raise such intestine wars and dire commotions within us; and therefore, whatever is the cause that can thus divide us against ourselves, and, as it were, rend human nature in twain, must be part of us; and, to speak without disguise, the struggle in your breast was between the fear of shame and the fear of death: had this latter not been so considerable, your struggle would have been less: Still the first conquered, because it was strongest; but if your fear of shame had been inferior to that of death, you would have reasoned otherwise, and found out some means or other to have avoided fighting. Hor. This is a strange anatomy of human nature. Cleo. Yet, for want of making use of it, the subject we are upon is not rightly understood by many; and men have discoursed very inconsistently on duelling. A divine who wrote a dialogue to explode that practice, said, that those who were guilty of it, had mistaken notions of, and went by false rules of honour; for which my friend justly ridiculed him, saying, You may as well deny, that it is the fashion what you see every body wear, as to say, that demanding and giving satisfaction, is against the laws of true honour. Had that man understood human nature, he could not have committed such a blunder: But when once he took it for granted, that honour is a just and good principle, without inquiring into the cause of it among the passions, it is impossible he should have accounted for duelling, in a Christian pretending to act from such a principle; and therefore, in another place, with the same justice, he said, that a man who had accepted a challenge was not qualified to make his will, because he was not compos mentis: He might, with greater show of reason, have said, that he was bewitched. Hor. Why so? Cleo. Because people out of their wits, as they think at random, so commonly they act and talk incoherently; but when a man of known sobriety, and who shows no manner of discomposure, discourses and behaves himself in every thing, as he is used to do; and, moreover, reasons on points of great nicety with the utmost accuracy, it is impossible we should take him to be either a fool or a madman; and when such a person, in an affair of the highest importance, acts so diametrically against his interest, that a child can see it, and with deliberation pursues his own destruction, those who believe that there are malignant spirits of that power, would rather imagine that he was led away by some enchantment, and over-ruled by the enemy of mankind, than they would fancy a palpable absurdity: But even the supposition of that is not sufficient to solve the difficulty, without the help of that strange anatomy. For what spell or witchcraft is there, by the delusion of which a man of understanding shall, keeping his senses, mistake an imaginary duty for an unavoidable necessity to break all real obligations? But let us wave all ties of religion, as well as human laws, and the person we speak of to be a professed Epicure, that has no thoughts of futurity; what violent power of darkness is it, that can force and compel a peaceable quiet man, neither inured to hardship, nor valiant by nature, to quit his beloved ease and security; and seemingly by choice go fight in cold blood for his life, with this comfortable reflection, that nothing forfeits it so certainly as the entire defeat of his enemy? Hor. As to the law and the punishment, persons of quality have little to fear of that. Cleo. You cannot say that in France, nor the Seven Provinces. But men of honour, that are of much lower ranks, decline duelling no more than those of the highest quality. How many examples have we, even here, of gallant men, that have suffered for it either by exile or the hangman! A man of honour must fear nothing: Do but consider every obstacle which this principle of self-esteem has conquered at one time or other; and then tell me whether it must not be something more than magic, by the fascination of which a man of taste and judgment, in health and vigour, as well as the flower of his age, can be tempted, and actually drawn from the embraces of a wife he loves, and the endearments of hopeful children, from polite conversation and the charms of friendship, from the fairest possessions and the happy enjoyment of all worldly pleasures, to an unwarrantable combat, of which the victor must be exposed either to an ignominious death, or perpetual banishment. Hor. When things are set in this light, I confess it is very unaccountable: but will your system explain this; can you make it clear yourself? Cleo. Immediately, as the sun: If you will but observe two things, that must necessarily follow, and are manifest from what I have demonstrated already. The first is, that the fear of shame, in general, is a matter of caprice, that varies with modes and customs, and may be fixed on different objects, according to the different lessons we have received, and the precepts we are imbued with; and that this is the reason, why this fear of shame, as it is either well or ill placed, sometimes produces very good effects, and at others is the cause of the most enormous crimes. Secondly, that, though shame is a real passion, the evil to be feared from it is altogether imaginary, and has no existence but in our own reflection on the opinion of others. Hor. But there are real and substantial mischiefs which a man may draw upon himself, by misbehaving in point of honour; it may ruin his fortune, and all hopes of preferment: An officer may be broken for putting up an affront: Nobody will serve with a coward, and who will employ him? Cleo. What you urge is altogether out of the question; at least it was in your own case; you had nothing to dread or apprehend but the bare opinion of men. Besides, when the fear of shame is superior to that of death, it is likewise superior to, and outweighs all other considerations; as has been sufficiently proved: But when the fear of shame is not violent enough to curb the fear of death, nothing else can; and whenever the fear of death is stronger than that of shame, there is no consideration that will make a man fight in cold blood, or comply with any of the laws of honour, where life is at stake. Therefore, whoever acts from the fear of shame as a motive, in sending and accepting of challenges, must be sensible, on the one hand, that the mischiefs he apprehends, should he disobey the tyrant, can only be the offspring of his own thoughts; and, on the other, that if he could be persuaded anywise to lessen the great esteem and high value he sets upon himself, his dread of shame would likewise palpably diminish. From all which, it is most evident, that the grand cause of this distraction, the powerful enchanter we are seeking after, is pride, excess of pride, that highest pitch of self-esteem, to which some men may be wound up by an artful education, and the perpetual flatteries bestowed upon our species, and the excellencies of our nature. This is the sorcerer, that is able to divert all other passions from their natural objects, and make a rational creature ashamed of what is most agreeable to his inclination, as well as his duty; both which the duellist owns, that he has knowingly acted against. Hor. What a wonderful machine, what an heterogenous compound is man! You have almost conquered me. Cleo. I aim at no victory, all I wish for is to do you service, in undeceiving you. Hor. What is the reason that, in the same person, the fear of death should be so glaringly conspicuous in sickness, or a storm, and so entirely well hid in a duel, and all military engagements? Pray, solve that too. Cleo. I will as well as I can: On all emergencies, where reputation is thought to be concerned, the fear of shame is effectually roused in men of honour, and immediately their pride rushes in to their assistance, and summons all their strength to fortify and support them in concealing the fear of death; by which extraordinary efforts, the latter, that is the fear of death, is altogether stifled, or, at least, kept out of sight, and remains undiscovered. But in all other perils, in which they do not think their honour engaged, their pride lies dormant. And thus the fear of death, being checked by nothing, appears without disguise. That this is the true reason, is manifest from the different behaviour that is observed in men of honour, according as they are either pretenders to Christianity; or tainted with irreligion; for there are of both sorts; and you shall see, most commonly at least, that your esprits forts, and those who would be thought to disbelieve a future state (I speak of men of honour), show the greatest calmness and intrepidity in the same dangers, where the pretended believers among them, appear to be the most ruffled and pusillanimous. Hor. But why pretended believers? at that rate there are no Christians among the men of honour. Cleo. I do not see how they can be real believers. Hor. Why so? Cleo. For the same reason that a Roman Catholic cannot be a good subject, always to be depended upon, in a Protestant, or indeed any other country, but the dominions of his Holiness. No sovereign can confide with safety in a man's allegiance, who owns and pays homage to another superior power upon earth. I am sure you understand me. Hor. Too well. Cleo. You may yoke a knight with a prebendary, and put them together into the same stall; but honour, and the Christian religion, make no couple, nec in unâ sede morantur, any more than majesty and love. Look back on your own conduct, and you shall find, that what you said of the hand of God was only a shift, an evasion you made to serve your then present purpose. On another occasion, you had said yesterday yourself, that Providence superintends and governs every thing without exception; you must, therefore, have known, that the hand of God is as much to be seen in one common accident in life, and in one misfortune, as it is in another, that is not more extraordinary. A severe fit of sickness may be less fatal, than a slight skirmish between two hostile parties; and, among men of honour, there is often as much danger in a quarrel about nothing, as there can be in the most violent storm. It is impossible, therefore, that a man of sense, who has a solid principle to go by, should, in one sort of danger, think it impiety not to show fear, and in another be ashamed to be thought to have any. Do but consider your own inconsistency with yourself. At one time, to justify your fear of death, when pride is absent, you become religious on a sudden, and your conscience then is so tenderly scrupulous, that, to be undaunted under chastisements from the Almighty, seems no less to you than waging war with Heaven; and, at another, when honour calls, you dare not knowingly and willingly break the most positive command of God, but likewise to own, that the greatest calamity which, in your opinion, can befal you, is, that the world should believe, or but suspect of you, that you had any scruple about it. I defy the wit of man to carry the affront to the Divine Majesty higher. Barely to deny his being, is not half so daring, as it is to do this after you have owned him to exist. No Atheism---- Hor. Hold, Cleomenes; I can no longer resist the force of truth, and I am resolved to be better acquainted with myself for the future. Let me become your pupil. Cleo. Do not banter me, Horatio; I do not pretend to instruct a man of your knowledge; but if you will take my advice, search into yourself with care and boldness, and, at your leisure, peruse the book I recommended. Hor. I promise you I will, and shall be glad to accept of the handsome present I refused: Pray, send a servant with it to-morrow morning. Cleo. It is a trifle. You had better let one of yours go with me now; I shall drive home directly. Hor. I understand your scruple. It shall be as you please. THE THIRD DIALOGUE BETWEEN HORATIO AND CLEOMENES. HORATIO. I thank you for your book. Cleo. Your acceptance of it I acknowledge as a great favour. Hor. I confess, that once I thought nobody could have persuaded me to read it; but you managed me very skilfully, and nothing could have convinced me so well as the instance of duelling: The argument, à majori ad minus, struck me, without your mentioning it. A passion that can subdue the fear of death, may blind a man's understanding, and do almost every thing else. Cleo. It is incredible what strange, various, unaccountable, and contradictory forms we may be shaped into by a passion, that is not to be gratified without being concealed, and never enjoyed with greater ecstacy than when we are most fully persuaded, that it is well hid: and therefore, there is no benevolence or good nature, no amiable quality or social virtue, that may not be counterfeited by it; and, in short, no achievement, good or bad, that the human body or mind are capable of, which it may not seem to perform. As to its blinding and infatuating the persons possessed with it to a high degree, there is no doubt of it: for what strength of reason, I pray, what judgment or penetration, has the greatest genius, if he pretends to any religion, to boast of, after he has owned himself to have been more terrified by groundless apprehensions, and an imaginary evil from vain impotent men, whom he has never injured, than he was alarmed with the just fears of a real punishment from an all-wise and omnipotent God, whom he has highly offended? Hor. But your friend makes no such religious reflections: he actually speaks in favour of duelling. Cleo. What, because he would have the laws against it as severe as possible, and nobody pardoned, without exception, that offends that way? Hor. That indeed seems to discourage it; but he shows the necessity of keeping up that custom, to polish and brighten society in general. Cleo. Do not you see the irony there? Hor. No, indeed: he plainly demonstrates the usefulness of it, gives as good reasons as it is possible to invent, and shows how much conversation would suffer, if that practice was abolished. Cleo. Can you think a man serious on a subject, when he leaves it in the manner he does? Hor. I do not remember that. Cleo. Here is the book: I will look for the passage----Pray, read this. Hor. It is strange, that a nation should grudge to see, perhaps, half a dozen men sacrificed in a twelvemonth, to obtain so valuable a blessing, as the politeness of manners, the pleasure of conversation, and the happiness of company in general, that is often so willing to expose, and sometimes loses as many thousands in a few hours, without knowing whether it will do any good or not. This, indeed, seems to be said with a sneer: but in what goes before he is very serious. Cleo. He is so, when he says that the practice of duelling, that is the keeping up of the fashion of it, contributes to the politeness of manners and pleasure of conversation, and this is very true; but that politeness itself, and that pleasure, are the things he laughs at and exposes throughout his book. Hor. But who knows, what to make of a man, who recommends a thing very seriously in one page, and ridicules it in the next? Cleo. It is his opinion, that there is no solid principle to go by but the Christian religion, and that few embrace it with sincerity: always look upon him in this view, and you will never find him inconsistent with himself. Whenever at first sight he seems to be so, look again, and upon nearer inquiry you will find, that he is only pointing at, or labouring to detect the inconsistency of others with the principles they pretend to. Hor. He seems to have nothing less at heart than religion. Cleo. That is true, and if he had appeared otherwise, he would never have been read by the people whom he designed his book for, the modern deists and all the beau monde: It is those he wants to come at. To the first he sets forth the origin and insufficiency of virtue, and their own insincerity in the practice of it: to the rest he shows the folly of vice and pleasure, the vanity of worldly greatness, and the hypocrisy of all those divines, who, pretending to preach the gospel, give and take allowances that are inconsistent with, and quite contrary to the precepts of it. Hor. But this is not the opinion the world has of the book; it is commonly imagined, that it is wrote for the encouragement of vice, and to debauch the nation. Cleo. Have you found any such thing in it? Hor. To speak my conscience, I must confess, I have not: vice is exposed in it, and laughed at; but it ridicules war and martial courage, as well as honour and every thing else. Cleo. Pardon me, religion is ridiculed in no part of it. Hor. But if it is a good book, why then are so many of the clergy so much against it as they are? Cleo. For the reason I have given you: my friend has exposed their lives, but he has done it in such a manner, that nobody can say he has wronged them, or treated them harshly. People are never more vexed, than when the thing that offends them, is what they must not complain of: they give the book an ill name because they are angry; but it is not their interest, to tell you the the true reason why they are so. I could draw you a parallel case that would clear up this matter, if you would have patience to hear me, which, as you are a great admirer of operas, I can hardly expect. Hor. Any thing to be informed. Cleo. I always had such an aversion to eunuchs, as no fine singing or acting of any of them has yet been able to conquer; when I hear a feminine voice, I look for a petticoat; and I perfectly loath the sight of those sexless animals. Suppose that a man with the same dislike to them had wit at will, and a mind to lash that abominable piece of luxury, by which men are taught in cold blood to spoil males for diversion, and out of wantonness to make waste of their own species. In order to this, we will say, he takes a handle from the operation itself; he describes and treats it in the most inoffensive manner; then shows the narrow bounds of human knowledge, and the small assistance we can have, either from dissection or philosophy, or any part of the mathematics, to trace and penetrate into the cause à priori, why this destroying of manhood should have that surprising effect upon the voice; and afterwards demonstrates, how sure we are à posteriori, that it has a considerable influence, not only on the pharinx, the glands and muscles of the throat, but likewise the windpipe, and the lungs themselves, and in short on the whole mass of blood, consequently all the juices of the body, and every fibre in it. He might say likewise, that no honey, no preparations of sugar, raisins, or spermaceti; no emulsions, lozenges or other medicines, cooling or balsamic; no bleeding, no temperance or choice in eatables; no abstinence from women, from wine, and every thing that is hot, sharp or spirituous, were of that efficacy to preserve, sweeten, and strengthen the voice; he might insist upon it, that nothing could do this so effectually as castration. For a blind to his main scope, and to amuse his readers, he might speak of this practice, as made use of for other purposes; that it had been inflicted as a solemn punishment for analogous crimes; that others had voluntarily submitted to it, to preserve health and prolong life; whilst the Romans, by Cæsar's testimony, thought it more cruel than death, morte gravius. How it had been used sometimes by way of revenge; and then say something in pity of poor Abelard; at other times for precaution; and then relate the story of Combabus and Stratonice: with scraps from Martial, Juvenal, and other poets, he might interlard it, and from a thousand pleasant things that have been said on the subject, he might pick out the most diverting to embellish the whole. His design being satire, he would blame our fondness for these castrati, and ridicule the age in which a brave English nobleman and a general officer, serves his country at the hazard of his life, a whole twelvemonth, for less pay than an Italian no-man of scoundrel extraction receives, for now and then singing a song in great safety, during only the winter-season. He would laugh at the caresses and the court that are made to them by persons of the first quality, who prostitute their familiarity with these most abject wretches, and misplace the honour and civilities only due to their equals, on things that are no part of the creation, and owe their being to the surgeon; animals so contemptible, that they can curse their maker without ingratitude. If he should call this book, the Eunuch is the Man; as soon as I heard the title, before I saw the book, I should understand by it, that eunuchs were now esteemed, that they were in fashion and in the public favour, and considering that a eunuch is in reality not a man, I should think it was a banter upon eunuchs, or a satire against those, who had a greater value for them than they deserved. But if the gentlemen of the academy of music, displeased at the freedom they were treated with, should take it ill, that a paultry scribbler should interfere and pretend to censure their diversion, as well as they might; if they should be very angry, and study to do him a mischief, and accordingly, not having much to say in behalf of eunuchs, not touch upon any thing the author had said against their pleasure, but represent him to the world as an advocate for castration, and endeavour to draw the public odium upon him by quotations taken from him proper for that purpose, it would not be difficult to raise a clamour against the author, or find a grand jury to present his book. Hor. The simile holds very well as to the injustice of the accusation, and the insincerity of the complaint; but is it as true, that luxury will render a nation flourishing, and that private vices are public benefits, as that castration preserves and strengthens the voice? Cleo. With the restrictions my friend requires, I believe it is, and the cases are exactly alike. Nothing is more effectual to preserve, mend, and strengthen a fine voice in youth than castration: the question is not, whether this is true, but whether it is eligible; whether a fine voice is an equivalent for the loss, and whether a man would prefer the satisfaction of singing, and the advantages that may accrue from it, to the comforts of marriage, and the pleasure of posterity, of which enjoyments it destroys the possibility. In like manner, my friend demonstrates, in the first place, that the national happiness which the generality wish and pray for, is wealth and power, glory and worldly greatness; to live in ease, in affluence and splendour at home, and to be feared, courted, and esteemed abroad: in the second, that such a felicity is not to be attained to without avarice, profuseness, pride, envy, ambition, and other vices. The latter being made evident beyond contradiction, the question is not, whether it is true, but whether this happiness is worth having at the rate it is only to be had at, and whether any thing ought to be wished for, which a nation cannot enjoy, unless the generality of them are vicious. This he offers to the consideration of Christians, and men who pretend to have renounced the world, with all the pomp and vanity of it. Hor. How does it appear that the author addresses himself to such? Cleo. From his writing it in English, and publishing it in London. But have you read it through yet? Hor. Twice: there are many things I like very well, but I am not pleased with the whole. Cleo. What objection have you against it? Hor. It has diminished the pleasure I had in reading a much better book. Lord Shaftsbury is my favourite author: I can take delight in enthusiasm; but the charms of it cease as soon as I am told what it is I enjoy. Since we are such odd creatures, why should we not make the most of it? Cleo. I thought you was resolved to be better acquainted with yourself, and to search into your heart with care and boldness. Hor. That is a cruel thing; I tried it three times since I saw you last, till it put me into a sweat, and then I was forced to leave off. Cleo. You should try again, and use yourself by degrees to think abstractly, and then the book will be a great help to you. Hor. To confound me it will: it makes a jest of all politeness and good manners. Cleo. Excuse me, Sir, it only tells us, what they are. Hor. It tells us, that all good manners consist in flattering the pride of others, and concealing our own. Is not that a horrid thing? Cleo. But is it not true? Hor. As soon as I had read that passage, it struck me: down I laid the book, and tried in above fifty instances, sometimes of civility, and sometimes of ill manners, whether it would answer or not, and I profess that it held good in every one. Cleo. And so it would if you tried till doomsday. Hor. But is not that provoking? I would give a hundred guineas with all my heart, that I did not know it. I cannot endure to see so much of my own nakedness. Cleo. I never met with such an open enmity to truth in a man of honour before. Hor. You shall be as severe upon me as you please; what I say is fact. But since I am got in so far, I must go through with it now: there are fifty things that I want to be informed about. Cleo. Name them, pray; if I can be of any service to you, I shall reckon it as a great honour; I am perfectly well acquainted with the author's sentiments. Hor. I have twenty questions to ask about pride, and I do not know where to begin. There is another thing I do not understand; which is, that there can be no virtue without self-denial. Cleo. This was the opinion of all the ancients. Lord Shaftsbury was the first that maintained the contrary. Hor. But are there no persons in the world that are good by choice? Cleo. Yes; but then they are directed in that choice by reason and experience, and not by nature, I mean, not by untaught nature: but there is an ambiguity in the word good which I would avoid; let us stick to that of virtuous, and then I affirm, that no action is such, which does not suppose and point at some conquest or other, some victory great or small over untaught nature; otherwise the epithet is improper. Hor. But if by the help of a careful education, this victory is obtained, when we are young, may we not be virtuous afterwards voluntarily and with pleasure? Cleo. Yes, if it really was obtained: but how shall we be sure of this, and what reason have we to believe that it ever was? when it is evident, that from our infancy, instead of endeavouring to conquer our appetites, we have always been taught, and have taken pains ourselves to conceal them; and we are conscious within, that whatever alterations have been made in our manners and our circumstances, the passions themselves always remained? The system that virtue requires to self-denial, is, as my friend has justly observed, a vast inlet to hypocrisy: it will, on all accounts, furnish men with a more obvious handle, and a greater opportunity of counterfeiting the love of society, and regard to the public, than ever they could have received from the contrary doctrine, viz. that there is no merit but in the conquest of the passions, nor any virtue without apparent self-denial. Let us ask those that have had long experience, and are well skilled in human affairs, whether they have found the generality of men such impartial judges of themselves, as never to think better of their own worth than it deserved, or so candid in the acknowledgment of their hidden faults and slips, they could never be convinced of, that there is no fear they should ever stifle or deny them. Where is the man that has at no time covered his failings, and screened himself with false appearances, or never pretended to act from principles of social virtue, and his regard to others, when he knew in his heart that his greatest care had been to oblige himself? The best of us sometimes receive applause without undeceiving those who give it; though, at the same time, we are conscious that the actions, for which we suffer ourselves to be thought well of, are the result of a powerful frailty in our nature, that has often been prejudicial to us, and which we have wished a thousand times in vain, that we could have conquered. The same motives may produce very different actions, as men differ in temper and circumstances. Persons of an easy fortune may appear virtuous, from the same turn of mind that would show their frailty if they were poor. I£ we would know the world, we must look into it. You take no delight in the occurrences of low life; but if we always remain among persons of quality, and extend our inquiries no farther, the transactions there will not furnish us with a sufficient knowledge of every thing that belongs to our nature. There are, among the middling people, men of low circumstances, tolerably well educated, that set out with the same stock of virtues and vices, and though equally qualified, meet with very different success; visibly owing to the difference in their temper. Let us take a view of two persons bred to the same business, that have nothing but their parts and the world before them, launching out with the same helps and disadvantages: let there be no difference between them, but in their temper; the one active, and the other indolent. The latter will never get an estate by his own industry, though his profession be gainful, and himself master of it. Chance, or some uncommon accident, may be the occasion of great alterations in him, but without that he will hardly ever raise himself to mediocrity. Unless his pride affects him in an extraordinary manner, he must always be poor, and nothing but some share of vanity can hinder him from being despicably so. If he be a man of sense, he will be strictly honest, and a middling stock of covetousness will never divert him from it. In the active stirring man, that is easily reconciled to the bustle of the world, we shall discover quite different symptoms, under the same circumstances; and a very little avarice will egg him on to pursue his aim with eagerness and assiduity: small scruples are no opposition to him; where sincerity will not serve, he uses artifice; and in compassing his ends, the greatest use he will make of his good sense will be, to preserve as much as is possible, the appearance of honesty; when his interest obliges him to deviate from it. To get wealth, or even a livelihood by arts and sciences, it is not sufficient to understand them: it is a duty incumbent on all men, who have their maintenance to seek, to make known and forward themselves in the world, as far as decency allows of, without bragging of themselves, or doing prejudice to others: here the indolent man is very deficient and wanting to himself; but seldom will own his fault, and often blames the public for not making use of him, and encouraging that merit, which they never were acquainted with, and himself perhaps took pleasure to conceal; and though you convince him of his error, and that he has neglected even the most warrantable methods of soliciting employment, he will endeavour to colour over his frailty with the appearance of virtue; and what is altogether owing to his too easy temper, and an excessive fondness for the calmness of his mind, he will ascribe to his modesty and the great aversion he has to impudence and boasting. The man of a contrary temper trusts not to his merit only, or the setting it off to the best advantage; he takes pains to heighten it in the opinion of others, and make his abilities seem greater than he knows them to be. As it is counted folly for a man to proclaim his own excellencies, and speak magnificently of himself, so his chief business is to seek acquaintance, and make friends on purpose to do it for him: all other passions he sacrifices to his ambition; he laughs at disappointments, is inured to refusals, and no repulse dismays him: this renders the whole man always flexible to his interest; he can defraud his body of necessaries, and allow no tranquillity to his mind; and counterfeit, if it will serve his turn, temperance, chastity, compassion, and piety itself, without one grain of virtue or religion: his endeavours to advance his fortune per fas et nefas are always restless, and have no bounds, but where he is obliged to act openly, and has reason to fear the censure of the world. It is very diverting to see how, in the different persons I speak of, natural temper will warp and model the very passions to its own bias: pride, for example, has not the same, but almost a quite contrary effect on the one to what it has on the other: the stirring active man it makes in love with finery, clothes, furniture, equipages, building, and every thing his superiors enjoy: the other it renders sullen, and perhaps morose; and if he has wit, prone to satire, though he be otherwise a good-natured man. Self-love, in every individual, ever bestirs itself in soothing and flattering the darling inclination; always turning from us the dismal side of the prospect; and the indolent man in such circumstances, finding nothing pleasing without, turns his view inward upon himself; and there, looking on every thing with great indulgence, admires and takes delight in his own parts, whether natural or acquired: hence he is easily induced to despise all others who have not the same good qualifications, especially the powerful, and wealthy, whom yet he never hates or envies with any violence; because that would ruffle his temper. All things that are difficult he looks upon as impossible, which makes him despair of meliorating his condition; and as he has no possessions, and his gettings will but just maintain him in a low station of life, so his good sense, if he would enjoy so much as the appearance of happiness, must necessarily put him upon two things; to be frugal, and pretend to have no value for riches; for, by neglecting either, he must be blown up, and his frailty unavoidably discovered. Hor. I am pleased with your observations, and the knowledge you display of mankind; but pray, is not the frugality you now speak of a virtue? Cleo. I think not. Hor. Where there is but a small income, frugality is built upon reason; and in this case there is an apparent self-denial, without which an indolent man that has no value for money cannot be frugal; and we see indolent men, that have no regard for wealth, reduced to beggary, as it often happens, it is most commonly for want of this virtue. Cleo. I told you before, that the indolent man, setting out as he did, would be poor; and that nothing but some share of vanity could hinder him from being despicably so. A strong fear of shame may gain so much upon the indolence of a man of sense, that he will bestir himself sufficiently to escape contempt; but it will hardly make him do any more; therefore he embraces frugality, as being instrumental and assisting to him in procuring his summum bonum, the darling quiet of his easy mind; whereas, the active man, with the same share of vanity, would do any thing rather than submit to the same frugality, unless his avarice forced him to it. Frugality is no virtue, when it is imposed upon us by any of the passions, and the contempt of riches is seldom sincere. I have known men of plentiful estates, that, on account of posterity, or other warrantable views of employing their money, were saving, and more penurious, than they would have been, if their wealth had been greater: but I never yet found a frugal man, without avarice or necessity. And again, there are innumerable spendthrifts, lavish and extravagant to a high degree, who seem not to have the least regard to money, whilst they have any to fling away: but these wretches are the least capable of bearing poverty of any, and the money once gone, hourly discover how uneasy, impatient, and miserable they are without it. But what several in all ages have made pretence to, the contempt of riches, is more scarce than is commonly imagined. To see a man of a very good estate, in health and strength of body and mind, one that has no reason to complain of the world or fortune, actually despise both, and embrace a voluntary poverty, for a laudable purpose, is a great rarity. I know but one in all antiquity, to whom all this may be applied with strictness of truth. Hor. Who is that, pray? Cleo. Anaxagoras of Clazomene in Ionia: He was very rich, of noble extraction, and admired for his great capacity: he divided and gave away his estate among his relations, and refused to meddle with the administration of public affairs that was offered him, for no other reason, than that he might have leisure for contemplation of the works of nature, and the study of philosophy. Hor. To me it seems to be more difficult to be virtuous without money, than with: it is senseless for a man to be poor, when he can help it, and if I saw any body choose it, when he might as lawfully be rich, I would think him to be distracted. Cleo. But you would not think him so, if you saw him sell his estate, and give the money to the poor: you know where that was required. Hor. It is not required of us. Cleo. Perhaps not: but what say you to renouncing the world, and the solemn promise we have made of it? Hor. In a literal sense that is impossible, unless we go out of it; and therefore I do not think, that to renounce the world signifies any more, than not to comply with the vicious, wicked part of it. Cleo. I did not expect a more rigid construction from you, though it is certain, that wealth and power are great snares, and strong impediments to all Christian virtue: but the generality of mankind, that have any thing to lose, are of your opinion; and let us bar saints and madmen, we shall find every where, that those who pretend to undervalue, and are always haranguing against wealth, are generally poor and indolent. But who can blame them? They act in their own defence; nobody that could help it would ever be laughed at; for it must be owned, that of all the hardships of poverty, it is that which is the most intolerable. Nil habet infelix paupertas durius in se, Quam quod ridiculos homines faciat.---- In the very satisfaction that is enjoyed by those who excel in, or are possessed of things valuable, there is interwoven a spice of contempt for others, that are destitute of them, which nothing keeps from public view, but a mixture of pity and good manners. Whoever denies this, let them consult within, and examine whether it is not the same with happiness, as what Seneca says of the reverse, nemo est miser nisi comparatus. The contempt and ridicule I speak of, is, without doubt, what all men of sense and education endeavour to avoid or disappoint. Now, look upon the behaviour of the two contrary tempers before us, and mind how differently they set about this talk, every one suitably to his own inclination. The man of action, you see, leaves no stone unturned to acquire quod oportet habere: but this is impossible for the indolent; he cannot stir; his idol ties him down hand and foot; and, therefore, the easiest, and, indeed the only thing he has left, is to quarrel with the world, and find out arguments to depreciate what others value themselves upon. Hor. I now plainly see, how pride and good sense must put an indolent man, that is poor, upon frugality; and likewise the reason, why they will make him affect to be content, and seem pleased with his low condition: for, if he will not be frugal, want and misery are at the door: and if he shows any fondness for riches, or a more ample way of living, he loses the only plea he has for his darling frailty, and immediately he will be asked, why he does not exert himself in a better manner? and he will be continually told of the opportunities he neglects. Cleo. It is evident, then, that the true reasons, why men speak against things, are not always writ upon their foreheads. Hor. But after all this quiet easy temper, this indolence you talk of, is it not what, in plain English, we call laziness? Cleo. Not at all; it implies no sloth, or aversion to labour: an indolent man may be very diligent, though he cannot be industrious: he will take up with things below him, if they come in his way; he will work in a garret, or any where else, remote from public view, with patience and assiduity, but he knows not how to solicit and teaze others to employ him, or demand his due of a shuffling, designing master, that is either difficult of access, or tenacious of his money: if he be a man of letters, he will study hard for a livelihood, but generally parts with his labours at a disadvantage, and will knowingly sell them at an under-rate to an obscure man, who offers to purchase, rather than bear the insults of haughty booksellers, and be plagued with the sordid language of the trade. An indolent man may, by chance, meet with a person of quality, that takes a fancy to him; but he will never get a patron by his own address; neither will he ever be the better for it, when he has one, further than the unasked-for bounty, and downright generosity of his benefactor make him. As he speaks for himself with reluctancy, and is always afraid of asking favours, so, for benefits received, he shows no other gratitude, than what the natural emotions of his heart suggest to him. The striving, active man studies all the winning ways to ingratiate himself, and hunts after patrons with design and sagacity: whilst they are beneficial to him; he affects a perpetual sense of thankfulness; but all his acknowledgments of past obligations, he turns into solicitations for fresh favours: his complaisance may be engaging, and his flattery ingenious, but the heart is untouched: he has neither leisure, nor the power to love his benefactors: the eldest he has, he will always sacrifice to a new one; and he has no other esteem for the fortune, the greatness, or the credit of a patron, than as he can make them subservient either to raise or maintain his own. From all this, and a little attention on human affairs, we may easily perceive, in the first place, that the man of action, and an enterprising temper, in following the dictates of his nature, must meet with more rubs and obstacles infinitely, than the indolent, and a multitude of strong temptations, to deviate from the rules of strict virtue, which hardly ever come in the other's way; that, in many circumstances, he will be forced to commit such actions, for which, all his skill and prudence notwithstanding, he will, by some body or other, deservedly be thought to be an ill man; and that to end with a tolerable reputation, after a long course of life, he must have had a great deal of good fortune, as well as cunning. Secondly, that the indolent man may indulge his inclinations, and be as sensual as his circumstances may let him, with little offence or disturbance to his neighbour; that the excessive value he sets upon the tranquillity of his mind, and the grand aversion he has to part with it, must prove a strong curb to every passion, that comes uppermost; none of which, by this means, can ever affect him in any high degree, and consequently, that the corruption of his heart remaining, he may, with little art and no great trouble, acquire many valuable qualities, that shall have all the appearances of social virtues, whilst nothing extraordinary befals him. As to his contempt of the world, the indolent man perhaps will scorn to make his court, and cringe to a haughty favourite, that will browbeat him at first; but he will run with joy to a rich nobleman, that he is sure will receive him with kindness and humanity: With him he will partake, without reluctancy, of all the elegant comforts of life that are offered, the most expensive not excepted. Would you try him further, confer upon him honour and wealth in abundance. If this change in his fortune stirs up no vice that lay dormant before, as it may by rendering him either covetous or extravagant, he will soon conform himself to the fashionable world: Perhaps he will be a kind master, an indulgent father, a benevolent neighbour, munificent to merit that pleases him, a patron to virtue, and a wellwisher to his country; but for the rest, he will take all the pleasure he is capable of enjoying; stifle no passion he can calmly gratify, and, in the midst of a luxuriant plenty, laugh heartily at frugality, and the contempt of riches and greatness he professed in his poverty; and cheerfully own the futility of those pretences. Hor. I am convinced, that, in the opinion of virtue's requiring self-denial, there is greater certainty, and hypocrites have less latitude than in the contrary system. Cleo. Whoever follows his own inclinations, be they never so kind, beneficent, or human, never quarrel with any vice, but what is clashing with his temperament and nature; whereas those who act from a principle of virtue, take always reason for their guide, and combat, without exception, every passion that hinders them from their duty! The indolent man will never deny a just debt; but, if it be large, he will not give himself the trouble which, poor as he is, he might, and ought to take to discharge it, or, at least, satisfy his creditors, unless he is often dunned, or threatened to be sued for it. He will not be a litigious neighbour, nor make mischief among his acquaintance; but he will never serve his friend or his country, at the expence of his quiet. He will not be rapacious, oppress the poor, or commit vile actions for lucre; but then he will never exert himself, and be at the pains another would take on all opportunities, to maintain a large family, make provision for children, and promote his kindred and relations; and his darling frailty will incapacitate him from doing a thousand things for the benefit of the society, which, with the same parts and opportunities, he might, and would have done, had he been of another temper. Hor. Your observations are very curious, and, as far as I can judge from what I have seen myself, very just and natural. Cleo. Every body knows that there is no virtue so often counterfeited as charity, and yet so little regard have the generality of men to truth, that how gross and bare-faced soever the deceit is in pretences of this nature, the world never fails of being angry with, and hating those who detect or take notice of the fraud. It is possible, that, with blind fortune on his side, a mean shopkeeper, by driving a trade prejudicial to his country on the one hand, and grinding, on all occasions, the face of the poor on the other, may accumulate great wealth; which, in process of time, by continual scraping, and sordid saving, may be raised into an exorbitant, an unheard-of estate for a tradesman. Should such a one, when old and decrepit, lay out the greatest part of his immense riches in the building, or largely endowing an hospital, and I was thoroughly acquainted with his temper and manners, I could have no opinion of his virtue, though he parted with the money, whilst he was yet alive; more especially, if I was assured, that, in his last will, he had been highly unjust, and had not only left unrewarded several, whom he had great obligations to, but likewise defrauded others, to whom, in his conscience, he knew that he was, and would die actually indebted. I desire you to tell me what name, knowing all I have said to be true, you would give to this extraordinary gift, this mighty donation! Hor. I am of opinion, than when an action of our neighbour may admit of different constructions, it is our duty to side with, and embrace the most favourable. Cleo. The most favourable constructions with all my heart: But what is that to the purpose, when all the straining in the world cannot make it a good one? I do not mean the thing itself, but the principle it came from, the inward motive of the mind that put him upon performing it; for it is that which, in a free agent, I call the action: And, therefore, call it what you please, and judge as charitably of it as you can, what can you say of it? Hor. He might have had several motives, which I do not pretend to determine; but it is an admirable contrivance of being extremely beneficial to all posterity in this land, a noble provision that will perpetually relieve, and be an unspeakable comfort to a multitude of miserable people; and it is not only a prodigious, but likewise a well-concerted bounty that was wanting, and for which, in after ages, thousands of poor wretches will have reason to bless his memory, when every body else shall have neglected them. Cleo. All that I have nothing against; and if you would add more, I shall not dispute it with you, as long as you confine your praises to the endowment itself, and the benefit the public is like to receive from it. But to ascribe it to, or suggest that it was derived from a public spirit in the man, a generous sense of humanity and benevolence to his kind, a liberal heart, or any other virtue or good quality, which it is manifest the donor was an utter stranger to, is the utmost absurdity in an intelligent creature, and can proceed from no other cause than either a wilful wronging of his own understanding, or else ignorance and folly. Hor. I am persuaded, that many actions are put off for virtuous, that are not so; and that according as men differ in natural temper, and turn of mind, so they are differently influenced by the same passions: I believe likewise, that these last are born with us, and belong to our nature; that some of them are in us, or at least the seeds of them, before we perceive them: but since they are in every individual, how comes it that pride is more predominant in some than it is in others? For from what you have demonstrated already, it must follow, that one person is more affected with the passion within than another; I mean, that one man has actually a greater share of pride than another, as well among the artful that are dexterous in concealing it, as among the ill-bred that openly show it. Cleo. What belongs to our nature, all men may justly be said to have actually or virtually in them at their birth; and whatever is not born with us, either the thing itself, or that which afterwards produces it, cannot be said to belong to our nature: but as we differ in our faces and stature, so we do in other things, that are more remote from sight: but all these depend only upon the different frame, the inward formation of either the solids or the fluids; and there are vices of complexion, that are peculiar, some to the pale and phlegmatic, others to the sanguine and choleric: some are more lustful, others more fearful in their nature, than the generality are: but I believe of man, generally speaking, what my friend has observed of other creatures, that the best of the kind, I mean the best formed within, such as have the finest natural parts, are born with the greatest aptitude to be proud; but I am convinced, that the difference there is in men, as to the degrees of their pride, is more owing to circumstances and education, than any thing in their formation. Where passions are most gratified and least controlled, the indulgence makes them stronger; whereas those persons, that have been kept under, and whose thoughts have never been at liberty to rove beyond the first necessaries of life; such as have not been suffered, or had no opportunity to gratify this passion, have commonly the least share of it. But whatever portion of pride a man may feel in his heart, the quicker his parts are, the better his understanding is; and the more experience he has, the more plainly he will perceive the aversion which all men have to those that discover their pride: and the sooner persons are imbued with good manners, the sooner they grow perfect in concealing that passion. Men of mean birth and education, that have been kept in great subjection, and consequently had no great opportunities to exert their pride, if ever they come to command others, have a sort of revenge mixed with that passion, which makes it often very mischievous, especially in places where they have no superiors or equals, before whom they are obliged to conceal the odious passion. Hor. Do you think women have more pride from nature than men? Cleo. I believe not: but they have a great deal more from education. Hor. I do not see the reason: for among the better sort, the sons, especially the eldest, have as many ornaments and fine things given them from their infancy, to stir up their pride, as the daughters. Cleo. But among people equally well-educated, the ladies have more flattery bestowed upon them, than the gentlemen, and it begins sooner. Hor. But why should pride be more encouraged in women than in men? Cleo. For the same reason, that it is encouraged in soldiers, more than it is in other people; to increase their fear of shame, which makes them always mindful of their honour. Hor. But to keep both to their respective duties, why must a lady have more pride than a gentleman? Cleo. Because the lady is in the greatest danger of straying from it; she has a passion within, that may begin to affect her at twelve, or thirteen, and perhaps sooner, and she has all the temptations of the men to withstand besides: she has all the artillery of our sex to fear; a seducer of uncommon address and resistless charms, may court her to what nature prompts and solicits her to do; he may add great promises, actual bribes; this may be done in the dark, and when nobody is by dissuade her. Gentlemen very seldom have occasion to show their courage before they are sixteen or seventeen years of age, and rarely so soon: they are not put to the trial, till, by conversing with men of honour, they are confirmed in their pride: in the affair of a quarrel they have their friends to consult, and these are so many witnesses of their behaviour, that awe them to their duty, and in a manner oblige them to obey the laws of honour: all these things conspire to increase their fear of shame; and if they can but render that superior to the fear of death, their business is done; they have no pleasure to expect from breaking the rules of honour, nor any crafty tempter that solicits them to be cowards. That pride which is the cause of honour in men, only regards their courage; and if they can but appear to be brave, and will but follow the fashionable rules of manly honour, they may indulge all other appetites, and brag of incontinence without reproach: the pride likewise that produces honour in women, has no other object than their chastity; and whilst they keep that jewel entire, they can apprehend no shame: tenderness and delicacy are a compliment to them; and there is no fear of danger so ridiculous, but they may own it with ostentation. But notwithstanding the weakness of their frame, and the softness in which women are generally educated, if overcome by chance they have sinned in private, what real hazards will they not run, what torments will they not stifle, and what crimes will they not commit, to hide from the world that frailty, which they were taught to be most ashamed of! Hor. It is certain, that we seldom hear of public prostitutes, and such as have lost their shame, that they murder their infants, though they are otherwise the most abandoned wretches: I took notice of this in the Fable of the Bees, and it is very remarkable. Cleo. It contains a plain demonstration, that the same passion may produce either a palpable good or a palpable evil in the same person, according as self-love and his present circumstances shall direct; and that the same fear of shame, that makes men sometimes appear so highly virtuous, may at others oblige them to commit the most heinous crimes: that, therefore, honour is not founded upon any principle, either of real virtue or true religion, must be obvious to all that will but mind what sort of people they are, that are the greatest votaries of that idol, and the different duties it requires in the two sexes: in the first place, the worshippers of honour are the vain and voluptuous, the strict observers of modes and fashions, that take delight in pomp and luxury, and enjoy as much of the world as they are able: in the second, the word itself, I mean the sense of it, is so whimsical, and there is such a prodigious difference in the signification of it, according as the attribute is differently applied, either to a man or to a woman, that neither of them shall forfeit their honour, though each should be guilty, and openly boast of what would be the others greatest shame. Hor. I am sorry that I cannot charge you with injustice: but it is very strange; that to encourage and industriously increase pride in a refined education, should be the most proper means to make men solicitous in concealing the outward appearances of it. Cleo. Yet nothing is more true; but where pride is so much indulged, and yet to be so carefully kept from all human view, as it is in persons of honour of both sexes, it would be impossible for mortal strength to endure the restraint, if men could not be taught to play the passion against itself, and were not allowed to change the natural home-bred symptoms of it, for artificial foreign ones. Hor. By playing the passion against itself, I know you mean placing a secret pride in concealing the barefaced signs of it: but I do not rightly understand what you mean by changing the symptoms of it. Cleo. When a man exults in his pride, and gives a loose to that passion, the marks of it are as visible in his countenance, his mien, his gait and behaviour, as they are in a prancing horse, or a strutting turkey-cock. These are all very odious; every one feeling the same principle within, which is the cause of those symptoms; and man being endued with speech, all the open expressions the same passion can suggest to him, must for the same reason be equally displeasing: these, therefore, have in all societies been strictly prohibited by common consent, in the very infancy of good manners; and men have been taught, in the room of them, to substitute other symptoms, equally evident with the first, but less offensive, and more beneficial to others. Hor. Which are they? Cleo. Fine clothes, and other ornaments about them, the cleanliness observed about their persons, the submissions that is required of servants, costly equipages, furniture, buildings, titles of honour, and every thing that men can acquire to make themselves esteemed by others, without discovering any of the symptoms that are forbid: upon a satiety of enjoying these, they are allowed likewise to have the vapours, and be whimsical, though otherwise they are known to be in health and of good sense. Hor. But since the pride of others is displeasing to us in every shape, and these latter symptoms, you say, are equally evident with the first, what is got by the change? Cleo. A great deal: when pride is designedly expressed in looks and gestures, either in a wild or tame man, it is known by all human creatures that see it; it is the same, when vented in words, by every body that understands the language they are spoken in. These are marks and tokens that are all the world over the same: nobody shows them, but to have them seen and understood, and few persons ever display them without designing that offence to others, which they never fail to give: whereas, the other symptoms may be denied to be what they are; and many pretences, that they are derived from other motives, may be made for them, which the same good manners teach us never to refute, nor easily to disbelieve: in the very excuses that are made, there is a condescension that satisfies and pleases us. In those that are altogether destitute of the opportunities to display the symptoms of pride that are allowed of, the least portion of that passion is a troublesome, though often an unknown guest; for in them it is easily turned into envy and malice, and on the least provocation, it sallies out in those disguises, and is often the cause of cruelty; and there never was a mischief committed by mobs or multitudes, which this passion had not a hand in: whereas, the more room men have to vent and gratify the passion in the warrantable ways, the more easy it is for them to stifle the odious part of pride, and seem to be wholly free from it. Hor. I see very well, that real virtues requires a conquest over untaught nature, and that the Christian religion demands a still stricter self-denial: it likewise is evident, that to make ourselves acceptable to an omniscient Power, nothing is more necessary than sincerity, and that the heart should be pure. But setting aside sacred matters, and a future state, do not you think that this complaisance and easy construction of one another's actions, do a great deal of good upon earth; and do not you believe that good manners and politeness make men more happy, and their lives more comfortable in this world, than any thing else could make them without those arts? Cleo. If you will set aside what ought to employ our first care, and be our greatest concern; and men will have no value for that felicity and peace of mind, which can only arise from a consciousness of being good, it is certain, that in a great nation, and among a flourishing people, whose highest wishes seem to be ease and luxury, the upper part could not, without those arts, enjoy so much of the world as that can afford; and that none stand more in need of them than the voluptuous men of parts, that will join worldly prudence to sensuality, and make it their chief study to refine upon pleasure. Hor. When I had the honour of your company at my house, you said that nobody knew when or where, nor in what king's or emperor's reign the laws of honour were enacted; pray, can you inform me when or which way, what we call good manners or politeness came into the world? what moralist or politician was it, that could teach men to be proud of hiding their pride? Cleo. The resistless industry of man to supply his wants; and his constant endeavours to meliorate his condition upon earth, have produced and brought to perfection many useful arts and sciences, of which the beginnings are of uncertain eras, and to which we can align no other causes, than human sagacity in general, and the joint labour of many ages, in which men have always employed themselves in studying and contriving ways and means to sooth their various appetites, and make the best of their infirmities. Whence had we the first rudiments of architecture; how came sculpture and painting to be what they have been these many hundred years; and who taught every nation the respective languages they speak now. When I have a mind to dive into the origin of any maxim or political invention, for the use of society in general, I do not trouble my head with inquiring after the time or country in which it was first heard of, nor what others have wrote or said about it; but I go directly to the fountain head, human nature itself, and look for the frailty or defect in man, that is remedied or supplied by that invention: when things are very obscure, I sometimes make use of conjectures to find my way. Hor. Do you argue, or pretend to prove any thing from those conjectures? Cleo. No; I never reason but from the plain observations which every body may make on man, the phenomena that appear in the lesser world. Hor. You have, without doubt, thought on this subject before now; would you communicate to me some of your guesses? Cleo. With abundance of pleasure. Hor. You will give me leave, now and then, when things are not clear to me, to put in a word for information's sake. Cleo. I desire you would: you will oblige me with it. That self-love was given to all animals, at least, the most perfect, for self-preservation, is not disputed; but as no creature can love what it dislikes, it is necessary, moreover, that every one should have a real liking to its own being, superior to what they have to any other. I am of opinion, begging pardon for the novelty, that if this liking was not always permanent, the love which all creatures have for themselves, could not be so unalterable as we see it is. Hor. What reason have you to suppose this liking, which creatures have for themselves, to be distinct from self-love; since the one plainly comprehends the other? Cleo. I will endeavour to explain myself better. I fancy, that to increase the care in creatures to preserve themselves, nature has given them an instinct, by which every individual values itself above its real worth; this in us, I mean in man, seems to be accompanied with a diffidence, arising from a consciousness, or at least an apprehension, that we do overvalue ourselves: it is that makes us so fond of the approbation, liking, and assent of others; because they strengthen and confirm us in the good opinion we have of ourselves. The reasons why this self-liking, give me leave to call it so, is not plainly to be seen in all animals that are of the same degree of perfection, are many. Some want ornaments, and consequently the means to express it; others are too stupid and listless: it is to be considered likewise, that creatures, which are always in the same circumstances, and meet with little variation in their way of living, have neither opportunity nor temptation to show it; that the more mettle and liveliness creatures have, the more visible this liking is; and that in those of the same kind, the greater spirit they are of, and the more they excel in the perfections of their species, the fonder they are of showing it: in most birds it is evident, especially in those that have extraordinary finery to display: in a horse it is more conspicuous than in any other irrational creature: it is most apparent in the swiftest, the strongest, the most healthy and vigorous; and may be increased in that animal by additional ornaments, and the presence of man, whom he knows, to clean, take care of, and delight in him. It is not improbable, that this great liking which creatures have for their own individuals, is the principle on which the love to their species is built: cows and sheep, too dull and lifeless to make any demonstration of this liking, yet herd and feed together, each with his own species; because no others are so like themselves: by this they seem to know likewise, that they have the same interest, and the same enemies; cows have often been seen to join in a common defence against wolves: birds of a feather flock together; and I dare say, that the screechowl likes her own note better than that of the nightingale. Hor. Montaigne seems to have been somewhat of your opinion, when he fancied, that if brutes were to paint the Deity, they would all draw him of their own species. But what you call self-liking is evidently pride. Cleo. I believe it is, or at least the cause of it. I believe, moreover, that many creatures show this liking, when, for want of understanding them, we do not perceive it: When a cat washes her face, and a dog licks himself clean, they adorn themselves as much as it is in their power. Man himself, in a savage state, feeding on nuts and acorns, and destitute of all outward ornaments, would have infinitely less temptation, as well as opportunity, of showing this liking of himself, than he has when civilized; yet if a hundred males of the first, all equally free, were together, within less than half an hour, this liking in question, though their bellies were full, would appear in the desire of superiority, that would be shown among them; and the most vigorous, either in strength or understanding, or both, would be the first that would display it: If, as supposed, they were all untaught, this would breed contention, and there would certainly be war before there could be any agreement among them; unless one of them had some one or more visible excellencies above the rest. I said males, and their bellies full; because, if they had women among them, or wanted food, their quarrel might begin on another account. Hor. This is thinking abstractly indeed: but do you think that two or three hundred single savages, men and women, that never had been under any subjection, and were above twenty years of age, could ever establish a society, and be united into one body, if, without being acquainted with one another, they should meet by chance! Cleo. No more, I believe, than so many horses: but societies never were made that way. It is possible that several families of savages might unite, and the heads of them agree upon some sort of government or other, for their common good: but among them it is certain likewise, that, though superiority was tolerably well settled, and every male had females enough, strength and prowess in this uncivilized state would be infinitely more valued than understanding: I mean in the men; for the women will always prize themselves for what they see the men admire in them: Hence it would follow, that the women would value themselves, and envy one another for being handsome; and that the ugly and deformed, and all those that were least favoured by nature, would be the first, that would fly to art and additional ornaments: seeing that this made them more agreeable to the men, it would soon be followed by the rest, and in a little time they would strive to outdo one another, as much as their circumstances would allow of; and it is possible, that a woman, with a very handsome nose, might envy her neighbour with a much worse, for having a ring through it. Hor. You take great delight in dwelling on the behaviour of savages; what relation has this to politeness? Cleo. The seeds of it are lodged in this self-love and self-liking, which I have spoke of, as will soon appear, if we would consider what would be the consequence of them in the affair of self-preservation, and a creature endued with understanding, speech, and risibility. Self-love would first make it scrape together every thing it wanted for sustenance, provide against the injuries of the air, and do every thing to make itself and young ones secure. Self-liking would make it seek for opportunities, by gestures, looks, and sounds, to display the value it has for itself, superior to what it has for others; an untaught man would desire every body that came near him, to agree with him in the opinion of his superior worth, and be angry, as far as his fear would let him, with all that should refuse it: he would be highly delighted with, and love every body whom he thought to have a good opinion of him, especially those, that, by words or gestures, should own it to his face: whenever he met with any visible marks in others of inferiority to himself, he would laugh, and do the same at their misfortunes, as far as his own pity would give him leave, and he would insult every body that would let him. Hor. This self-liking, you say, was given to creatures for self-preservation: I should think rather that it is hurtful to men, because it must make them odious to one another; and I cannot see what benefit they can receive from it, either in a savage or a civilized state: is there any instance of its doing any good? Cleo. I wonder to hear you ask that question. Have you forgot the many virtues which I have demonstrated, may be counterfeited to gain applause, and the good qualities a man of sense in great fortune may acquire, by the sole help and instigation of his pride? Hor. I beg your pardon: yet what you say only regards man in the society, and after he has been perfectly well educated: what advantage is it to him as a single creature? Self-love I can plainly see, induces him to labour for his maintenance and safety, and makes him fond of every thing which he imagines to tend to his preservation; but what good does the self-liking to him? Cleo. If I should tell you, that the inward pleasure and satisfaction a man receives from the gratification of that passion, is a cordial that contributes to his health, you would laugh at me, and think it far fetched. Hor. Perhaps not; but I would set against it the many sharp vexations and heart-breaking sorrows, that men suffer on the score of this passion, from disgraces, disappointments, and other misfortunes, which, I believe, have sent millions to their graves much sooner than they would have gone, if their pride had less affected them. Cleo. I have nothing against what you say: but this is no proof that the passion itself was not given to man for self-preservation; and it only lays open to us the precariousness of sublunary happiness, and the wretched condition of mortals. There is nothing created that is always a blessing; the rain and sunshine themselves, to which all earthly comforts are owing, have been the causes of innumerable calamities. All animals of prey, and thousand others, hunt after food with the hazard of their lives, and the greater part of them perish in their pursuits after sustenance. Plenty itself is not less fatal to some, than want is to others; and of our own species, every opulent nation has had great numbers, that in full safety from all other dangers, have destroyed themselves by excesses of eating and drinking: yet nothing is more certain, than that hunger and thirst were given to creatures, to make them solicitous after, and crave those necessaries, without which it would be impossible for them to subsist. Hor. Still I can see no advantage accruing from their self-liking to man, considered as a single creature, which can induce me to believe, that nature should have given it us for self-preservation. What you have alleged is obscure; can you name a benefit every individual person receives from that principle within him, that is manifest, and clearly to be understood? Cleo. Since it has been in disgrace, and every body disowns the passion, it seldom is seen in its proper colours, and disguises itself in a thousand different shapes: we are often affected with it, when we have not the least suspicion of it; but it seems to be that which continually furnishes us with that relish we have for life, even when it is not worth having. Whilst men are pleased, self-liking has every moment a considerable share, though unknown, in procuring the satisfaction they enjoy. It is so necessary to the well-being of those that have been used to indulge it, that they can taste no pleasure without it; and such is the deference, and the submissive veneration they pay to it, that they are deaf to the loudest calls of nature, and will rebuke the strongest appetites that should pretend to be gratified at the expence of that passion. It doubles our happiness in prosperity, and buoys us up against the frowns of adverse fortune. It is the mother of hopes, and the end as well as the foundation of our best wishes: it is the strongest armour against despair; and as long as we can like any ways our situation, either in regard to present circumstances, or the prospect before us, we take care of ourselves; and no man can resolve upon suicide, whilst self-liking lasts: but as soon as that is over, all our hopes are extinct, and we can form no wishes but for the dissolution of our frame; till at last our being becomes so intolerable to us, that self-love prompts us to make an end of it, and seek refuge in death. Hor. You mean self-hatred; for you have said yourself, that a creature cannot love what it dislikes. Cleo. If you turn the prospect, you are in the right: but this only proves to us what I have often hinted at, that man is made up of contrarieties; otherwise nothing seems to be more certain, than that whoever kills himself by choice, must do it to avoid something, which he dreads more than that death which he chooses. Therefore, how absurd soever a person's reasoning may be, there is in all suicide a palpable intention of kindness to one's self. Hor. I must own that your observations are entertaining. I am very well pleased with your discourse, and I see an agreeable glimmering of probability that runs through it; but you have said nothing that comes up to a half proof on the side of your conjecture, if it be seriously considered. Cleo. I told you before that I would lay no stress upon, nor draw any conclusions from it: but whatever nature's design was in bestowing this self-liking on creatures, and whether it has been given to other animals besides ourselves or not, it is certain, that in our own species every individual person likes himself better than he does any other. Hor. It may be so, generally speaking: but that it is not universally true, I can assure you, from my own experience; for I have often wished my self to be Count Theodati, whom you knew at Rome. Cleo. He was a very fine person indeed, and extremely well accomplished; and therefore you wished to be such another, which is all you could mean. Celia has a very handsome face, fine eyes, fine teeth; but she has red hair, and is ill made: therefore she wishes for Chloe's hair and Belinda's shape; but she would still remain Celia. Hor. But I wished that I might have been that person, that very Theodati. Cleo. That is impossible. Hor. What, is it impossible to wish it? Cleo. Yes, to wish it; unless you wished for annihilation at the same time. It is that self we wish well to; and therefore we cannot wish for any change in ourselves, but with a proviso, that to self, that part of us that wishes, should still remain: for take away that consciousness you had of yourself whilst you was wishing, and tell me, pray, what part of you it is that could be the better for the alteration you wished for? Hor. I believe you are in the right. No man can wish but to enjoy something, which no part of that same man could do, if he was entirely another. Cleo. That he itself, the person wishing, must be destroyed before the change could be entire. Hor. But when shall we come to the origin of politeness? Cleo. We are at it now, and we need not look for it any further than in the self-liking, which I have demonstrated every individual man to be possessed of. Do but consider these two things: First, that from the nature of that passion, it must follow, that all untaught men will ever be hateful to one another in conversation, where neither interest nor superiority are considered: for, if of two equals, one only values himself more by half, than he does the other, though that other should value the first equally with himself, they would both be dissatisfied, if their thoughts were known to each other; but if both valued themselves more by half, than they did each other, the difference between them would still be greater, and a declaration of their sentiments would render them both insufferable to each other; which, among uncivilized men, would happen every moment, because, without a mixture of art and trouble, the outward symptoms of that passion are not to be stifled. The second thing I would have you consider, is, the effect which, in all human probability, this inconveniency, arising from self-liking, would have upon creatures endued with a great share of understanding, that are fond of their ease to the last degree, and as industrious to procure it. These two things, I say, do but duly weigh, and you shall find that the disturbance and uneasiness that must be caused by self-liking, whatever strugglings and unsuccessful trials to remedy them might precede, must necessarily produce, at long run, what we call good manners and politeness. Hor. I understand you, I believe. Every body in this undisciplined state, being affected with the high value he has for himself, and displaying the most natural symptoms which you have described, they would all be offended at the barefaced pride of their neighbours: and it is impossible that this should continue long among rational creatures, but the repeated experience of the uneasiness they received from such behaviour, would make some of them reflect on the cause of it; which, in tract of time, would make them find out, that their own barefaced pride, must be as offensive to others, as that of others is to themselves. Cleo. What you say is certainly the philosophical reason of the alterations that are made in the behaviour of men, by their being civilized: but all this is done without reflection; and men by degrees, and great length of time, fall as it were into these things spontaneously. Hor. How is that possible, when it must cost them trouble, and there is a palpable self-denial to be seen in the restraint they put upon themselves? Cleo. In the pursuit of self-preservation, men discover a restless endeavour to make themselves easy, which insensibly teaches them to avoid mischief on all emergencies: and when human creatures once submit to government, and are used to live under the restraint of laws, it is incredible how many useful cautions, shifts, and stratagems they will learn to practise by experience and imitation, from conversing together, without being aware of the natural causes that oblige them to act as they do, viz. the passions within, that, unknown to themselves, govern their will and direct their behaviour. Hor. You will make men as mere machines as Cartes does brutes. Cleo. I have no such design: but I am of opinion, that men find out the use of their limbs by instinct, as much as brutes do the use of theirs; and that, without knowing any thing of geometry or arithmetic, even children may learn to perform actions that seem to bespeak great skill in mechanics, and a considerable depth of thought and ingenuity in the contrivance besides. Hor. What actions are they which you judge this from? Cleo. The advantageous postures which they will choose in resisting force, in pulling, pushing, or otherwise removing weight; from their sleight and dexterity in throwing stones, and other projectiles; and the stupendous cunning made use of in leaping. Hor. What stupendous cunning, I pray? Cleo. When men would leap or jump a great way, you know, they take a run before they throw themselves off the ground. It is certain, that, by this means, they jump farther, and with greater force than they could do otherwise: the reason likewise is very plain. The body partakes of, and is moved by two motions; and the velocity, impressed upon it by leaping, must be added to so much, as it retained of the velocity it was put into by running: Whereas, the body of a person who takes this leap, as he is standing still, has no other motion, than what is received from the muscular strength exerted in the act of leaping. See a thousand boys, as well as men, jump, and they will make use of this stratagem; but you will not find one of them that does it knowingly for that reason. What I have said of that stratagem made use of in leaping, I desire you would apply to the doctrine of good manners, which is taught and practised by millions, who never thought on the origin of politeness, or so much as knew the real benefit it is of to society. The most crafty and designing will every where be the first; that, for interest-sake, will learn to conceal this passion of pride, and, in a little time, nobody will show the least symptom of it, whilst he is asking favours, or stands in need of help. Hor. That rational creatures should do all this, without thinking or knowing what they are about, is inconceivable. Bodily motion is one thing, and the exercise of the understanding is another; and therefore agreeable postures, a graceful mien, an easy carriage, and a genteel outward behaviour, in general, may be learned and contracted perhaps without much thought; but good manners are to be observed every where, in speaking, writing, and ordering actions to be performed by others. Cleo. To men who never turned their thoughts that way, it certainly is almost inconceivable to what prodigious height, from next to nothing, some arts may be, and have been raised by human industry and application, by the uninterrupted labour and joint experience of many ages, though none but men of ordinary capacity should ever be employed in them. What a noble, as well as beautiful, what a glorious machine is a first rate man of war when she is under sail, well rigged, and well manned! As in bulk and weight it is vastly superior to any other moveable body of human invention, so there is no other that has an equal variety of differently surprising contrivance to boast of. There are many sets of hands in the nation, that, not wanting proper materials, would be able in less than half a-year, to produce, fit out, and navigate a first rate: yet it is certain, that this task would be impracticable, if it was not divided and subdivided into a great variety of different labours; and it is as certain, that none of these labours require any other, than working men of ordinary capacities. Hor. What would you infer from this? Cleo. That we often ascribe to the excellency of man's genius, and the depth of his penetration, what is in reality owing to length of time, and the experience of many generations, all of them very little differing from one another in natural parts and sagacity. And to know what it must have cost to bring that art of making ships for different purposes, to the perfection in which it is now, we are only to consider, in the first place, that many considerable improvements have been made in it within these fifty years and less; and, in the second, that the inhabitants of this island did build, and make use of ships eighteen hundred years ago, and that, from that time to this, they have never been without. Hor. Which altogether make a strong proof of the slow progress that art has made to be what it is. Cleo. The Chevalier Reneau has wrote a book, in which he shows the mechanism of sailing, and accounts mathematically for every thing that belongs to the working and steering of a ship. I am persuaded, that neither the first inventors of ships and sailing, or those who have made improvements since in any part of them, ever dreamed of those reasons, any more than now the rudest and most illiterate of the vulgar do, when they are made sailors, which time and practice will do in spite of their teeth. We have thousands of them that were first hauled on board, and detained against their wills, and yet, in less than three years time, knew every rope and every pully in the ship, and without the least scrap of mathematics, had learned the management as well as use of them, much better than the greatest mathematician could have done in all his lifetime, if he had never been at sea. The book I mentioned, among other curious things, demonstrates what angle the rudder must make with the keel, to render its influence upon the ship the most powerful. This has its merit; but a lad of fifteen, who has served a year of his time on board of a hoy, knows every thing that is useful in this demonstration, practically. Seeing the poop always answering the motion of the helm, he only minds the latter, without making the least reflection on the rudder, until in a year or two more his knowledge in sailing, and capacity of steering his vessel, become so habitual to him, that he guides her, as he does his own body, by instinct, though he is half asleep, or thinking on quite another thing. Hor. If, as you said, and which I now believe to be true, the people who first invented, and afterwards improved upon ships and sailing, never dreamed of those reasons of Monsieur Reneau, it is impossible that they should have acted from them, as motives that induced them à priori, to put their inventions and improvements in practice, with knowledge and design, which, I suppose, is what you intended to prove. Cleo. It is; and I verily believe, not only that the raw beginners, who made the first essays in either art, good manners as well as sailing, were ignorant of the true cause; the real foundation those arts are built upon in nature; but likewise that, even now both arts are brought to great perfection, the greatest part of those that are most expert, and daily making improvements in them, know as little of the rationale of them, as their predecessors did at first: though I believe, at the same time, Monsieur Reneau's reasons to be very just, and yours as good as his; that is, I believe, that there is as much truth and solidity in your accounting for the origin of good manners, as there is in his for the management of ships. They are very seldom the same sort of people, those that invent arts and improvements in them, and those that inquire into the reason of things: this latter is most commonly practised by such as are idle and indolent, that are fond of retirement, hate business, and take delight in speculation; whereas, none succeed oftener in the first, than active, stirring, and laborious men, such as will put their hand to the plough, try experiments, and give all their attention to what they are about. Hor. It is commonly imagined, that speculative men are best at invention of all sorts. Cleo. Yet it is a mistake. Soap-boiling, grain-drying, and other trades and mysteries, are, from mean beginnings, brought to great perfection; but the many improvements that can be remembered to have been made in them, have, for the generality, been owing to persons, who either were brought up to, or had long practised, and been conversant in those trades, and not to great proficients in chemistry, or other parts of philosophy, whom one would naturally expect those things from. In some of these arts, especially grain or scarlet-dying, there are processes really astonishing; and, by the mixture of various ingredients, by fire and fermentation, several operations are performed, which the most sagacious naturalist cannot account for by any system yet known; a certain sign that they were not invented by reasoning à priori. When once the generality begin to conceal the high value they have for themselves, men must become more tolerable to one another. Now, new improvements must be made every day, until some of them grow impudent enough, not only to deny the high value they have for themselves, but likewise to pretend that they have greater value for others, than they have for themselves. This will bring in complaisance; and now flattery will rush in upon them like a torrent. As soon as they are arrived at this pitch of insincerity, they will find the benefit of it, and teach it their children. The passion of shame is so general, and so early discovered in all human creatures, that no nation can be so stupid, as to be long without observing and making use of it accordingly. The same may be said of the credulity of infants, which is very inviting to many good purposes. The knowledge of parents is communicated to their offspring, and every one's experience in life being added to what he learned in his youth, every generation after this must be better taught than the preceding; by which means, in two or three centuries, good manners must be brought to great perfection. Hor. When they are thus far advanced, it is easy to conceive the rest: For improvements, I suppose, are made in good manners, as they are in all other arts and sciences. But to commence from savages, men, I believe, would make but a small progress in good manners the first three hundred years. The Romans, who had a much better beginning, had been a nation above six centuries, and were almost masters of the world, before they could be said to be a polite people. What I am most astonished at, and which I am now convinced of, is, that the basis of all this machinery is pride. Another thing I wonder at, is, that you chose to speak of a nation that entered upon good manners before they had any notions of virtue or religion, which, I believe, there never was in the world. Cleo. Pardon me, Horatio; I have nowhere insinuated that they had none, but I had no reason to mention them. In the first place, you asked my opinion concerning the use of politeness in this world, abstract from the considerations of a future state: Secondly, the art of good manners has nothing to do with virtue or religion, though it seldom clashes with either. It is a science that is ever built on the same steady principle in our nature, whatever the age or the climate may be in which it is practised. Hor. How can any thing be said not to clash with virtue or religion, that has nothing to do with either, and consequently disclaims both? Cleo. This, I confess, seems to be a paradox; yet it is true. The doctrine of good manners teaches men to speak well of all virtues, but requires no more of them in any age or country, than the outward appearance of those in fashion. And as to sacred matters, it is every where satisfied with seeming conformity in outward worship; for all the religions in the universe are equally agreeable to good manners, where they are national; and pray what opinion must we say a teacher to be of, to whom all opinions are probably alike? All the precepts of good manners throughout the world have the same tendency, and are no more than the various methods of making ourselves acceptable to others, with as little prejudice to ourselves as is possible: by which artifice we assist one another in the enjoyments of life, and refining upon pleasure; and every individual person is rendered more happy by it in the fruition of all the good things he can purchase, than he could have been without such behaviour. I mean happy, in the sense of the voluptuous. Let us look back on old Greece, the Roman empire, or the great eastern nations that flourished before them, and we shall find, that luxury and politeness ever grew up together, and were never enjoyed asunder; that comfort and delight upon earth have always employed the wishes of the beau monde; and that, as their chief study and greatest solicitude, to outward appearance, have ever been directed to obtain happiness in this world, so what would become of them in the next, seems, to the naked eye, always to have been the least of their concern. Hor. I thank you for your lecture: you have satisfied me in several things, which I had intended to ask: But you have said some others, that I must have time to consider; after which I am resolved to wait upon you again; for I begin to believe, that, concerning the knowledge of ourselves, most books are either very defective or very deceitful. Cleo. There is not a more copious, nor a more faithful volume than human nature, to those who will diligently peruse it; and I sincerely believe, that I have discovered nothing to you, which, if you had thought of it with attention, you would not have found out yourself. But I shall never be better pleased with myself, than when I can contribute to any entertainment you shall think diverting. THE FOURTH DIALOGUE BETWEEN HORATIO AND CLEOMENES. CLEOMENES. Your servant. Hor. What say you now, Cleomenes; is it not this without ceremony? Cleo. You are very obliging. Hor. When they told me where you was, I would suffer nobody to tell you who it was that wanted you, or to come up with me. Cleo. This is friendly, indeed! Hor. You see what a proficient I am: In a little time you will teach me to lay aside all good manners. Cleo. You make a fine tutor of me. Hor. You will pardon me, I know: this study of yours is a very pretty place. Cleo. I like it, because the sun never enters it. Hor. A very pretty room! Cleo. Shall we sit down in it? It is the coolest room in the house. Hor. With all my heart. Cleo. I was in hopes to have seen you before now: you have taken a long time to consider. Hor. Just eight days? Cleo. Have you thought on the novelty I started? Hor. I have, and think it not void of probability; for that there are no innate ideas, and men come into the world without any knowledge at all, I am convinced of, and therefore it is evident to me, that all arts and sciences must once have had a beginning in somebody's brain, whatever oblivion that may now be lost in. I have thought twenty times since I saw you last, on the origin of good manners, and what a pleasant scene it would be to a man who is tolerably well versed in the world, to see among a rude nation those first essays they made of concealing their pride from one another. Cleo. You see by this, that it is chiefly the novelty of things that strikes, as well in begetting our aversion, as in gaining our approbation; and that we may look upon many indifferently, when they come to be familiar to us, though they were shocking when they were new. You are now diverting yourself with a truth, which eight days ago you would have given an hundred guineas not to have known. Hor. I begin to believe there is nothing so absurd, that it would appear to us to be such, is we had been accustomed to it very young. Cleo. In a tolerable education, we are so industriously and so assiduously instructed, from our most early infancy, in the ceremonies of bowing, and pulling off hats, and other rules of behaviour, that even before we are men we hardly look upon a mannerly deportment as a thing acquired, or think conversation to be a science. Thousand things are called easy and natural in postures and motions, as well as speaking and writing, that have caused infinite pains to others as well as ourselves, and which we know to be the product of art. What awkward lumps have I known, which the dancing-master has put limbs to! Hor. Yesterday morning as I sat musing by myself, an expression of yours which I did not so much reflect upon at first, when I heard it, came into my head, and made me smile. Speaking of the rudiments of good manners in an infant nation, when they once entered upon concealing their pride, you said, that improvements would be made every day, "till some of them grew impudent enough, not only to deny the high value they had for themselves, but likewise to pretend that they had greater value for others than they had for themselves." Cleo. It is certain, that this every where must have been the forerunner of flattery. Hor. When you talk of flattery and impudence, what do you think of the first man that had the face to tell his equal, that he was his humble servant? Cleo. If that had been a new compliment, I should have wondered much more at the simplicity of the proud man that swallowed, than I would have done at the impudence of the knave that made it. Hor. It certainly once was new: which pray do you believe more ancient, pulling off the hat, or saying, your humble servant? Cleo. They are both of them Gothic and modern. Hor. I believe pulling off the hat was first, it being the emblem of liberty. Cleo. I do not think so: for he who pulled of his hat the first time, could not have been understood, if saying your servant had not been practised: and to show respect, a man as well might have pulled off one of his shoes, as his hat; if saying, your servant, had not been an established and well-known compliment. Hor. So he might, as you say, and had a better authority for the first, than he could have for the latter. Cleo. And to this day, taking of the hat is a dumb show of a known civility in words: Mind now the power of custom, and imbibed notions. We both laugh at this Gothic absurdity, and are well assured, that it must have had its origin from the basest flattery; yet neither of us, walking with our hats on, could meet an acquaintance with whom we are not very familiar, without showing this piece of civility; nay, it it would be a pain to us not to do it. But we have no reason to think, that the compliment of saying, your servant, began among equals; but rather that, flatterers having given it to princes, it grew afterwards more common: for all those postures and flexions of body and limbs, had in all probability their rise from the adulation that was paid to conquerors and tyrants; who, having every body to fear, were always alarmed at the least shadow of opposition, and never better pleased than with submissive and defenceless postures: and you see, that they have all a tendency that way; they promise security, and are silent endeavours to ease and rid them, not only of their fears, but likewise every suspicion of harm approaching them: such as lying prostrate on our faces, touching the ground with our heads, kneeling, bowing low, laying our hands upon our breasts, or holding them behind us, folding our arms together, and all the cringes that can be made to demonstrate that we neither indulge our ease, nor stand upon our guard. These are evident signs and convincing proofs to a superior, that we have a mean opinion of ourselves in respect to him, that we are at his mercy, and have no thought to resist, much less to attack him; and therefore it is highly probable, that saying, your servant, and pulling off the hat, were at first demonstrations of obedience to those that claimed it. Hor. Which in tract of time became more familiar, and were made use of reciprocally in the way of civility. Cleo. I believe so; for as good manners increase, we see, that the highest compliments are made common, and new ones to superiors invented instead of them. Hor. So the word grace, which not long ago was a title, that none but our kings and queens were honoured with, is devolved upon archbishops and dukes. Cleo. It was the same with highness, which is now given to the children, and even the grandchildren of kings. Hor. The dignity that is annexed to the signification of the word lord, has been better preserved with us, than in most countries: in Spanish, Italian, high and low Dutch, it is prostituted to almost every body. Cleo. It has had better fate in France; where likewise the word sire has lost nothing of its majesty, and is only used to the monarch: whereas, with us, it is a compliment of address, that may be made to a cobbler, as well as to a king. Hor. Whatever alterations may be made in the sense of words, by time; yet, as the world grows more polished, flattery becomes less barefaced, and the design of it upon man's pride is better disguised than it was formerly. To praise a man to his face, was very common among the ancients: considering humility to be a virtue particularly required of Christians, I have often wondered how the fathers of the church could suffer those acclamations and applauses, that were made to them whilst they were preaching; and which, though some of them spoke against them, many of them appear to have been extremely fond of. Cleo. Human nature is always the same; where men exert themselves to the utmost, and take uncommon pains, that spend and waste the spirits, those applauses are very reviving the fathers who spoke against them, spoke chiefly against the abuse of them. Hor. It must have been very odd to hear people bawling out, as often the greatest part of an audience did, Sophos, divinitus, non potest melius, mirabiliter, acriter, ingeniose: they told the preachers likewise that they were orthodox, and sometimes called them, apostolus decimus tertius. Cleo. These words at the end of a period might have passed, but the repetitions of them were often so loud and so general, and the noise they made with their hands and feet, so disturbing in and out of season, that they could not hear a quarter of the the sermon; yet several fathers owned that it was highly delightful, and soothing human frailty. Hor. The behaviour at churches is more decent, as it is now. Cleo. Since paganism has been quite extinct in the old western world, the zeal of Christians is much diminished from what it was, when they had many opposers: the want of fervency had a great hand in abolishing that fashion. Hor. But whether it was the fashion or not, it must always have been shocking. Cleo. Do you think, that the repeated acclamations, the clapping, stamping, and the most extravagant tokens of applause, that are now used at our several theatres, were ever shocking to a favourite actor; or that the huzzas of the mob, or the hideous shouts of soldiers, were ever shocking to persons of the highest distinction, to whose honour they were made? Hor. I have known princes that were very much tired with them. Cleo. When they had too much of them; but never at first. In working a machine, we ought to have regard to the strength of its frame: limited creatures are not susceptible of infinite delight; therefore we see, that a pleasure protracted beyond its due bounds becomes a pain: but where the custom of the country is not broken in upon, no noise, that is palpably made in our praise, and which we may hear with decency, can ever be ungrateful, if it do not outlast a reasonable time; but there is no cordial so sovereign, that it may not become offensive, by being taken to excess. Hor. And the sweeter and more delicious liquors are, the sooner they become fulsome, and the less fit they are to sit by. Cleo. Your simile is not amiss; and the same acclamations that are ravishing to a man at first, and perhaps continue to give him an unspeakable delight for eight or nine minutes, may become more moderately pleasing, indifferent, cloying, troublesome, and even so offensive as to create pain, all in less than three hours, if they were to continue so long without intermission. Hor. There must be great witchcraft in sounds, that they should have such different effects upon us, as we often see they have. Cleo. The pleasure we receive from acclamations, is not in the hearing; but proceeds from the opinion we form of the cause that produces those sounds, the approbation of others. At the theatres all over Italy you have heard, that, when the whole audience demands silence and attention, which there is an established mark of benevolence and applause, the noise they make comes very near, and is hardly to be distinguished from our hissing, which with us is the plainest token of dislike and contempt: and without doubt the cat-calls to affront Faustina were far more agreeable to Cozzoni, than the most artful sounds she ever heard from her triumphant rival. Hor. That was abominable! Cleo. The Turks show their respects to their sovereigns by a profound silence, which is strictly kept throughout the seraglio, and still more religiously observed the nearer you come to the Sultan's apartment. Hor. This latter is certainly the politer way of gratifying one's pride. Cleo. All that depends upon mode and custom. Hor. But the offerings that are made to a man's pride in silence, may be enjoyed without the loss of his hearing, which the other cannot. Cleo. That is a trifle, in the gratification of that passion: we never enjoy higher pleasure, from the appetite we would indulge, than when we feel nothing from any other. Hor. But silence expresses greater homage, and deeper veneration, than noise. Cleo. It is good to sooth the pride of a drone; but an active man loves to have that passion roused, and as it were kept awake, whilst it is gratified; and approbation from noise is more unquestionable than the other: however, I will not determine between them; much may be said on both sides. The Greeks and Romans used sounds, to stir up men to noble actions, with great success; and the silence observed among the Ottomans has kept them very well in the slavish submission which their sovereigns require of them: perhaps the one does better where absolute power is lodged in one person, and the other where there is some show of liberty. Both are proper tools to flatter the pride of man, when they are understood and made use of as such. I have known a very brave man used to the shouts of war, and highly delighted with loud applause, be very angry with his butler, for making a little rattling with his plates. Hor. An old aunt of mine the other day turned away a very clever fellow, for not walking upon his toes; and I must own myself, that the stamping of footmen, and all unmannerly loudness of servants, are very offensive to me; though I never entered into the reason of it before now. In our last conversation, when you described the symptoms of self-liking, and what the behaviour would be of an uncivilized man, you named laughing: I know it is one of the characteristics of our species; pray do you take that to be likewise the result of pride? Cleo. Hobbes is of that opinion, and in most instances it might be derived from thence; but there are some phenomena not to be explained by that hypothesis; therefore I would choose to say, that laughter is a mechanical motion, which we are naturally thrown into when we are unaccountably pleased. When our pride is feelingly gratified; when we hear or see any thing which we admire or approve of; or when we are indulging any other passion or appetite, and the reason why we are pleased seems to be just and worthy, we are then far from laughing: but when things or actions are odd and out of the way, and happen to please us when we can give no just reason why they should do so, it is then, generally speaking, that they make us laugh. Hor. I would rather side with what you said was Hobbes's opinion: for the things we commonly laugh at are such as are some way or other mortifying, unbecoming, or prejudicial to others. Cleo. But what will you say to tickling, which will make an infant laugh that is deaf and blind? Hor. Can you account for that by your system? Cleo. Not to my satisfaction; but I will tell you what might be said for it. We know by experience, that the smoother, the softer, and the more sensible the skin is, the more ticklish persons are, generally speaking: we know likewise, that things rough, sharp, and hard, when they touch the skin, are displeasing to us, even before they give pain and that, on the contrary, every thing applied to the skin that is soft and smooth, and not otherwise offensive, is delightful. It is possible that gentle touches being impressed on several nervous filaments at once, every one of them producing a pleasing sensation, may create that confused pleasure which is the occasion of laughter. Hor. But how came you to think of mechanic motion, in the pleasure of a free agent? Cleo. Whatever free agency we may pretend to in the forming of ideas, the effect of them upon the body is independent of the will. Nothing is more directly opposite to laughing than frowning: the one draws wrinkles on the fore-head, knits the brows, and keeps the mouth shut: the other does quite the reverse; exporrigere frontem, you know, is a Latin phrase for being merry. In sighing, the muscles of the belly and breast are pulled inward, and the diaphragm is pulled upward more than ordinary; and we seem to endeavour, though in vain, to squeeze and compress the heart, whilst we draw in our breath in a forcible manner; and when, in that squeezing posture, we have taken in as much air as we can contain, we throw it out with the same violence we sucked it in with, and at the same time give a sudden relaxation to all the muscles we employed before. Nature certainly designed this for something in the labour for self-preservation which she forces upon us. How mechanically do all creatures that can make any sound, cry out, and complain in great afflictions, as well as pain and imminent danger! In great torments, the efforts of nature are so violent that way, that, to disappoint her, and prevent the discovery of what we feel by sounds, and which she bids us make, we are forced to draw our mouth into a purse, or else suck in our breath, bite our lips, or squeeze them close together, and use the most effectual means to hinder the air from coming out. In grief we sigh, in mirth we laugh: in the latter little stress is laid upon the respiration, and this is performed with less regularity than it is at any other time; all the muscles without, and every thing within feel loose, and seem to have no other motion than what is communicated to them by the convulsive shakes of laughter. Hor. I have seen people laugh till they lost all their strength. Cleo. How much is all this the reverse of what we observe in sighing! When pain or depth of woe make us cry out, the mouth is drawn round, or at least into an oval; the lips are thrusted forward without touching each other, and the tongue is pulled in, which is the reason that all nations, when they exclaim, cry, Oh! Hor. Why pray! Cleo. Because whilst the mouth, lips, and tongue, remain in those postures, they can sound no other vowel, and no consonant at all. In laughing, the lips are pulled back, and strained to draw the mouth in its fullest length. Hor. I would not have you lay a great stress upon that, for it is the same in weeping, which is an undoubted sign of sorrow. Cleo. In great afflictions, where the heart is oppressed, and anxieties which we endeavour to resist, few people can weep; but when they do, it removes the oppression, and sensibly relieves them: for then their resistance is gone; and weeping in distress is not so much a sign of sorrow as it is an indication that we can bear our sorrow no longer; and therefore it is counted unmanly to weep, because it seems to give up our strength, and is a kind of yielding to our grief. But the action of weeping itself is not more peculiar to grief than it is to joy in adult people; and there are men who show great fortitude in afflictions, and bear the greatest misfortunes with dry eyes, that will cry heartily at a moving scene in a play. Some are easily wrought upon by one thing, others are sooner affected with another; but whatever touches us so forcibly, as to overwhelm the mind, prompts us to weep, and is the mechanical cause of tears; and therefore, besides grief, joy, and pity, there are other things no way relating to ourselves, that may have this effect upon us; such as the relations of surprising events and sudden turns of Providence in behalf of merit; instances of heroism, of generosity; in love, in friendship in an enemy; or the hearing or reading of noble thoughts and sentiments of humanity; more especially if these things are conveyed to us suddenly, in an agreeable manner, and unlooked for, as well as lively expressions. We shall observe, likewise, that none are more subject to this frailty of shedding tears on such foreign accounts, than persons of ingenuity and quick apprehension; and those among them that are most benevolent, generous, and open-hearted; whereas, the dull and stupid, the cruel, selfish, and designing, are very seldom troubled with it. Weeping, therefore, in earnest, is always a sure and involuntary demonstration that something strikes and overcomes the mind, whatever that be which affects it. We find likewise, that outward violence, as sharp winds and smoke, the effluvia of onions, and other volatile salts, &c. have the same effect upon the external fibres of the lachrymal ducts and glands that are exposed, which the sudden swelling and pressure of the spirits has upon those within. The Divine Wisdom is in nothing more conspicuous than in the infinite variety of living creatures of different construction; every part of them being contrived with stupendous skill, and fitted with the utmost accuracy for the different purposes they were designed for. The human body, above all, is a most astonishing master piece of art: the anatomist may have a perfect knowledge of all the bones and their ligaments, the muscles and their tendons, and be able to dissect every nerve and every membrane with great exactness; the naturalist, likewise, may dive a great way into the inward economy, and different symptoms of health and sickness: they may all approve of, and admire the curious machine; but no man can have a tolerable idea of the contrivance, the art, and the beauty of the workmanship itself, even in those things he can see, without being likewise versed in geometry and mechanics. Hor. How long is it ago that mathematics were brought into physic? that art, I have heard, is brought to great certainty by them. Cleo. What you speak of is quite another thing. Mathematics never had, nor ever can have, any thing to do with physic, if you mean by it the art of curing the sick. The structure and motions of the body, may perhaps be mechanically accounted for, and all fluids are under the laws of hydrostatics; but we can have no help from any part of the mechanics in the discovery of things, infinitely remote from sight, and entirely unknown as to their shapes and bulks. Physicians, with the rest of mankind, are wholly ignorant of the first principles and constituent parts of things, in which all the virtues and properties of them consist; and this, as well of the blood and other juices of the body, as the simples, and consequently all the medicines they make use of. There is no art that has less certainty than theirs, and the most valuable knowledge in it arises from observation, and is such, as a man of parts and application, who has fitted himself for that study, can only be possessed of after a long and judicious experience. But the pretence to mathematics, or the usefulness of it in the cure of diseases, is a cheat, and as arrant a piece of quackery as a stage and a Merry-Andrew. Hor. But since there is so much skill displayed in the bones, muscles, and grosser parts, is it not reasonable to think, that there is no less art bestowed on those that are beyond the reach of our senses? Cleo. I nowise doubt it: Microscopes have opened a new world to us, and I am far from thinking, that nature should leave off her work where we can trace her no further. I am persuaded that our thoughts, and the affections of the mind, have a more certain and more mechanical influence upon several parts of the body than has been hitherto or, in all human probability, ever will be discovered. The visible effect they have on the eyes and muscles of the face, must show the least attentive the reason I have for this assertion. When in mens company we are upon our guard, and would preserve our dignity, the lips are shut and the jaws meet; the muscles of the mouth are gently braced, and the rest all over the face are kept firmly in their places: turn away from these into another room, where you meet with a fine young lady that is affable and easy; immediately, before you think on it, your countenance will be strangely altered; and without being conscious of having done any thing to your face, you will have quite another look; and every body that has observed you, will discover in it more sweetness and less severity than you had the moment before. When we suffer the lower jaw to sink down, the mouth opens a little: if in this posture we look straight before us, without fixing our eyes on any thing, we may imitate the countenance of a natural; by dropping, as it were, our features, and laying no stress on any muscle of the face. Infants, before they have learned to swallow their spittle, generally keep their mouths open, and are always drivelling: in them, before they show any understanding, and whilst it is yet very confused, the muscles of the face are, as it were, relaxed, the lower jaw falls down, and the fibres of the lips are unbraced; at least, these phenomena we observe in them, during that time, more often than we do afterwards. In extreme old age, when people begin to doat, those symptoms return; and in most idiots they continue to be observed, as long as they live: Hence it is that we say, that a man wants a slabbering-bib, when he behaves very sillily or talks like a natural fool. When we reflect on all this, on the one hand, and consider on the other, that none are less prone to anger than idiots, and no creatures are less affected with pride, I would ask, whether there is not some degree of self-liking, that mechanically influences, and seems to assist us in the decent wearing of our faces. Hor. I cannot resolve you; what I know very well is, that by these conjectures on the mechanism of man, I find my understanding very little informed: I wonder how we came upon the subject. Cleo. You inquired into the origin of risibility, which nobody can give an account of, with any certainty; and in such cases every body is at liberty to make guesses, so they draw no conclusions from them to the prejudice of any thing better established. But the chief design I had in giving you these indigested thoughts, was to hint to you, how really mysterious the works of nature are; I mean, how replete they are every where, with a power glaringly conspicuous, and yet incomprehensible beyond all human reach; in order to demonstrate, that more useful knowledge may be acquired from unwearied observation, judicious experience, and arguing from facts à posteriori, than from the haughty attempts of entering into first causes, and reasoning à priori. I do not believe there is a man in the world of that sagacity, if he was wholly unacquainted with the nature of a spring-watch, that he would ever find out by dint of penetration the cause of its motion, if he was never to see the inside: but every middling capacity may be certain, by seeing only the outside, that its pointing at the hour, and keeping to time, proceed from the exactness of some curious workmanship that is hid; and that the motion of the hands, what number of resorts soever it is communicated by, is originally owing to something else that first moves within. In the same manner we are sure, that as the effects of thought upon the body are palpable, several motions are produced by it, by contact, and consequently mechanically: but the parts, the instruments which that operation is performed with, are so immensely far remote from our senses; and the swiftness of the action is so prodigious, that it infinitely surpasses our capacity to trace them. Hor. But is not thinking the business of the soul? What has mechanism to do with that? Cleo. The soul, whilst in the body, cannot be said to think, otherwise than an architect is said to build a house, where the carpenters, bricklayers, &c. do the work, which he chalks out and superintends. Hor. Which part of the brain do you think the soul to be more immediately lodged in; or do you take it to be diffused through the whole? Cleo. I know nothing of it more than what I have told you already. Hor. I plainly feel that this operation of thinking is a labour, or at least something that is transacting in my head, and not in my leg nor my arm: what insight or real knowledge have we from anatomy concerning it? Cleo. None at all à priori: the most consummate anatomist knows no more of it than a butcher's apprentice. We may admire the curious duplicate of coats, and close embroidery of veins and arteries that environ the brain: but when dissecting it we have viewed the several pairs of nerves, with their origin, and taken notice of some glands of various shapes and sizes, which differing from the brain in substance, could not but rush in view; when these, I say, have been taken notice of, and distinguished by different names, some of them not very pertinent, and less polite, the best naturalist must acknowledge, that even of these large visible parts there are but few, the nerves and blood-vessels excepted, at the use of which he can give any tolerable guesses: but as to the mysterious structure of the brain itself, and the more abstruse economy of it, that he knows nothing; but that the whole seems to be a medullary substance, compactly treasured up in infinite millions of imperceptible cells, that, disposed in an unconceivable order, are cluttered together in a perplexing variety of folds and windings. He will add, perhaps, that it is reasonable to think this to be the capacious exchequer of human knowledge, in which the faithful senses deposit the vast treasure of images, constantly, as through their organs they receive them; that it is the office in which the spirits are separated from the blood, and afterwards sublimed and volatilized into particles hardly corporeal; and that the most minute of these are always, either searching for, or variously disposing the images retained, and shooting through the infinite meanders of that wonderful substance, employ themselves, without ceasing, in that inexplicable performance, the contemplation of which fills the most exalted genius with amazement. Hor. These are very airy conjectures; but nothing of all this can be proved: The smallness of the parts, you will say, is the reason; but if greater improvements were made in optic glasses, and microscopes could be invented that magnified objects three or four millions of times more than they do now, then certainly those minute particles, so immensely remote from the senses you speak of, might be observed, if that which does the work is corporeal at all. Cleo. That such improvements are impossible, is demonstrable; but if it was not, even then we could have little help from anatomy. The brain of an animal cannot be looked and searched into whilst it is alive. Should you take the main spring out of a watch, and leave the barrel that contained it standing empty, it would be impossible to find out what it had been that made it exert itself, whilst it showed the time. We might examine all the wheels, and every other part belonging either to the movement or the motion, and, perhaps, find out the use of them, in relation to the turning of the hands; but the first cause of this labour would remain a mystery for ever. Hor. The main spring in us is the soul, which is immaterial and immortal: but what is that to other creatures that have a brain like ours, and no such immortal substance distinct from body? Do not you believe that dogs and horses think? Cleo. I believe they do, though in a degree of perfection far inferior to us. Hor. What is it that superintends thought in them? where must we look for it? which is the main spring? Cleo. I can answer you no otherwise, than life. Hor. What is life? Cleo. Every body understands the meaning of the word, though, perhaps, nobody knows the principle of life, that part which gives motion to all the rest. Hor. Where men are certain that the truth of a thing is not to be known, they will always differ, and endeavour to impose upon one another. Cleo. Whilst there are fools and knaves, they will; but I have not imposed upon you: what I said of the labour of the brain, I told you, was a conjecture, which I recommend no farther to you than you shall think it probable. You ought to expect no demonstration of a thing, that from its nature can admit of none. When the breath is gone, and the circulation ceased, the inside of an animal is vastly different from what it was whilst the lungs played, and the blood and juices were in full motion through every part of it. You have seen those engines that raise water by the help of fire; the steam you know, is that which forces it up; it is as impossible to see the volatile particles that perform the labour of the brain, when the creature is dead, as in the engine it would be to see the steam (which yet does all the work), when the fire is out and the water cold. Yet if this engine was shown to a man when it was not at work, and it was explained to him, which way it raised the water, it would be a strange incredulity, or great dullness of apprehension, not to believe it; if he knew perfectly well, that by heat, liquids may be rarified into vapour. Hor. But do not you think there is a difference in souls; and are they all equally good or equally bad? Cleo. We have some tolerable ideas of matter and motion; or, at least, of what we mean by them, and therefore we may form ideas of things corporeal, though they are beyond the reach of our senses; and we can conceive any portion of matter a thousand times less than our eyes, even by the help of the best microscopes, are able to see it: but the soul is altogether incomprehensible, and we can determine but little about it, that is not revealed to us. I believe that the difference of capacities in men, depends upon, and is entirely owing to the difference there is between them, either in the fabric itself, that is, the greater or lesser exactness in the composure of their frame, or else in the use that is made of it. The brain of a child, newly born, is carte blanche; and, as you have hinted very justly, we have no ideas, which we are not obliged for to our senses. I make no question, but that in this rummaging of the spirits through the brain, in hunting after, joining, separating, changing, and compounding of ideas with inconceivable swiftness, under the superintendency of the soul, the action of thinking consists. The best thing, therefore, we can do to infants after the first month, besides feeding and keeping them from harm, is to make them take in ideas, beginning by the two most useful senses, the sight and hearing; and dispose them to set about this labour of the brain, and by our example encourage them to imitate us in thinking; which, on their side, is very poorly performed at first. Therefore the more an infant in health is talked to and jumbled about, the better it is for it, at least, for the first two years; and for its attendance in this early education, to the wisest matron in the world, I would prefer an active young wench, whose tongue never stands still, that should run about, and never cease diverting and playing with it whilst it was awake; and where people can afford it, two or three of them, to relieve one another when they are tired, are better than one. Hor. Then you think children reap great benefit from the nonsensical chat of nurses? Cleo. It is of inestimable use to them, and teaches them to think, as well as speak, much sooner and better, than with equal aptitude of parts they would do without. The business is to make them exert those faculties, and keep infants continually employed about them; for the time which is lost then, is never to be retrieved. Hor. Yet we seldom remember any thing of what we saw or heard, before we were two years old: then what would be lost, if children should not hear all that impertinence? Cleo. As iron is to be hammered whilst it is hot and ductile, so children are to be taught when they are young: as the flesh and every tube and membrane about them, are then tenderer, and will yield sooner to slight impressions, than afterwards; so many of their bones are but cartilages, and the brain itself is much softer, and in a manner fluid. This is the reason, that it cannot so well retain the images it receives, as it does afterwards, when the substance of it comes to be of a better consistence. But as the first images are lost, so they are continually succeeded by new ones; and the brain at first serves as a slate to cypher, or a sampler to work upon. What infants should chiefly learn, is the performance itself, the exercise of thinking, and to contract a habit of disposing, and with ease and agility managing the images retained, to the purpose intended; which is never attained better than whilst the matter is yielding, and the organs are most flexible and supple. So they but exercise themselves in thinking and speaking, it is no matter what they think on, or what they say, that is inoffensive. In sprightly infants, we soon see by their eyes the efforts they are making to imitate us, before they are able; and that they try at this exercise of the brain, and make essays to think, as well as they do to hammer out words, we may know from the incoherence of their actions, and the strange absurdities they utter: but as there are more degrees of thinking well, than there are of speaking plain, the first is of the greatest consequence. Hor. I wonder you should talk of teaching, and lay so great a stress on a thing that comes so naturally to us, as thinking: no action is performed with greater velocity by every body: as quick as thought, is a proverb, and in less than a moment a stupid peasant may remove his ideas from London to Japan, as easily as the greatest wit. Cleo. Yet there is nothing, in which men differ so immensely from one another, as they do in the exercise of this faculty: the differences between them in height, bulk, strength, and beauty, are trifling in comparison to that which I speak of; and there is nothing in the world more valuable, or more plainly perceptible in persons, than a happy dexterity of thinking. Two men may have equal knowledge, and yet the one shall speak as well off-hand, as the other can after two hours study. Hor. I take it for granted, that no man would study two hours for a speech, if he knew how to make it in less; and therefore I cannot see what reason you have to suppose two such persons to be of equal knowledge. Cleo. There is a double meaning in the word knowing, which you seem not to attend to. There is a great difference between knowing a violin when you see it, and knowing how to play upon it. The knowledge I speak of is of the first sort; and if you consider it in that sense, you must be of my opinion; for no study can fetch any thing out of the brain that is not there. Suppose you conceive a short epistle in three minutes, which another, who can make letters and join them together as fast as yourself, is yet an hour about, though both of you write the same thing, it is plain to me, that the slow person knows as much as you do; at least it does not appear that he knows less. He has received the same images, but he cannot come at them, or at least not dispose them in that order, so soon as yourself. When we see two exercises of equal goodness, either in prose or verse, if the one is made ex tempore, and we are sure of it, and the other has cost two days labour, the author of the first is a person of finer natural parts than the other, though their knowledge, for ought we know, is the same. You see, then, the difference between knowledge, as it signifies the treasure of images received, and knowledge, or rather skill, to find out those images when we want them, and work them readily to our purpose. Hor. When we know a thing, and cannot readily think of it, or bring it to mind, I thought that was the fault of the memory. Cleo. So it may be in part: but there are men of prodigious reading, that have likewise great memories, who judge ill, and seldom say any thing a propos, or say it when it is too late. Among the belluones librorum, the cormorants of books, there are wretched reasoners, that have canine appetites, and no digestion. What numbers of learned fools do we not meet with in large libraries; from whose works it is evident, that knowledge must have lain in their heads, as furniture at an upholder's; and the treasure of the brain was a burden to them instead of an ornament! All this proceeds from a defect in the faculty of thinking; an unskilfulness, and want of aptitude in managing, to the best advantage, the ideas we have received. We see others, on the contrary, that have very fine sense, and no literature at all. The generality of women are quicker of invention, and more ready at repartee, than the men, with equal helps of education; and it is surprising to see, what a considerable figure some of them make in conversation, when we consider the small opportunities they have had of acquiring knowledge. Hor. But sound judgment is a great rarity among them. Cleo. Only for want of practice, application, and assiduity. Thinking on abstruse matters, is not their province in life; and as the stations they are commonly placed in find them other employment; but there is no labour of the brain which women are not as capable of performing, at least as well as the men, with the same assistance, if they set about, and persevere in it: sound judgment is no more than the result of that labour: he that uses himself to take things to pieces, to compare them together, to consider them abstractly and impartially; that is, he who of two propositions he is to examine seems not to care which is true; he that lays the whole stress of his mind on every part alike, and puts the same thing in all the views it can be seen in: he, I say, that employs himself most often in this exercise, is most likely cæteris paribus to acquire what we call a sound judgment. The workmanship in the make of women seems to be more elegant, and better finished: the features are more delicate, the voice is sweeter, the whole outside of them is more curiously wove, than they are in men; and the difference in the skin between theirs and ours is the same, as there is between fine cloth and coarse. There is no reason to imagine, that nature should have been more neglectful of them out of sight, than she has where we can trace her; and not have taken the same care of them in the formation, of the brain, as to the nicety of the structure, and superior accuracy in the fabric, which is so visible in the rest of their frame. Hor. Beauty is their attribute, as strength is ours. Cleo. How minute soever those particles of the brain are, that contain the several images, and are assisting in the operation of thinking, there must be a difference in the justness, the symmetry, and exactness of them between one person and another, as well as there is in the grosser parts: what the women excel us in, then, is the goodness of the instrument, either in the harmony or pliableness of the organs, which must be very material in the art of thinking, and is the only thing that deserves the name of natural parts, since the aptitude I have spoke of, depending upon exercise, is notoriously acquired. Hor. As the workmanship in the brain is rather more curious in women than it is in men, so, in sheep and oxen, dogs and horses, I suppose it is infinitely coarser. Cleo. We have no reason to think otherwise, Hor. But after all, that self, that part of us that wills and wishes, that chooses one thing rather than another, must be incorporeal: For if it is matter, it must either be one single particle, which I can almost feel it is not, or a combination of many, which is more than inconceivable. Cleo. I do not deny what you say; and that the principle of thought and action is inexplicable in all creatures I have hinted already: But its being incorporeal does not mend the matter, as to the difficulty of explaining or conceiving it. That there must be a mutual contact between this principle, whatever it is, and the body itself, is what we are certain of à posteriori; and a reciprocal action upon each other, between an immaterial substance and matter, is as incomprehensible to human capacity, as that thought should be the result of matter and motion. Hor. Though many other animals seem to be endued with thought, there is no creature we are acquainted with, besides man, that shows or seems to feel a consciousness of his thinking. Cleo. It is not easy to determine what instincts, properties, or capacities other creatures are either possessed or destitute of, when those qualifications fall not under our senses: But it is highly probable, that the principal and most necessary parts of the machine are less elaborate in animals, that attain to all the perfection they are capable of in three, four, five, or six years at furthest, than they are in a creature that hardly comes to maturity, its full growth and strength in five and twenty. The consciousness of a man of fifty, that he is the same man that did such a thing at twenty, and was once the boy that had such and such masters, depends wholly upon the memory, and can never be traced to the bottom: I mean, that no man remembers any thing of himself, or what was transacted before he was two years old, when he was but a novice in the art of thinking, and the brain was not yet of a due consistence to retain long the images it received: But this remembrance, how far soever it may reach, gives us no greater surety of ourselves, than we should have of another that had been brought up with us, and never above a week or a month out of sight. A mother, when her son is thirty years old, has more reason to know that he is the same whom she brought into the world than himself; and such a one, who daily minds her son, and remembers the alterations of his features from time to time, is more certain of him that he was not changed in the cradle, than she can be of herself. So that all we can know of this consciousness, is, that it consists in, or is the result of the running and rummaging of the spirits through all the mazes of the brain, and their looking there for facts concerning ourselves: He that has lost his memory, though otherwise in perfect health, cannot think better than a fool, and is no more conscious that he is the same he was a-year ago, than he is of a man whom he has known but a fortnight. There are several degrees of losing our memory; but he who has entirely lost it becomes, ipso facto, an idiot. Hor. I am conscious of having been the occasion of our rambling a great way from the subject we were upon, but I do not repent of it: What you have said of the economy of the brain, and the mechanical influence of thought upon the grosser parts, is a noble theme for contemplation on the infinite unutterable wisdom with which the various instincts are so visibly planted in all animals, to fit them for the respective purposes they were designed for; and every appetite is so wonderfully interwove with the very substance of their frame. Nothing could be more seasonable, after you had showed me the origin of politeness, and in the management of self-liking, set forth the excellency of our species beyond all other animals so conspicuously in the superlative docility and indefatigable industry, by which all multitudes are capable of drawing innumerable benefits, as well for the ease and comfort, as the welfare and safety of congregate bodies, from a most stubborn and an unconquerable passion, which, in its nature, seems to be destructive to sociableness and society, and never fails, in untaught men, to render them insufferable to one another. Cleo. By the same method of reasoning from facts à posteriori, that has laid open to us the nature and usefulness of self-liking, all the rest of the passions may easily be accounted for, and become intelligible. It is evident, that the necessaries of life stand not every where ready dished up before all creatures; therefore they have instincts that prompt them to look out for those necessaries, and teach them how to come at them. The zeal and alacrity to gratify their appetites, is always proportioned to the strength, and the degree of force with which those instincts work upon every creature: But, considering the disposition of things upon earth, and the multiplicity of animals that have all their own wants to supply, it must be obvious, that these attempts of creatures, to obey the different calls of nature, will be often opposed and frustrated, and that, in many animals, they would seldom meet with success, if every individual was not endued with a passion, that, summoning all his strength, inspired him with a transporting eagerness to overcome the obstacles that hinder him in his great work of self-preservation. The passion I describe is called anger. How a creature possessed of this passion and self-liking, when he sees others enjoy what he wants, should be affected with envy, can likewise be no mystery. After labour, the most savage, and the most industrious creature seeks rest: Hence we learn, that all of them are furnished, more or less, with a love of ease: Exerting their strength tires them; and the loss of spirits, experience teaches us, is best repaired by food and sleep. We see that creatures, who, in their way of living, must meet with the greatest opposition, have the greatest share of anger, and are born with offensive arms. If this anger was to employ a creature always, without consideration of the danger he exposed himself to, he would soon be destroyed: For this reason, they are all endued with fear; and the lion himself turns tail, if the hunters are armed, and too numerous. From what we observe in the behaviour of brutes, we have reason to think, that among the more perfect animals, those of the same species have a capacity, on many occasions, to make their wants known to one another; and we are sure of several, not only that they understand one another, but likewise that they may be made to understand us. In comparing our species with that of other animals, when we consider the make of man, and the qualifications that are obvious in him, his superior capacity in the faculties of thinking and reflecting beyond other creatures, his being capable of learning to speak, and the usefulness of his hands and fingers, there is no room to doubt, that he is more fit for society than any other animal we know. Hor. Since you wholly reject my Lord Shaftsbury's system, I wish you would give me your opinion at large concerning society, and the sociableness of man; and I will hearken to you with great attention. Cleo. The cause of sociableness in man, that is, his fitness for society, is no such abstruse matter: A person of middling capacity, that has some experience, and a tolerable knowledge of human nature, may soon find it out, if his desire of knowing the truth be sincere, and he will look for it without prepossession; but most people that have treated on this subject, had a turn to serve, and a cause in view, which they were resolved to maintain. It is very unworthy of a philosopher to say, as Hobbes did, that man is born unfit for society, and allege no better reason for it, than the incapacity that infants come into the world with; but some of his adversaries have as far overshot the mark, when they asserted, that every thing which man can attain to, ought to be esteemed as a cause of his fitness for society. Hor. But is there in the mind of man a natural affection, that prompts him to love his species beyond what other animals have for theirs; or, are we born with hatred and aversion, that makes us wolves and bears to one another? Cleo. I believe neither. From what appears to us in human affairs, and the works of nature, we have more reason to imagine, that the desire, as well as aptness of man to associate, do not proceed from his love to others, than we have to believe that a mutual affection of the planets to one another, superior to what they feel to stars more remote, is not the true cause why they keep always moving together in the same solar system. Hor. You do not believe that the stars have any love for one another, I am sure: Then why more reason? Cleo. Because there are no phenomena plainly to contradict this love of the planets; and we meet with thousands every day to convince us, that man centres every thing in himself, and neither loves nor hates, but for his own sake. Every individual is a little world by itself, and all creatures, as far as their understanding and abilities will let them, endeavour to make that self happy: This, in all of them, is the continual labour, and seems to be the whole design of life. Hence it follows, that in the choice of things, men must be determined by the perception they have of happiness; and no person can commit, or set about an action, which, at that then present time, seems not to be the best to him. Hor. What will you then say to, video meliora proboque, deteriora sequor? Cleo. That only shows the turpitude of our inclinations. But men may say what they please: Every motion in a free agent, which he does not approve of, is either convulsive, or it is not his; I speak of those that are subject to the will. When two things are left to a person's choice, it is a demonstration that he thinks that most eligible which he chooses, how contradictory, impertinent, or pernicious soever his reason for choosing it may be: Without this, there could be no voluntary suicide; and it would be injustice to punish men for their crimes. Hor. I believe every body endeavours to be pleased; but it is inconceivable that creatures of the same species should differ so much from one another, as men do in their notions of pleasure; and that some of them should take delight in what is the greatest aversion to others: All aim at happiness; but the question is, Where is it to be found? Cleo. It is with complete felicity in this world, as it is with the philosopher's stone: Both have been sought after many different ways, by wise men as well as fools, though neither of them has been obtained hitherto: But in searching after either, diligent inquirers have often stumbled by chance on useful discoveries of things they did not look for, and which human sagacity, labouring with design à priori, never would have detected. Multitudes of our species may, in any habitable part of the globe, assist one another in a common defence, and be raised into a politic body, in which men shall live comfortably together for many centuries, without being acquainted with a thousand things, that if known, would every one of them be instrumental to render the happiness of the public more complete, according to the common notions men have of happiness. In one part of the world, we have found great and flourishing nations that knew nothing of ships; and in others, traffic by sea had been in use above two thousand years, and navigation had received innumerable improvements, before they knew how to sail by the help of the loadstone: It would be ridiculous to allege this piece of knowledge, either as a reason why man first chose to go to sea, or as an argument to prove his natural capacity for maritime affairs. To raise a garden, it is necessary that we should have a soil and a climate fit for that purpose. When we have these, we want nothing besides patience, but the seeds of vegetables and proper culture. Fine walks and canals, statues, summer-houses, fountains, and cascades, are great improvements on the delights of nature; but they are not essential to the existence of a garden. All nations must have had mean beginnings; and it is in those, the infancy of them, that the sociableness of man is as conspicuous as it can be ever after. Man is called a sociable creature chiefly for two reasons: First, because it is commonly imagined that he is naturally more fond and desirous of society, than any other creature. Secondly, because it is manifest, that associating in men turns to better account than it possibly could do in other animals, if they were to attempt it. Hor. But why do you say of the first, that it is commonly imagined; is it not true then? Cleo. I have a very good reason for this caution. All men born in society, are certainly more desirous of it than any other animal; but whether man be naturally so, that is a question: But, if he was, it is no excellency, nothing to brag of: The love man has for his ease and security, and his perpetual desire of meliorating his condition, must be sufficient motives to make him fond of society, concerning the necessitous and helpless condition of his nature. Hor. Do not you fall into the same error, which, you say, Hobbes has been guilty of, when you talk of man's necessitous and helpless condition? Cleo. Not at all; I speak of men and women full grown; and the more extensive their knowledge is, the higher their quality, and the greater their possessions are, the more necessitous and helpless they are in their nature. A nobleman of twenty-five or thirty thousand pounds a-year, that has three or four coaches and six, and above fifty people to serve him, is in his person considered singly, abstract from what he possesses, more necessitous than an obscure man that has but fifty pounds a-year, and is used to walk a-foot; so a lady, who never stuck a pin in herself, and is dressed and undressed from head to foot like a jointed baby by her woman, and the assistance of another maid or two, is a more helpless creature than doll the diary-maid, who, all the winter long, dresses herself in the dark in less time than the other bestows in placing of her patches. Hor. But is the desire of meliorating our condition which you named, so general, that no man is without it? Cleo. Not one that can be called a sociable creature; and I believe this to be as much a characteristic of our species as any can be named: For there is not a man in the world, educated in society, who, if he could compass it by wishing, would not have something added to, taken from, or altered in his person, possessions, circumstances, or any part of the society he belongs to. This is what is not to be perceived in any creature but man; whose great industry in supplying what he calls his wants, could never have been known so well as it is, if it had not been for the unreasonableness, as well as multiplicity of his desires. From all which, it is manifest, that the most civilized people stand most in need of society, and consequently, none less than savages. The second reason for which I said man was called sociable, is, that associating together turned to better account in our species than it would do in any other, if they were to try it. To find out the reason of this, we must search into human nature for such qualifications as we excel all other animals in, and which the generality of men are endued with, taught or untaught: But in doing this, we should neglect nothing that is observable in them, from their most early youth to their extreme old age. Hor. I cannot see why you use this precaution, of taking in the whole age of man; would it not be sufficient to mind those qualifications which he is possessed of, when he is come to the height of maturity, or his greatest perfection? Cleo. A considerable part of what is called docility in creatures, depends upon the pliableness of the parts, and their fitness to be moved with facility, which are either entirely lost, or very much impaired, when they are full grown. There is nothing in which our species so far surpasses all others, than in the capacity of acquiring the faculty of thinking and speaking well: that this is a peculiar property belonging to our nature is very certain, yet it is as manifest, that this capacity vanishes, when we come to maturity, if till then it has been neglected. The term of life likewise, that is commonly enjoyed by our species, being longer than it is in most other animals, we have a prerogative above them in point of time; and man has a greater opportunity of advancing in wisdom, though not to be acquired but by his own experience, than a creature that lives but half his age, though it had the same capacity. A man of threescore, cæteris paribus, knows better what is to be embraced or avoided in life, than a man of thirty. What Mitio, in excusing the follies of youth, said to his brother Demea, in the Adelphi, ad omnia alia �tate sapimus rectius, holds among savages, as well as among philosophers. It is the concurrence of these, with other properties, that together compose the sociableness of man. Hor. But why may not the love of our species be named, as one of these properties? Cleo. First, because, as I have said already, it does not appear, that we have it beyond other animals: secondly, because it is out of the question: for if we examine into the nature of all bodies politic, we shall find, that no dependance is ever had, or stress laid on any such affection, either for the raising or maintaining of them. Hor. But the epithet itself, the signification of the word, imports this love to one another; as is manifest from the contrary. One who loves solitude, is averse to company, or of a singular, reserved, and sullen temper, is the very reverse of a sociable man. Cleo. When we compare some men to others, the word, I own, is often used in that sense: but when we speak of a quality peculiar to our species, and say, that man is a sociable creature, the word implies no more, than that in our nature we have a certain fitness, by which great multitudes of us cooperating, may be united and formed into one body; that endued with, and, able to make use of, the strength, skill and prudence of every individual, shall govern itself, and act on all emergencies, as if it was animated by one soul, and actuated by one will. I am willing to allow, that among the motives that prompt man to enter into society, there is a desire which he has naturally after company; but he has it for his own sake, in hopes of being the better for it; and he would never wish for either company or any thing else, but for some advantage or other he proposes to himself from it. What I deny is, that man naturally has such a desire, out of a fondness of his species, superior to what other animals have for theirs. It is a compliment which we commonly pay to ourselves, but there is no more reality in it, than in our being one another's humble servants; and I insist upon it, that this pretended love of our species, and natural affection we are said to have for one another, beyond other animals, is neither instrumental to the erecting of societies, nor ever trusted to in our prudent commerce with one another when associated, any more than if it had no existence. The undoubted basis of all societies is government: this truth, well examined into, will furnish us with all the reasons of man's excellency as to sociableness. It is evident from it, that creatures, to be raised into a community, must, in the first place, be governable: This is a qualification that requires fear, and some degree of understanding; for a creature not susceptible of fear, is never to be governed; and the more sense and courage it has, the more refractory and untractable it will be, without the influence of that useful passion: and again, fear without understanding puts creatures only upon avoiding the danger dreaded, without considering what will become of themselves afterwards: so wild birds will beat out their brains against the cage, before they will save their lives by eating. There is a great difference between being submissive, and being governable; for he who barely submits to another, only embraces what he dislikes, to shun what he dislikes more; and we may be very submissive, and be of no use to the person we submit to: but to be governable, implies an endeavour to please, and a willingness to exert ourselves in behalf of the person that governs: but love beginning every where at home, no creature can labour for others, and be easy long, whilst self is wholly out of the question: therefore a creature is then truly governable, when reconciled to submission, it has learned to construe his servitude to his own advantage; and rests satisfied with the account it finds for itself, in the labour it performs for others. Several kind of animals are, or may, with little trouble, be made thus governable; but there is not one creature so tame, that it can be made to serve its own species, but man; yet without this he could never have been made sociable. Hor. But was not man by nature designed for society? Cleo. We know from revelation that man was made for society. Hor. But if it had not been revealed, or you had been a Chinese, or a Mexican, what would you answer me as a philosopher? Cleo. That nature had designed man for society, as she has made grapes for wine. Hor. To make wine is an invention of man, as it is to press oil from olives and other vegetables, and to make ropes of hemp. Cleo. And so it is to form a society of independent multitudes; and there is nothing that requires greater skill. Hor. But is not the sociableness of man the work of nature, or rather of the author of nature, Divine Providence? Cleo. Without doubt: But so is the innate virtue and peculiar aptitude of every thing; that grapes are fit to make wine, and barley and water to make other liquors, is the work of Providence; but it is human sagacity that finds out the uses we make of them: all the other capacities of man likewise, as well as his sociableness, are evidently derived from God, who made him: every thing therefore that our industry can produce or compass, is originally owing to the Author of our being. But when we speak of the works of nature, to distinguish them from those of art, we mean such as were brought forth without our concurrence. So nature, in due season produces peas; but in England you cannot have them green in January, without art and uncommon industry. What nature designs, she executes herself: there are creatures, of whom it is visible, that nature has designed them for society, as is most obvious in bees, to whom she has given instincts for that purpose, as appears from the effects. We owe our being and every thing else to the great Author of the universe; but as societies cannot subsist without his preserving power, so they cannot exist without the concurrence of human wisdom: all of them must have a dependance either on mutual compact, or the force of the strong exerting itself upon the patience of the weak. The difference between the works of art, and those of nature, is so immense, that it is impossible not to know them asunder. Knowing, à priori, belongs to God only, and Divine Wisdom acts with an original certainty, of which, what we call demonstration, is but an imperfect borrowed copy. Amongst the works of nature, therefore, we see no trials nor essays; they are all complete, and such as she would have them, at the first production; and, where she has not been interrupted, highly finished, beyond the reach of our understanding, as well as senses. Wretched man, on the contrary is sure of nothing, his own existence not excepted, but from reasoning, à posteriori. The consequence of this is, that the works of art and human invention are all very lame and defective, and most of them pitifully mean at first: our knowledge is advanced by slow degrees, and some arts and sciences require the experience of many ages, before they can be brought to any tolerable perfection. Have we any reason to imagine that the society of bees, that sent forth the first swarm, made worse wax or honey than any of their posterity have produced since? And again the laws of nature are fixed and unalterable: in all her orders and regulations there is a stability, no where to be met with in things of human contrivance and approbation; Quid placet aut odio est, quod non mutabile credas? Is it probable, that amongst the bees, there has ever been any other form of government than what every swarm submits to now? What an infinite variety of speculations, what ridiculous schemes have not been proposed amongst men, on the subject of government; what dissentions in opinion, and what fatal quarrels has it not been the occasion of! and which is the best form of it, is a question to this day undecided. The projects, good and bad, that have been stated for the benefit, and more happy establishment of society, are innumerable; but how short sighted is our sagacity, how fallible human judgment! What has seemed highly advantageous to mankind in one age, has often been found to be evidently detrimental by the succeeding; and even among contemporaries, what is revered in one country, is the abomination of another. What changes have ever bees made in their furniture or architecture? have they ever made cells that were not sexangular, or added any tools to those which nature furnished them with at the beginning? What mighty structures have been raised, what prodigious works have been performed by the great nations of the world! Toward all these nature has only found materials: the quarry yields marble, but it is the sculptor that makes a statue of it. To have the infinite variety of iron tools that have been invented, nature has given us nothing but the oar, which she has hid in the bowels of the earth. Hor. But the capacity of the workmen, the inventors of arts, and those that improved them, has had a great share in bringing those labours to perfection; and their genius they had from nature. Cleo. So far as it depended upon the make of their frame, the accuracy of the machine they had, and no further; but this I have allowed already; and if you remember what I have said on this head, you will find, that the part which nature contributed toward the skill and patience of every single person, that had a hand in those works, was very inconsiderable. Hor. If I have not misunderstood you, you would insinuate two things: First, that the fitness of man for society, beyond other animals, is something real; but that it is hardly perceptible in individuals, before great numbers of them are joined together, and artfully managed. Secondly, that this real something, this sociableness, is a compound that consists in a concurrence of several things, and not in any one palpable quality, that man is endued with, and brutes are destitute of. Cleo. You are perfectly right: every grape contains a small quantity of juice, and when great heaps of them are squeezed together, they yield a liquor, which by skilful management may be made into wine: but if we consider how necessary fermentation is to the vinosity of the liquor, I mean, how essential is it to its being wine, it will be evident to us, that without great impropriety of speech, it cannot be said, that in every grape there is wine. Hor. Vinosity, so far as it is the effect of fermentation, is adventitious; and what none of the grapes could ever have received whilst they remained single; and, therefore, if you would compare the sociableness of man to the vinosity of wine, you must show me, that in society there is an equivalent for fermentation; I mean something that individual persons are not actually possessed of, whilst they remain single, and which likewise is palpably adventitious to multitudes when joined together; in the same manner as fermentation is to the juice of grapes, and as necessary and essential to the completing of society as that is, that same fermentation, to procure the vinosity of wine. Cleo. Such an equivalent is demonstrable in mutual commerce: for if we examine every faculty and qualification, from and for which we judge and pronounce man to be a sociable creature beyond other animals, we shall find, that a very considerable, if not the greatest part of the attribute is acquired, and comes upon multitudes, from their conversing with one another. Fabricando fabri simus. Men become sociable, by living together in society. Natural affection prompts all mothers to take care of the offspring they dare own; so far as to feed and keep them from harm, whilst they are helpless: but where people are poor, and the women have no leisure to indulge themselves in the various expressions of their fondness for their infants, which fondling of them ever increases, they are often very remiss in tending and playing with them; and the more healthy and quiet such children are, the more they are neglected. This want of prattling to, and stirring up the spirits in babes, is often the principal cause of an invincible stupidity, as well as ignorance, when they are grown up; and we often ascribe to natural incapacity, what is altogether owing to the neglect of this early instruction. We have so few examples of human creatures, that never conversed with their own species, that it is hard to guess, what man would be, entirely untaught; but we have good reason to believe, that the faculty of thinking would be very imperfect in such a one, if we consider, that the greatest docility can be of no use to a creature, whilst it has nothing to imitate, nor any body to teach it. Hor. Philosophers therefore are very wisely employed, when they discourse about the laws of nature; and pretend to determine what a man in the state of nature would think, and which way he would reason concerning himself and the creation, uninstructed. Cleo. Thinking, and reasoning justly, as Mr. Locke has rightly observed, require time and practice. Those that have not used themselves to thinking, but just on their present necessities, make poor work of it, when they try beyond that. In remote parts, and such as are least inhabited, we shall find our species come nearer the state of nature, than it does in and near great cities and considerable towns, even in the most civilized nations. Among the most ignorant of such people, you may learn the truth of my assertion; talk to them about any thing, that requires abstract thinking, and there is not one in fifty that will understand you, any more than a horse would; and yet many of them are useful labourers, and cunning enough to tell lies and deceive. Man is a rational creature, but he is not endued with reason when he comes into the world; nor can he afterwards put it on when he pleases, at once, as he may a garment. Speech likewise is a characteristic of our species, but no man is born with it; and a dozen generations proceeding from two savages would not produce any tolerable language; nor have we reason to believe, that a man could be taught to speak after five-and-twenty, if he had never heard others before that time. Hor. The necessity of teaching, whilst the organs are supple, and easily yield to impression, which you have spoke of before, I believe is of great weight, both in speaking and thinking; but could a dog, or a monkey, ever be taught to speak? Cleo. I believe not; but I do not think, that creatures of another species had ever the pains bestowed upon them, that some children have, before they can pronounce one word. Another thing to be considered is, that though some animals perhaps live longer than we do, there is no species that remains young so long as ours; and besides what we owe to the superior aptitude to learn, which we have from the great accuracy of our frame and inward structure, we are not a little indebted for our docility, to the slowness and long gradation of our increase, before we are full grown: the organs in other creatures grow stiff, before ours are come to half their perfection. Hor. So that in the compliment we make to our species, of its being endued with speech and sociableness, there is no other reality, than that by care and industry men may be taught to speak, and be made sociable, if the discipline begins when they are very young. Cleo. Not otherwise. A thousand of our species all grown up, that is above five-and-twenty, could never be made sociable, if they had been brought up wild, and were all strangers to one another. Hor. I believe they could not be civilized, if their education began so late. Cleo. But I mean barely sociable, as it is the epithet peculiar to man; that is, it would be impossible by art to govern them, any more than so many wild horses, unless you had two or three times that number to watch and keep them in awe. Therefore it is highly probable, that most societies, and beginnings of nations, were formed in the manner Sir William Temple supposes it; but nothing near so fast: and I wonder how a man of his unquestionable good sense, could form an idea of justice, prudence, and wisdom, in an untaught creature; or think of a civilized man, before there was any civil society, and even before men had commenced to associate. Hor. I have read it, I am sure, but I do not remember what it is you mean. Cleo. He is just behind you; the third shelf from the bottom; the first volume: pray reach it me, it is worth your hearing.----It is in his Essay on Government. Here it is. "For if we consider man multiplying his kind by the birth of many children, and his cares by providing even necessary food for them, until they are able to do it for themselves (which happens much later to the generations of men, and makes a much longer dependence of children upon parents, than we can observe among any other creatures); if we consider not only the cares, but the industry he is forced to, for the necessary sustenance of his helpless brood, either in gathering the natural fruits, or raising those which are purchased with labour and toil: if he be forced for supply of this stock, to catch the tamer creatures, and hunt the wilder, sometimes to exercise his courage in defending his little family, and fighting with the strong and savage beasts (that would prey upon him, as he does upon the weak and mild): if we suppose him disposing with discretion and order, whatever he gets among his children, according to each of their hunger or need; sometimes laying up for to-morrow, what was more than enough for to-day; at other times pinching himself, rather than suffering any of them should want.----" Hor. This man is no savage, or untaught creature; he is fit to be a justice of peace. Cleo. Pray let me go on, I shall only read this paragraph: "And as each of them grows up, and able to share in the common support, teaching them, both by lesson and example, what he is now to do, as the son of his family, and what hereafter, as the father of another; instructing them all, what qualities are good, and what are ill, for their health and life, or common society (which will certainly comprehend whatever is generally esteemed virtue or vice among men), cherishing and encouraging dispositions to the good, disfavouring and punishing those to the ill: And lastly, among the various accidents of life, lifting up his eyes to Heaven, when the earth affords him no relief; and having recourse to a higher and a greater nature, whenever he finds the frailty of his own: we must needs conclude, that the children of this man cannot fail of being bred up with a great opinion of his wisdom, his goodness, his valour, and his piety. And if they see constant plenty in the family, they believe well of his fortune too." Hor. Did this man spring out of the earth, I wonder, or did he drop from the sky? Cleo. There is no manner of absurdity in supposing----. Hor. The discussion of this would too far engage us: I am sure, I have tired you already with my impertinence. Cleo. You have pleased me extremely: the questions you have asked have all been very pertinent, and such as every man of sense would make, that had not made it his business to think on these things. I read that passage on purpose to you, to make some use of it; but if you are weary of the subject, I will not trespass upon your patience any longer. Hor. You mistake me; I begin to be fond of the subject: but before we talk of it any further, I have a mind to run over that Essay again; it is a great while since I read it: and after that I shall be glad to resume the discourse; the sooner the better. I know you are a lover of fine fruit, if you will dine with me to-morrow, I will give you an ananas. Cleo. I love your company so well, that I can refuse no opportunity of enjoying it. Hor. A revoir then. Cleo. Your servant. THE FIFTH DIALOGUE BETWEEN HORATIO AND CLEOMENES. CLEOMENES. It excels every thing; it is extremely rich without being luscious, and I know nothing to which I can compare the taste of it: to me it seems to be a collection of different fine flavours, that puts me in mind of several delicious fruits, which yet are all outdone by it. Hor. I am glad it pleased you. Cleo. The scent of it likewise is wonderfully reviving. As you was paring it, a fragrancy, I thought, perfumed the room that was perfectly cordial. Hor. The inside of the rhind has an oiliness of no disagreeable smell, that upon handling of it sticks to ones fingers for a considerable time; for though now I have washed and wiped my hands, the flavour of it will not be entirely gone from them by to-morrow morning. Cleo. This was the third I ever tasted of our own growth; the production of them in these northern climates, is no small instance of human industry, and our improvements in gardening. It is very elegant to enjoy the wholesome air of temperate regions, and at the same time be able to raise fruit to its highest maturity, that naturally requires the sun of the Torrid Zone. Hor. It is easy enough to procure heat, but the great art consists in finding out, and regulating the degrees of it at pleasure; without which it would be impossible to ripen an ananas here, and to compass this with that exactness, as it is done by the help of thermometers, was certainly a fine invention. Cleo. I do not care to drink any more. Hor. Just as you please; otherwise I was going to name a health, which would not have come mal à propos. Cleo. Whose is that, pray? Hor. I was thinking on the man to whom we are in a great measure obliged for the production and culture of the exotic, we were speaking of, in this kingdom; Sir Matthew Decker, the first ananas or pine-apple, that was brought to perfection in England, grew in his garden at Richmond. Cleo. With all my heart; let us finish with that; he is a beneficent, and, I believe, a very honest man. Hor. It would not be easy to name another, who, with the same knowledge of the world, and capacity of getting money, is equally disinterested and inoffensive. Cleo. Have you considered the things we discoursed of yesterday? Hor. I have thought on nothing else since I saw you: This morning I went through the whole Essay, and with more attention than I did formerly: I like it very well; only that passage which you read yesterday, and some others to the same purpose, I cannot reconcile with the account we have of man's origin from the Bible: Since all are descendants from Adam, and consequently of Noah and his posterity, how came savages into the world? Cleo. The history of the world, as to very ancient times, is very imperfect: What devastations have been made by war, by pestilence, and by famine; what distress some men have been drove to, and how strangely our race has been dispersed and scattered over the earth since the flood, we do not know. Hor. But persons that are well instructed themselves, never fail of teaching their children; and we have no reason to think, that knowing, civilized men, as the sons of Noah were, should have neglected their offspring; but it is altogether incredible, as all are descendants from them, that succeeding generations, instead of increasing in experience and wisdom, should learn backward, and still more and more abandon their broods in such a manner, as to degenerate at last to what you call the state of nature. Cleo. Whether you intend this as a sarcasm or not, I do not know; but you have raised no difficulty that can render the truth of the sacred history suspected. Holy writ has acquainted us with the miraculous origin of our species, and the small remainder of it after the deluge: But it is far from informing us of all the revolutions that have happened among mankind since: The Old Testament hardly touches upon any particulars that had no relation to the Jews; neither does Moses pretend to give a full account of every thing that happened to, or was transacted by our first parents: He names none of Adam's daughters, and takes no notice of several things that must have happened in the beginning of the world, as is evident from Cain's building a city, and several other circumstances; from which it is plain, that Moses meddled with nothing but what was material, and to his purpose; which, in that part of his history, was to trace the descent of the Patriarchs, from the first man. But that there are savages is certain: Most nations of Europe have met with wild men and women in several parts of the world, that were ignorant of the use of letters, and among whom they could observe no rule or government. Hor. That there are savages, I do not question; and from the great number of slaves that are yearly fetched from Africa, it is manifest, that in some parts there must be vast swarms of people, that have not yet made a great hand of their sociableness: But how to derive them from all the sons of Noah, I own, is past my skill. Cleo. You find it as difficult to account for the loss of the many fine arts, and useful inventions of the ancients, which the world has certainly sustained. But the fault I find with Sir William Temple, is in the character of his savage. Just reasoning, and such an orderly way of proceeding, as he makes him act in, are unnatural to a wild man: In such a one, the passions must be boisterous, and continually jostling, and succeeding one another; no untaught man could have a regular way of thinking, or pursue any one design with steadiness. Hor. You have strange notions of our species: But has not a man, by the time that he comes to maturity, some notions of right and wrong, that are natural? Cleo. Before I answer your question, I would have you consider, that, among savages, there must be always a great difference as to the wildness or tameness of them. All creatures naturally love their offspring whilst they are helpless, and so does man: But in the savage state, men are more liable to accidents and misfortunes than they are in society, as to the rearing of their young ones; and, therefore, the children of savages must very often be put to their shifts, so as hardly to remember, by the time that they are grown up, that they had any parents. If this happens too early, and they are dropt or lost before they are four or five years of age, they must perish; either die for want, or be devoured by beasts of prey, unless some other creature takes care of them. Those orphans that survive, and become their own masters very young, must, when they are come to maturity, be much wilder than others, that have lived many years under the tuition of parents. Hor. But would not the wildest man you can imagine, have from nature some thoughts of justice and injustice? Cleo. Such a one, I believe, would naturally, without much thinking in the case, take every thing to be his own that he could lay his hands on. Hor. Then they would soon be undeceived, if two or three of them met together. Cleo. That they would soon disagree and quarrel, is highly probable; but I do not believe they ever would be undeceived. Hor. At this rate, men could never be formed into an aggregate body: How came society into the world? Cleo. As I told you, from private families; but not without great difficulty, and the concurrence of many favourable accidents; and many generations may pass before there is any likelihood of their being formed into a society. Hor. That men are formed into societies, we see: But if they are all born with that false notion, and they can never be undeceived, which way do you account for it? Cleo. My opinion concerning this matter, is this: Self-preservation bids all creatures gratify their appetites, and that of propagating his kind never fails to affect a man in health, many years before he comes to his full growth. If a wild man and a wild woman would meet very young, and live together for fifty years undisturbed, in a mild wholesome climate, where there is plenty of provisions, they might see a prodigious number of descendants: For, in the wild state of nature, man multiplies his kind much faster, than can be allowed of in any regular society: No male at fourteen would be long without a female, if he could get one; and no female of twelve would be refractory, if applied to, or remain long uncourted, if there were men. Hor. Considering that consanguinity would be no bar among these people, the progeny of two savages might soon amount to hundreds: All this I can grant you; but as parents, no better qualified, could teach their children but little, it would be impossible for them to govern these sons and daughters when they grew up, if none of them had any notions of right or wrong; and society is as far off as ever; the false principle, which you say all men are born with, is an obstacle never to be surmounted. Cleo. From that false principle, as you call it, the right men naturally claim to every thing they can get, it must follow, that man will look upon his children as his property, and make such use of them as is most consistent with his interest. Hor. What is the interest of a wild man that pursues nothing with steadiness. Cleo. The demand of the predominant passion for the time it lasts. Hor. That may change every moment, and such children would be miserably managed. Cleo. That is true; but still managed they would be; I mean they would be kept under, and forced to do as they they were bid, at least till they were strong enough to resist. Natural affection would prompt a wild man to love and cherish his child; it would make him provide food, and other necessaries for his son, till he was ten or twelve years old, or perhaps longer: But this affection is not the only passion he has to gratify; if his son provokes him by stubbornness, or doing otherwise than he would have him, this love is suspended; and if his displeasure be strong enough to raise his anger, which is as natural to him as any other passion, it is ten to one but he will knock him down: If he hurts him very much, and the condition he has put his son in, moves his pity, his anger will cease; and, natural affection returning, he will fondle him again, and be sorry for what he has done. Now, if we consider that all creatures hate and endeavour to avoid pain, and that benefits beget love in all that receive them, we shall find, that the consequence of this management would be, that the savage child would learn to love and fear his father: These two passions, together with the esteem which we naturally have for every thing that far excels us, will seldom fail of producing that compound which we call reverence. Hor. I have it now; you have opened my eyes, and I see the origin of society, as plain as I do that table. Cleo. I am afraid the prospect is not so clear yet as you imagine. Hor. Why so? The grand obstacles are removed: Untaught men, it is true, when they are grown up, are never to be governed; and our subjection is never sincere where the superiority of the governor is not very apparent: But both these are obviated; the reverence we have for a person when we are young, is easily continued as long as we live; and where authority is once acknowledged, and that acknowledgment well established, it cannot be a difficult matter to govern. If thus a man may keep up his authority over his children, he will do it still with greater ease over his grand-children: For a child that has the least reverence for his parents, will seldom refuse homage to the person to whom he sees his father pay it. Besides, a man's pride would be a sufficient motive for him to maintain the authority once gained; and, if some of his progeny proved refractory, he would leave no stone unturned, by the help of the rest to reduce the disobedient. The old man being dead, the authority from him would devolve upon the eldest of his children, and so on. Cleo. I thought you would go on too fast. If the wild man had understood the nature of things, and been endued with general knowledge, and a language ready made, as Adam was by miracle, what you say might have been easy; but an ignorant creature that knows nothing but what his own experience has taught him, is no more fit to govern than he is fit to teach the mathematics. Hor. He would not have above one or two children to govern at first; and his experience would increase by degrees, as well as his family. This would require no such consummate knowledge. Cleo. I do not say it would: An ordinary capacity of a man tolerably well educated, would be sufficient to begin with; but a man who never had been taught to curb any of his passions, would be very unfit for such a task. He would make his children, as soon as they were able, assist him in getting food, and teach them how and where to procure it. Savage children, as they got strength, would endeavour to imitate every action they saw their parents do, and every sound they heard them make; but all the instructions they received, would be confined to things immediately necessary. Savage parents would often take offence at their children, as they grew up, without a cause; and as these increased in years, so natural affection would decrease in the other. The consequence would be, that the children would often suffer for failings that were not their own. Savages would often discover faults in the conduct of what was past; but they would not be able to establish rules for future behaviour, which they would approve of themselves for any continuance; and want of foresight would be an inexhaustible fund for changes in their resolutions. The savage's wife, as well as himself, would be highly pleased to see their daughters impregnated and bring forth; and they would both take great delight in their grand-children. Hor. I thought, that in all creatures the natural affection of parents had been confined to their own young ones. Cleo. It is so in all but man; there is no species but ours, that are so conceited of themselves, as to imagine every thing to be theirs. The desire of dominion is a never-failing consequence of the pride that is common to all men; and which the brat of a savage is as much born with as the son of an emperor. This good opinion we have of ourselves, makes men not only claim a right to their children, but likewise imagine, that they have a great share of jurisdiction over their grandchildren. The young ones of other animals, as soon as they can help themselves, are free; but the authority which parents pretend to have over their children, never ceases: How general and unreasonable this eternal claim is naturally in the heart of man, we may learn from the laws; which, to prevent the usurpation of parents, and rescue children from their dominion, every civil society is forced to make; limiting paternal authority to a certain term of years. Our savage pair would have a double title to their grandchildren, from their undoubted property in each parent of them; and all the progeny being sprung from their own sons and daughters, without intermixture of foreign blood, they would look upon the whole race to be their natural vassals; and I am persuaded, that the more knowledge and capacity of reasoning this first couple acquired, the more just and unquestionable their sovereignty over all their descendants would appear to them, though they should live to see the fifth or sixth generation. Hor. Is it not strange that nature should send us all into the world with a visible desire after government, and no capacity for it at all? Cleo. What seems strange to you, is an undeniable instance of Divine Wisdom. For, if all had not been born with this desire, all must have been destitute of it; and multitudes could never have been formed into societies, if some of them had not been possessed of this thirst of dominion. Creatures may commit force upon themselves, they may learn to warp their natural appetites, and divert them from their proper objects: but peculiar instincts, that belong to a whole species, are never to be acquired by art or discipline; and those that are born without them, must remain destitute of them for ever. Ducks run to the water as soon as they are hatched; but you can never make a chicken swim any more than you can teach it to suck. Hor. I understand you very well. If pride had not been innate to all men, none of them could ever have been ambitious: And as to the capacity of governing, experience shows us, that it is to be acquired; but how to bring society into the world, I know no more than the wild man himself. What you have suggested to me of his unskilfulness, and want of power to govern himself, has quite destroyed all the hopes I had conceived of society from this family. But would religion have no influence upon them? Pray, how came that into the world? Cleo. From God, by miracle. Hor. Obscurum per obscurius. I do not understand miracles, that break in upon, and subvert the order of nature; and I have no notion of things that come to pass, en dépit de bon sens, and are such; that judging from sound reason and known experience, all wise men would think themselves mathematically sure that they could never happen. Cleo. It is certain, that by the word miracle, is meant an interposition of the Divine Power, when it deviates from the common course of nature. Hor. As when matters, easily combustible, remain whole and untouched in the midst of a fire fiercely burning, or lions in vigour, industriously kept hungry, forbear eating what they are most greedy after. These miracles are strange things. Cleo. They are not pretended to be otherwise; the etymology of the word imports it; but it is almost as unaccountable, that men should disbelieve them, and pretend to be of a religion that is altogether built upon miracles. Hor. But when I asked you that general question, why did you confine yourself to revealed religion? Cleo. Because nothing, in my opinion, deserves the name of religion, that has not been revealed: The Jewish was the first that was national, and the Christian the next. Hor. But Abraham, Noah, and Adam himself, were no Jews, and yet they had religion. Cleo. No other than what was revealed to them. God appeared to our first parents, and gave them commands immediately after he had created them: The same intercourse was continued between the Supreme Being and the Patriarchs; but the father of Abraham was an idolater. Hor. But the Egyptians, the Greeks, and the Romans had religion, as well as the Jews. Cleo. Their gross idolatry, and abominable worship, I call superstition. Hor. You may be as partial as you please, but they all called their worship religion, as well as we do ours. You say, man brings nothing with him, but his passions; and when I asked you, how religion came into the world, I meant what is there in man's nature that is not acquired, from which he has a tendency to religion; what is it that disposes him to it? Cleo. Fear. Hor. How! Primus in orbe Deos fecit timor; Are you of that opinion? Cleo. No man upon earth less: But that noted Epicurean axiom, which irreligious men are so fond of, is a very poor one; and it is silly, as well as impious to say, that fear made a God; you may as justly say, that fear made grass, or the sun and the moon: but when I am speaking of savages, it is not clashing either with good sense, nor the Christian religion, to assert, that, whilst such men are ignorant of the true Deity, and yet very defective in the art of thinking and reasoning, fear is the passion that first gives them an opportunity of entertaining some glimmering notions of an invisible Power; which afterwards, as by practice and experience they grow greater proficients, and become more perfect in the labour of the brain, and the exercise of their highest faculty, will infallibly lead them to the certain knowledge of an Infinite and Eternal Being; whose power and wisdom will always appear the greater, and more stupendous to them, the more they themselves advance in knowledge and penetration, though both should be carried on to a much higher pitch, than it is possible for our limited nature ever to arrive at. Hor. I beg your pardon for suspecting you; though I am glad it gave you an opportunity of explaining yourself. The word fear, without any addition, sounded very harsh; and even now I cannot conceive how an invisible cause should become the object of a man's fear, that should be so entirely untaught, as you have made the first savage: which way can any thing invisible, and that affects none of the senses, make an impression upon a wild creature? Cleo. Every mischief and every disaster that happens to him, of which the cause is not very plain and obvious; excessive heat and cold; wet and drought, that are offensive; thunder and lightning, even when they do no visible hurt; noises in the dark, obscurity itself, and every thing that is frightful and unknown, are all administering and contributing to the establishment of this fear. The wildest man that can be conceived, by the time that he came to maturity, would be wise enough to know, that fruits and other eatables are not to be had, either always, or every where: this would naturally put him upon hoarding, when he had good store: his provision might be spoiled by the rain: he would see that trees were blasted, and yielded not always the same plenty: he might not always be in health, or his young ones might grow sick, and die, without any wounds or external force to be seen. Some of these accidents might at first escape his attention, or only alarm his weak understanding, without occasioning much reflection for some time; but as they come often, he would certainly begin to suspect some invisible cause; and, as his experience increased, be confirmed in his suspicion. It is likewise highly probable, that a variety of different sufferings, would make him apprehend several such causes; and at last induce him to believe, that there was a great number of them, which he had to fear. What would very much contribute to this credulous disposition, and naturally lead him into such a belief, is a false notion we imbibe very early, and which we may observe in infants, as soon as by their looks, their gestures, and the signs they make, they begin to be intelligible to us. Hor. What is that, pray? Cleo. All young children seem to imagine, that every thing thinks and feels in the same manner as they do themselves; and, that they generally have this wrong opinion of things inanimate, is evident, from a common practice among them; whenever they labour under any misfortune, which their own wildness, and want of care have drawn upon them. In all such cases, you see them angry at and strike, a table, a chair, the floor, or any thing else, that can seem to have been accessary to their hurting themselves, or the production of any other blunder, they have committed. Nurses we see, in compliance to their frailty, seem to entertain the same ridiculous sentiments; and actually appease wrathful brats, by pretending to take their part: Thus you will often see them very serious, in scolding at and beating, either the real object of the baby's indignation, or something else, on which the blame of what has happened, may be thrown, with any show of probability. It is not to be imagined, that this natural folly should be so easily cured in a child, that is destitute of all instruction and commerce with his own species, as it is in those that are brought up in society, and hourly improved by conversing with others that are wiser than themselves; and I am persuaded, that a wild man would never get entirely rid of it whilst he lived. Hor. I cannot think so meanly of human understanding. Cleo. Whence came the Dryades and Hama-Dryades? How came it ever to be thought impious to cut down, or even to wound large venerable oaks or other stately trees; and what root did the Divinity spring from, which the vulgar, among the ancient heathens, apprehended to be in rivers and fountains? Hor. From the roguery of designing priests, and other impostors, that invented those lies, and made fables for their own advantage. Cleo. But still it must have been want of understanding; and a tincture, some remainder of that folly which is discovered in young children, that could induce, or would suffer men to believe those fables. Unless fools actually had frailties, knaves could not make use of them. Hor. There may be something in it; but, be that as it will, you have owned, that man naturally loves those he receives benefits from; therefore, how comes it, that man, finding all the good things he enjoys to proceed from an invisible cause, his gratitude should not sooner prompt him to be religious, than his fear? Cleo. There are several substantial reasons, why it does not. Man takes every thing to be his own, which he has from nature: sowing and reaping, he thinks, deserve a crop, and whatever he has the least hand in, is always reckoned to be his. Every art, and every invention, as soon as we know them, are our right and property; and whatever we perform by the assistance of them, is, by the courtesy of the species to itself, deemed to be our own. We make use of fermentation, and all the chemistry of nature, without thinking ourselves beholden to any thing but our own knowledge. She that churns the cream, makes the butter; without inquiring into the power by which the thin lymphatic particles are forced to separate themselves, and slide away from the more unctuous. In brewing, baking, cooking, and almost every thing we have a hand in, nature is the drudge that makes all the alterations, and does the principal work; yet all, forsooth, is our own. From all which, it is manifest, that man, who is naturally for making every thing centre in himself, must, in his wild state, have a great tendency, and be very prone to look upon every thing he enjoys as his due; and every thing he meddles with, as his own performance. It requires knowledge and reflection; and a man must be pretty far advanced in the art of thinking justly, and reasoning consequentially, before he can, from his own light, and without being taught, be sensible of his obligations to God. The less a man knows, and the more shallow his understanding is, the less he is capable either of enlarging his prospect of things, or drawing consequences from the little which he does know. Raw, ignorant, and untaught men, fix their eyes on what is immediately before, and seldom look further than, as it is vulgarly expressed, the length of their noses. The wild man, if gratitude moved him, would much sooner pay his respects to the tree he gathers his nuts from, than he would think of an acknowledgment to him who had planted it; and there is no property so well established, but a civilized man would suspect his title to it sooner, than a wild one would question the sovereignty he has over his own breath. Another reason, why fear is an elder motive to religion than gratitude, is, that an untaught man would never suspect that the same cause, which he received good from, would ever do him hurt; and evil, without doubt, would always gain his attention first. Hor. Men, indeed, seem to remember one ill turn, that is served them, better than ten good ones; one month's sickness better than ten years health. Cleo. In all the labours of self-preservation, man is intent on avoiding what is hurtful to him; but in the enjoyment of what is pleasant, his thoughts are relaxed, and he is void of care: he can swallow a thousand delights, one after another, without asking questions; but the least evil makes him inquisitive whence it came, in order to shun it. It is very material, therefore, to know the cause of evil; but to know that of good, which is always welcome, is of little use; that is, such a knowledge seems not to promise any addition to his happiness. When a man once apprehends such an invisible enemy, it is reasonable to think, that he would be glad to appease, and make him his friend, if he could find him out; it is highly probable, likewise, that in order to this, he would search, investigate, and look every where about him; and that finding all his inquiries upon earth in vain, he would lift up his eyes to the sky. Hor. And so a wild man might; and look down and up again long enough before he would be the wiser. I can easily conceive, that a creature must labour under great perplexities, when it actually fears something, of which it knows neither what it is, nor where it is; and that, though a man had all the reason in the world to think it invisible, he would still be more afraid of it in the dark, than when he could see. Cleo. Whilst a man is but an imperfect thinker, and wholly employed in furthering self preservation in the most simple manner, and removing the immediate obstacles he meets with in that pursuit, this affair, perhaps, affects him but little; but when he comes to be a tolerable reasoner, and has leisure to reflect, it must produce strange chimeras and surmises; and a wild couple would not converse together long, before they would endeavour to express their minds to one another concerning this matter; and, as in time they would invent and agree upon, certain sounds of distinction for several things, of which the ideas would often occur, so I believe, that this invisible cause would be one of the first, which they would coin a name for. A wild man and a wild woman would not take less care of their helpless brood than other animals; and it is not to imagined, but the children that were brought up by them, though without instruction or discipline, would, before they were ten years old, observe in their parents this fear of an invisible cause. It is incredible likewise, considering, how much men differ from one another in features, complexion, and temper, that all should form the same idea of this cause; from whence it would follow, that as soon as any considerable number of men could intelligibly converse together, it would appear, that there were different opinions among them concerning the invisible cause: the fear and acknowledgment of it being universal, and man always attributing his own passions to every thing, which he conceives to think, every body would be solicitous to avoid the hatred and ill-will, and, if it was possible, to gain the friendship of such a power. If we consider these things, and what we know of the nature of man, it is hardly to be conceived, that any considerable number of our species could have any intercourse together long, in peace or otherwise, but wilful lies would be raised concerning this power, and some would pretend to have seen or heard it. How different opinions about invisible power, may, by the malice and deceit of impostors, be made the occasion of mortal enmity among multitudes, is easily accounted for. If we want rain very much, and I can be persuaded, that it is your fault we have none, there needs greater cause to quarrel; and nothing has happened in the world, of priestcraft or inhumanity, folly or abomination, on religious accounts, that cannot be solved or explained, with the least trouble, from these data, and the principle of fear. Hor. I think I must yield to you, that the first motive of religion, among savages, was fear; but you must allow me in your turn, that from the general thankfulness that nations have always paid to their gods, for signal benefits and success; the many hecatombs that have been offered after victories; and the various institutions of games and festivals; it is evident, that when men came to be wiser, and more civilized, the greatest part of their religion was built upon gratitude. Cleo. You labour hard, I see, to vindicate the honour of our species; but we have no such cause to boast of it: and I shall demonstrate to you, that a well-weighed consideration, and a thorough understanding of our nature, will give us much less reason to exult in our pride, than it will furnish us with, for the exercise of our humility. In the first place, there is no difference between the original nature of a savage, and that of a civilized man: they are both born with fear, and neither of them, if they have their senses about them, can live many years, but an invisible Power, will, at one time or other, become the object of that fear; and this will happen to every man, whether he be wild and alone, or in society, and under the best discipline. We know by experience, that empires, states, and kingdoms, may excel in arts and sciences, politeness, and all worldly wisdom, and at the same time be slaves to the grossest idolatry, and submit to all the inconsistencies of a false religion. The most civilized people have been as foolish and absurd in sacred worship as it is possible for any savages to be; and the first have often been guilty of studied cruelties, which the latter would never have thought of. The Carthaginians were a subtle flourishing people, an opulent and formidable nation, and Hannibal had half conquered the Romans, when still to their idols they sacrificed the children of their chief nobility. And, as to private persons, there are innumerable instances in the most polite ages of men of sense and virtue, that have entertained the most miserable, unworthy, and extravagant notions of the Supreme Being. What confused and unaccountable apprehensions must not some men have had of Providence, to act as they did! Alexander Severus, who succeeded Heliogabalus, was a great reformer of abuses, and thought to be as good a prince as his predecessor was a bad one: In his palace he had an oratory, a cabinet set aside for his private devotion, where he had the images of Appollonius Tyanæus, Orpheus, Abraham, Jesus Christ, and such like gods, says his historian. What makes you smile? Hor. To think how industrious priests are in concealing a man's failings, when they would have you think well of him. What you say of Severus, I had read before; when looking one day for something in Moreri, I happened to cast my eye on the article of that emperor, where no mention is made either of Orpheus or Appollonius! which, remembering the passage in Lampridius, I wondered at; and thinking that I might have been mistaken, I again consulted that author, where I found it, as you have related it. I do not question but Moreri left this out on purpose to repay the civilities of the emperor to the Christians, whom, he tells us, Severus had been very favourable to. Cleo. That is not impossible in a Roman Catholic. But what I would speak to, in the second place, is the festivals you mentioned, the hecatombs after victories, and the general thankfulness of nations to their gods. I desire you would consider, that in sacred matters, as well as all human affairs, there are rites and ceremonies, and many demonstrations of respect to be seen, that to outward appearance seem to proceed from gratitude, which, upon due examination, will be found to have been originally the result of fear. At what time the floral games were first instituted, is not well known: but they never were celebrated every year constantly, before a very unseasonable spring put the senate upon the decree that made them annual. To make up the true compound of reverence or veneration, love and esteem are as necessary ingredients as fear; but the latter alone is capable of making men counterfeit both the former; as is evident from the duties that are outwardly paid to tyrants, at the same time that inwardly they are execrated and hated. Idolators have always behaved themselves to every invisible cause they adored, as men do to a lawless arbitrary power; when they reckon it as captious, haughty, and unreasonable, as they allow it to be sovereign, unlimited, and irresistible. What motive could the frequent repetitions of the same solemnities spring from, whenever it was suspected that the least holy trifle had been omitted? You know, how often the same farce was once acted over again, because after every performance there was still room to apprehend that something had been neglected. Do but consult, I beg of you, and call to mind your own reading; cast your eyes on the infinite variety of ideas men have formed to themselves, and the vast multitude of divisions they have made of the invisible cause, which every one imagines to influence human affairs: run over the history of all ages; look into every considerable nation, their straits and calamities, as well as victories and successes; the lives of great generals, and other famous men, their adverse fortune and prosperity: mind at which times their devotion was most fervent; when oracles were most consulted, and on what accounts the gods were most frequently addressed. Do but calmly consider every thing you can remember relating to superstition, whether grave, ridiculous, or execrable, and you will find, in the first place, that the heathens, and all that have been ignorant of the true Deity, though many of them were persons otherwise of great knowledge, fine understanding, and tried probity, have represented their gods, not as wise, benign, equitable, and merciful; but, on the contrary, as passionate, revengeful, capricious, and unrelenting beings; not to mention the abominable vices and gross immoralities, the vulgar were taught to ascribe to them: In the second, that for every one instance that men have addressed themselves to an invisible cause, from a principle of gratitude, there are a thousand in every false religion to convince you, that divine worship, and men's submission to Heaven, have always proceeded from their fear. The word religion itself, and the fear of God, are synonymous; and had man's acknowledgment been originally founded in love, as it is in fear, the craft of impostors could have made no advantage of the passion; and all their boasted acquaintance with gods and goddesses, would have been useless to them, if men had worshipped the immortal powers, as they called their idols, out of gratitude. Hor. All lawgivers and leaders of people gained their point, and acquired what they expected from those pretences, which is reverence; and which to produce, you have owned yourself, love and esteem to be as requisite as fear. Cleo. But from the laws they imposed on men, and the punishments they annexed to the breach and neglect of them, it is easily seen which of the ingredients they most relied upon. Hor. It would be difficult to name a king, or other great man, in very ancient times, who attempted to govern an infant nation that laid no claim to some commerce or other with an invisible power, either held by himself or his ancestors. Between them and Moses, there is no other difference, than that he alone was a true prophet, and really inspired, and all the rest were impostors. Cleo. What would you infer from this? Hor. That we can say no more for ourselves, than what men of all parties and persuasions have done in all ages, every one for their cause, viz. That they alone were in the right, and all that differed from them in the wrong. Cleo. Is it not sufficient that we can say this of ourselves with truth and justice, after the strictest examination; when no other cause can stand any test, or bear the least inquiry? A man may relate miracles that never were wrought, and give an account of things that never happened; but a thousand years hence, all knowing men will agree, that nobody could have wrote Sir Isaac Newton's Principia, unless he had been a great mathematician. When Moses acquainted the Israelites with what had been revealed to him, he told them a truth, which nobody then upon earth knew but himself. Hor. You mean the unity of God, and his being the Author of the universe. Cleo. I do so. Hor. But is not every man of sense capable of knowing this from his reason? Cleo. Yes, when the art of reasoning consequentially is come to that perfection, which it has been arrived at these several hundred years, and himself has been led into the method of thinking justly. Every common sailor could steer a course through the midst of the ocean, as soon as the use of the loadstone, and the mariners compass were invented. But before that, the most expert navigator would have trembled at the thoughts of such an enterprise. When Moses acquainted, and imbued the posterity of Jacob with this sublime and important truth, they were degenerated into slaves, attached to the superstition of the country they dwelled in; and the Egyptians, their masters, though they were great proficients in many arts and sciences, and more deeply skilled in the mysteries of nature than any other nation then was, had the most abject and abominable notions of the Deity, which it is possible to conceive; and no savages could have exceeded their ignorance and stupidity, as to the Supreme Being, the invisible cause that governs the world. He taught the Israelites à priori; and their children, before they were nine or ten years old, knew what the greatest philosophers did not attain to, by the light of nature, till many ages after. Hor. The advocates for the ancients will never allow, that any modern philosophers have either thought or reasoned better, than men did in former ages. Cleo. Let them believe their eyes: What you say every man of sense may know, by his own reason, was in the beginning of Christianity contested, and denied with zeal and vehemence by the greatest men in Rome. Celsus, Symmachus, Porphyry, Hierocles, and other famous rhetoricians, and men of unquestionable good sense, wrote in defence of idolatry, and strenuously maintained the plurality and multiplicity of their gods. Moses lived about fifteen hundred years before the reign of Augustus. If in a place where I was very well assured that nobody understood any thing of colouring or drawing, a man should tell me, that he had acquired the art of painting by inspiration, I should be more ready to laugh at him than to believe him; but if I saw him draw several fine portraits before my face, my unbelief would cease, and I should think it ridiculous any longer to suspect his veracity. All the accounts that other lawgivers and founders of nations have given of the deities, which they or their predecessors conversed with, contained ideas that were unworthy of the Divine Being; and by the light of nature only, it is easily proved, that they must have been false: But the image which Moses gave the Jews of the Supreme Being, that He was One, and had made heaven and earth, will stand all tests, and is a truth that will outlast the world. Thus, I think, I have fully proved, on the one hand, that all true religion must be revealed, and could not have come into the world without miracle; and, on the other, that what all men are born with towards religion, before they receive any instruction, is fear. Hor. You have convinced me many ways, that we are poor creatures by nature; but I cannot help struggling against those mortifying truths, when I hear them started first. I long to hear the origin of society, and I continually retard your account of it myself with new questions. Cleo. Do you remember where we left off? Hor. I do not think we have made any progress yet; for we have nothing towards it but a wild man, and a wild woman, with some children and grandchildren, which they are not able either to teach or govern. Cleo. I thought that the introduction of the reverence, which the wildest son must feel, more or less, for the most savage father, if he stays with him, had been a considerable step. Hor. I thought so too, till you destroyed the hopes I had conceived of it yourself, by showing me the incapacity of savage parents to make use of it: And since we are still as far from the origin of society as ever we were, or ever can be, in my opinion, I desire, that before you proceed to that main point, you would answer what you have put off once already, which is my question concerning the notions of right and wrong: I cannot be easy before I have your sentiments on this head. Cleo. Your demand is very reasonable, and I will satisfy you as well as I can. A man of sense, learning, and experience, that has been well educated, will always find out the difference between right and wrong in things diametrically opposite; and there are certain facts, which he will always condemn, and others which he will always approve of: To kill a member of the same society that has not offended us, or to rob him, will always be bad; and to cure the sick, and be beneficent to the public, he will always pronounce to be good actions: and for a man to do as he will be done by, he will always say is a good rule in life; and not only men of great accomplishments, and such as have learned to think abstractly, but all men of middling capacities, that have been brought up in society, will agree in this, in all countries and in all ages. Nothing likewise seems more true to all, that have made any tolerable use of their faculty of thinking, than that out of the society, before any division was made, either by contract or otherwise, all men would have an equal right to the earth: But do you believe that our wild man, if he had never seen any other human creature but his savage consort and his progeny, would ever have entertained the same notions of right and wrong? Hor. Hardly; his small capacity in the art of reasoning, would hinder him from doing it so justly; and the power he found he had over his children, would render him very arbitrary. Cleo. But without that incapacity, suppose that at threescore he was, by a miracle, to receive a fine judgment, and the faculty of thinking and reasoning consequentially, in as great a perfection as the wisest man ever did, do you think he would ever alter his notion of the right he had to every thing he could manage, or have other sentiments in relation to himself and his progeny, than from his behaviour it appeared he entertained, when he seemed to act almost altogether by instinct? Hor. Without doubt: For, if judgment and reason were given him, what could hinder him from making use of those faculties, as well as others do? Cleo. You seem not to consider, that no man can reason but à posteriori, from something that he knows, or supposes to be true: What I said of the difference between right and wrong, I spoke of persons who remembered their education, and lived in society; or, at least, such as plainly saw others of their own species, that were independent of them, and either their equals or superiors. Hor. I begin to believe you are in the right: But at second thoughts, why might not a man, with great justice, think himself the sovereign of a place, where he knew no human creature but his own wife, and the descendents of both? Cleo. With all my heart: But may there not be an hundred such savages in the world with large families, that might never meet, nor ever hear of one another? Hor. A thousand, if you will, and then there would be so many natural sovereigns. Cleo. Very well: what I would have you observe, is, that there are things which are commonly esteemed to be eternal truths, that an hundred or a thousand people of fine sense and judgment, could have no notion of. What if it should be true, that every man is born with this domineering spirit, and that we cannot be cured of it, but by our commerce with others, and the experience of facts, by which we are convinced that we have no such right? Let us examine a man's whole life, from his infancy to his grave, and see which of the two seems to be most natural to him; a desire of superiority, and grasping every thing to himself, or a tendency to act according to the reasonable notions of right and wrong; and we shall find, that, in his early youth, the first is very conspicuous; that nothing appears of the second before he has received some instructions, and that this latter will always have less influence upon his actions, the more uncivilized he remains: From whence I infer, that the notions of right and wrong are acquired; for if they were as natural, or if they affected us as early as the opinion, or rather the instinct we are born with, of taking every thing to be our own, no child would ever cry for his eldest brother's play-things. Hor. I think there is no right more natural, nor more reasonable, than that which men have over their children; and what we owe our parents can never be repaid. Cleo. The obligations we have to good parents for their care and education, is certainly very great. Hor. That is the least. We are indebted to them for our being; we might be educated by an hundred others, but without them we could never have existed. Cleo. So we could have no malt liquor, without the ground that bears the barley: I know no obligations for benefits that never were intended. Should a man see a fine parcel of cherries, be tempted to eat, and devour them accordingly with great satisfaction, it is possible he might swallow some of the stones, which we know by experience do not digest: If twelve or fourteen months after, he should find a little sprig of a cherry-tree growing in a field, where nobody would expect it, if he recollected the time, he had been there before, it is not improbable that he might guess at the true reason how it came there. It is possible, likewise, that for curiosity's sake, this man might take up this plant, and take care of it; I am well assured, that whatever became of it afterwards, the right he would have to it from the merit of his action, would be the same which a savage would have to his child. Hor. I think there would be a vast difference between the one and the other: the cherry-stone was never part of himself, nor mixed with his blood. Cleo. Pardon me; all the difference, as vast as you take it to be, can only consist in this, That the cherry-stone was not part of the man who swallowed it, so long, nor received so great an alteration in its figure, whilst it was, as some other things which the savage swallowed, were, and received in their figure, whilst they stayed with him. Hor. But he that swallowed the cherry-stone, did nothing to it; it produced a plant as a vegetable, which it might have done as well without his swallowing it. Cleo. That is true; and I own, that as to the cause to which the plant owes its existence, you are in the right: but I plainly spoke as to the merit of the action; which in either case could only proceed from their intentions as free agents; and the savage might, and would in all probability act with as little design, to get a child, as the other had eat cherries in order to plant a tree. It is commonly said, that our children are our own flesh and blood: but this way of speaking is strangely figurative. However, allow it to be just, though rhetoricians have no name for it, what does it prove, what benevolence in us, what kindness to others in the intention? Hor. You shall say what you please, but I think, that nothing can endear children to their parents more, than the reflection that they are their own flesh and blood. Cleo. I am of your opinion; and it is a plain demonstration of the superlative value we have for our own selves, and every thing that comes from us, if it be good, and counted laudable; whereas, other things that are offensive, though equally our own, are in compliment to ourselves, industriously concealed; and, as soon as it is agreed upon that any thing is unseemly, and rather a disgrace to us than otherwise, presently it becomes ill manners to name, or so much as to hint at it. The contents of the stomach are variously disposed of, but we have no hand in that; and whether they go to the blood, or elsewhere, the last thing we did to them voluntarily, and with our knowledge, was swallowing them; and whatever is afterwards performed by the animal economy, a man contributes no more to, than he does to the going of his watch. This is another instance of the unjust claim we lay to every performance we are but in the least concerned in, if good comes of it, though nature does all the work; but whoever places a merit in his prolific faculty, ought likewise to expect the blame, when he has the stone, or a fever. Without this violent principle of innate folly, no rational creature would value himself on his free agency, and at the same time accept of applause for actions that are visibly independent of his will. Life in all creatures is a compound action, but the share they have in it themselves, is only passive. We are forced to breathe before we know it; and our continuance palpably depends upon the guardianship and perpetual tutelage of nature; whilst every part of her works, ourselves not excepted, is an impenetrable secret to us, that eludes all inquiries. Nature furnishes us with all the substance of our food herself, nor does she trust to our wisdom for an appetite to crave it; to chew it, she teaches us by instinct, and bribes us to it by pleasure. This seeming to be an action of choice, and ourselves being conscious of the performance, we perhaps may be said to have a part in it; but the moment after, nature resumes her care, and again withdrawn from our knowledge, preserves us in a mysterious manner, without any help or concurrence of ours, that we are sensible of. Since, then, the management of what we have eat and drank remains entirely under the direction of nature, what honour or shame ought we to receive from any part of the product, whether it is to serve as a doubtful means toward generation, or yields to vegetation a less fallible assistance? It is nature that prompts us to propagate as well as to eat; and a savage man multiplies his kind by instinct as other animals do, without more thought or design of preserving his species, than a new-born infant has of keeping itself alive, in the action of sucking. Hor. Yet nature gave the different instincts to both, for those reasons. Cleo. Without doubt; but what I mean, is, that the reason of the thing is as much the motive of action in the one, as it is in the other; and I verily believe, that a wild woman who had never seen, or not minded the production of any young animals, would have several children before she would guess at the real cause of them; any more than if she had the cholic, she would suspect that it proceeded from some delicious fruit she had eaten; especially if she had feasted upon it for several months, without perceiving any inconveniency from it. Children, all the world over, are brought forth with pain, more or less, which seems to have no affinity with pleasure; and an untaught creature, however docile and attentive, would want several clear experiments, before it would believe that the one could produce or be the cause of the other. Hor. Most people marry in hopes, and with a design of having children. Cleo. I doubt, not; and believe that there are as many that would rather not have children, or at least not so fast as often they come, as there are that wish for them, even in the state of matrimony; but out of it, in the amours of thousands, that revel in enjoyments, children are reckoned to be the greatest calamity that can befal them; and often what criminal love gave birth to, without thought more criminal pride destroys, with purposed and considerate cruelty. But all this belongs to people in society, that are knowing, and well acquainted with the natural consequences of things; what I urged, I spoke of a savage. Hor. Still the end of love, between the different sexes, in all animals, is the preservation of their species. Cleo. I have allowed that already. But once more the savage is not prompted to love from that consideration: he propagates before he knows the consequence of it; and I much question, whether the most civilized pair, in the most chaste of their embraces, ever acted from the care of their species, as a real principle. A rich man may, with great impatience, wish for a son to inherit his name and his estate; perhaps he may marry from no other motive, and for no other purpose; but all the satisfaction he seems to receive, from the flattering prospect of an happy posterity, can only arise from a pleasing reflection on himself, as the cause of those descendants. How much soever this man's posterity might be thought to owe him for their being, it is certain, that the motive he acted from, was to oblige himself: still here is a wishing for posterity, a thought and design of getting children, which no wild couple could have to boast of; yet they would be vain enough to look upon themselves, as the principal cause of all their offspring and descendants, though they should live to see the fifth or sixth generation. Hor. I can find no vanity in that, and I should think them so myself. Cleo. Yet, as free agents, it would be plain, that they had contributed nothing to the existence of their prosperity. Hor. Now surely, you have overshot the mark; nothing? Cleo. No, nothing, even to that of their own children, knowingly; if you will allow that men have their appetites from nature. There is but one real cause in the universe, to produce that infinite variety of stupendous effects, and all the mighty labours that are performed in nature, either within, or far beyond the reach of our senses. Parents are the efficients of their offspring, with no more truth or propriety of speech, than the tools of an artificer, that were made and contrived by himself, are the cause of the most elaborate of his works. The senseless engine that raises water into the copper, and the passive mash-tub, have between them, as great a share in the art and action of brewing, as the liveliest male and female ever had in the production of an animal. Hor. You make stocks and stones of us; is it not in our choice to act, or not to act? Cleo. Yes, it is my choice now, either to run my head against the wall; or to let it alone; but, I hope, it does not puzzle you much to guess which of the two I shall choose. Hor. But do not we move our bodies as we list; and is not every action determined by the will? Cleo. What signifies that, where there is a passion that manifestly sways, and with a strict hand governs that will? Hor. Still we act with consciousness, and are intelligent creatures. Cleo. Not in the affair I speak of; where, willing or not willing, we are violently urged from within, and in a manner compelled not only to assist in, but likewise to long for, and, in spite of our teeth, be highly pleased with a performance that infinitely surpasses our understanding. The comparison I made is just, in every part of it; for the most loving, and, if you will, the most sagacious couple you can conceive, are as ignorant in the mystery of generation, nay, must remain, after having had twenty children together, as much uninformed, and as little conscious of nature's transactions, and what has been wrought within them, as inanimate utensils are of the most mystic and most ingenious operations they have been employed in. Hor. I do not know any man more expert in tracing human pride, or more severe in humbling it than yourself; but when the subject comes in your way, you do not know how to leave it. I wish you would, at once, go over to the origin of society; which, how to derive, or bring about at all, from the savage family, as we left it, is past my skill. It is impossible but those children, when they grew up, would quarrel on innumerable occasions: if men had but three appetites to gratify, that are the most obvious, they could never live together in peace, without government: for though they all paid a deference to the father, yet if he was a man void of all prudence, that could give them no good rules to walk by, I am persuaded that they would live in a perpetual state of war; and the more numerous his offspring grew, the more the old savage would be puzzled between his desire and incapacity of government. As they increased in numbers, they would be forced to extend their limits, and the spot they were born upon would not hold them long: nobody would be willing to leave his native vale, especially if it was a fruitful one. The more I think upon it, and the more I look into such multitudes, the less I can conceive which way they could ever be formed into a society. Cleo. The first thing that could make man associate, would be common danger, which unites the greatest enemies: this danger they would certainly be in, from wild beasts, considering that no uninhabited country is without them, and the defenceless condition in which men come into the world. This often must have been a cruel article, to prevent the increase of our species. Hor. The supposition then, that this wild man, with his progeny, should for fifty years live undisturbed, is not very probable; and I need not trouble myself about our savages being embarrassed with too numerous an offspring. Cleo. You say right; there is no probability, that a man and his progeny, all unarmed, should so long escape the ravenous hunger of beasts of prey, that are to live upon what animals they can get; that leave no place unsearched, nor pains untried, to come at food, though with the hazard of their lives. The reason why I made that supposition, was to show you, first, the improbability that a wild and altogether untaught man should have the knowledge and discretion which Sir William Temple gives him; secondly, that children who conversed with their own species, though they were brought up by savages, would be governable; and consequently, that all such, when come to maturity, would be fit for society, how ignorant and unskilful soever their parents might have been. Hor. I thank you for it; for it has shown me, that the very first generation of the most brutish savages, was sufficient to produce sociable creatures; but that to produce a man fit to govern others, much more was required. Cleo. I return to my conjecture concerning the first motive that would make savages associate: it is not possible to know any thing with certainty of beginnings, where men were destitute of letters; but I think, that the nature of the thing makes it highly probable, that it must have been their common danger from beasts of prey; as well such sly ones as lay in wait for their children, and the defenceless animals, men made use of for themselves, as the more bold, that would openly attack grown men and women. What much confirms me in this opinion is, the general agreement of all the relations we have, from the most ancient times, in different countries: for, in the infancy of all nations, profane history is stuffed with the accounts of the conflicts men had with wild beasts. It took up the chief labours of the heroes of remotest antiquity, and their greatest prowess was shown in killing of dragons, and subduing of other monsters. Hor. Do you lay any stress upon sphinxes, basilisks, flying dragons, and bulls that spit fire? Cleo. As much as I do on modern witches. But I believe that all those fictions had their rise from noxious beasts, the mischiefs they did, and other realities that struck terror into man; and I believe, that if no man had ever been seen on a horse's back, we should never have heard of Centaurs. The prodigious force and rage that are apparent in some savage animals, and the astonishing power, which, from the various poisons of venomous creatures, we are sure must be hid in others; the sudden and unexpected assaults of serpents, the variety of them; the vast bulk of crocodiles; the irregular and uncommon shapes of some fishes, and the wings of others, are all things that are capable of alarming man's fear; and it is incredible what chimeras that passion alone may produce in a terrified mind: the dangers of the day often haunt men at night with addition of terror; and from what they remember in their dreams, it is easy to forge realities. If you will consider, likewise, that the natural ignorance of man, and his hankering after knowledge, will augment the credulity which hope and fear first give birth to; the desire the generality have of applause, and the great esteem that is commonly had for the merveilleux, and the witnesses and relaters of it: If, I say, you will consider all these, you will easily discover, how many creatures came to be talked of, described, and formally painted, that never had any existence. Hor. I do not wonder at the origin of monstrous figures, or the invention of any fables whatever; but in the reason you gave for the first motive, that would make men combine in one interest, I find something very perplexing, which I own I never thought of before. When I reflect on the condition of man, as you have set it before me, naked and defenceless, and the multitude of ravenous animals that thirst after his blood, and are superior to him in strength, and completely armed by nature, it is inconceivable to me, how our species should have subsisted. Cleo. What you observe is well worthy our attention. Hor. It is astonishing. What filthy, abominable beasts are lions and tigers! Cleo. I think them to be very fine creatures; there is nothing I admire more than a lion. Hor. We have strange accounts of his generosity and gratitude; but do you believe them? Cleo. I do not trouble my head about them: What I admire is his fabric, his structure, and his rage, so justly proportioned to one another. There are order, symmetry, and superlative wisdom to be observed in all the works of nature; but she has not a machine, of which every part more visibly answers the end for which the whole was formed. Hor. The destruction of other animals. Cleo. That is true; but how conspicuous is that end, without mystery or uncertainty! that grapes were made for wine, and man for society, are truths not accomplished in every individual: but there is a real majesty stamped on every single lion, at the sight of which the stoutest animals submit and tremble. When we look upon and examine his massy talons, the size of them, and the laboured firmness with which they are fixed in, and fastened to that prodigious paw; his dreadful teeth, the strength of his jaws, and the width of his mouth equally terrible, the use of them is obvious; but when we consider, moreover, the make of his limbs, the toughness of his flesh and tendons, the solidity of his bones, beyond that of other animals, and the whole frame of him, together with his never-ceasing anger, speed, and agility; whilst in the desart he ranges king of beasts! When, I say, we consider all these things, it is stupidity not to see the design of nature, and with what amazing skill the beautiful creature is contrived for offensive war and conquest. Hor. You are a good painter. But after all, why would you judge of a creature's nature from what it was perverted to, rather than from its original, the state it was first produced in? The lion in Paradise was a gentle, loving creature. Hear what Milton says of his behaviour before Adam and Eve, "as they sate recline on the soft downy bank, damask'd with flowers:" --------About them frisking play'd All beasts of the earth, since wild, and of all chase In wood or wilderness, forest or den; Sporting the lion ramp'd, and in his paw Dandel'd the kid; bears, tigers, ounces, pards, Gambol'd before them.-------- What was it the lion fed upon; what sustenance had all these beasts of prey in Paradise? Cleo. I do not know. Nobody who believes the Bible, doubts, but that the whole state of Paradise, and the intercourse between God and the first man, were as much preternatural, as the creation out of nothing; and, therefore, it cannot be supposed, that they should be accounted for by human reason; and if they were, Moses would not be answerable for more than he advanced himself. The history which he has given us of those times is extremely succinct, and ought not to be charged with any thing contained in the glosses and paraphrases that have been made upon it by others. Hor. Milton has said nothing of Paradise, but what he could justify from Moses. Cleo. It is no where to be proved, from Moses, that the state of innocence lasted so long, that goats, or any viviparous animals could, have bred and brought forth young ones. Hor. You mean that there could have been no kid. I should never have made that cavil in so fine a poem. It was not in my thoughts: what I aimed at in repeating those lines, was to show you how superfluous and impertinent a lion must have been in Paradise; and that those who pretend to find fault with the works of nature, might have censured her with justice, for lavishing and throwing away so many excellencies upon a great beast, to no purpose. What a fine variety of destructive weapons, would they say, what prodigious strength of limbs and sinews are here given to a creature! What to do with? to be quiet and dandle a kid. I own, that to me, this province, the employment assigned to the lion, seems to be as proper and well chosen, as if you would make a nurse of Alexander the Great. Cleo. You might make as many flights upon a lion now, if you saw him asleep. Nobody would think that a bull had occasion for horns, who had never seen him otherwise than quietly grazing among a parcel of cows; but, if one should see him attacked by dogs, by a wolf, or a rival of his own species, he would soon find out that his horns were of great use and service to him. The lion was not made to be always in Paradise. Hor. There I would have you. If the lion was contrived for purposes to be served and executed out of Paradise, then it is manifest, from the very creation, that the fall of man was determined and predestinated. Cleo. Foreknown it was: nothing could be hid from Omniscience; that is certain: But that it was predestinated so as to have prejudiced, or anywise influenced the free will of Adam, I utterly deny. But that word, predestinated, has made so much noise in the world, and the thing itself has been the cause of so many fatal quarrels, and is so inexplicable, that I am resolved never to engage in any dispute concerning it. Hor. I cannot make you; but what you have extolled so much, must have cost the lives of thousands of our species; and it is a wonder to me how men, when they were but few, could possibly defend themselves, before they had fire arms, or at least bows and arrows; for what number of naked men and women, would be a match for one couple of lions? Cleo. Yet, here we are; and none of those animals are suffered to be wild, in any civilized nation; our superior understanding has got the start of them. Hor. My reason tells me it must be that; but I cannot help observing, that when human understanding serves your purpose to solve any thing, it is always ready and full grown; but at other times, knowledge and reasoning are the work of time, and men are not capable of thinking justly, until after many generations. Pray, before men had arms, what could their understanding do against lions, and what hindered wild beasts from devouring mankind, as soon as they were born? Cleo. Providence. Hor. Daniel, indeed, was saved by miracle; but what is that to the rest of mankind? great numbers, we know, have, at different times, been torn to pieces by savage beasts: what I want to know, is, the reason that any of them escaped, and the whole species was not destroyed by them; when men had yet no weapons to defend, nor strong holds to shelter themselves from the fury of those merciless creatures. Cleo. I have named it to you already, Providence. Hor. But which way can you prove this miraculous assistance? Cleo. You still talk of miracles, and I speak of Providence, or the all-governing Wisdom of God. Hor. If you can, demonstrate to me, how that Wisdom interposed between our species and that of lions, in the beginning of the world, without miracle, any more than it does at present, eris mihi magnus Apollo: for now, I am sure, a wild lion would prey upon a naked man, as soon, at least, as he would upon an ox or an horse. Cleo. Will not you allow me, that all properties, instincts, and what we call the nature of things, animate or inanimate, are the produce, the effects of that Wisdom? Hor. I never thought otherwise. Cleo. Then it will not be difficult to prove this to you. Lions are never brought forth wild, but in very hot countries, as bears are the product of the cold. But the generality of our species, which loves moderate warmth, are most delighted with the middle regions. Men may, against their wills, be inured to intense cold, or by use and patience, accustom themselves to excessive heat; but a mild air, and weather between both extremes, being more agreeable to human bodies, the greatest part of mankind would naturally settle in temperate climates, and with the same conveniency, as to every thing else, never choose any other. This would very much lessen the danger men would be in from the fiercest and most irresistible wild beasts. Hor. But would lions and tigers in hot countries keep so close within their bounds, and bears in cold ones, as never to straggle or stray beyond them? Cleo. I do not suppose they would; and men, as well as cattle, have often been picked up by lions, far from the places where these were whelped. No wild beasts are more fatal to our species, than often we are to one another; and men pursued by their enemies have fled into climates and countries, which they would never have chose. Avarice likewise and curiosity, have, without force or necessity, often exposed men to dangers, which they might have avoided, if they had been satisfied with what nature required; and laboured for self-preservation in that simple manner, which creatures less vain and fantastical content themselves with. In all these cases, I do not question, but multitudes of our species have suffered from savage beasts, and other noxious animals; and on their account only, I verily believe, it would have been impossible for any number of men, to have settled or subsisted in either very hot or very cold countries, before the invention of bows and arrows, or better arms. But all this does nothing to overthrow my assertion: what I wanted to prove, is, that all creatures choosing by instinct that degree of heat or cold which is most natural to them, there would be room enough in the world for man to multiply his species, for many ages, without running almost any risk of being devoured either by lions or by bears; and that the most savage man would find this out, without the help of his reason. This I call the work of Providence; by which I mean the unalterable wisdom of the Supreme Being, in the harmonious disposition of the universe; the fountain of that incomprehensible chain of causes, on which all events have their undoubted dependance. Hor. You have made this out better than I had expected; but I am afraid, that what you alleged as the first motive towards society, is come to nothing by it. Cleo. Do not fear that; there are other savage beasts, against which men could not guard themselves unarmed, without joining, and mutual assistance: in temperate climates, most uncultivated countries abound with wolves. Hor. I have seen them in Germany; they are of the size of a large mastiff; but I thought their chief prey had been sheep. Cleo. Any thing they can conquer is their prey: they are desperate creatures, and will fall upon men, cows, and horses, as well as upon sheep, when they are very hungry: they have teeth like mastiffs; but besides them they have sharp claws to tear with, which dogs have not. The stoutest man is hardly equal to them in strength; but what is worse, they often come in troops, and whole villages have been attacked by them; they have five, six, and more whelps at a litter, and would soon over-run a country where they breed, if men did not combine against, and make it their business to destroy them. Wild boars likewise, are terrible creatures, that few large forests, and uninhabited places, in temperate climates, are free from. Hor. Those tusks of theirs are dreadful weapons. Cleo. And they are much superior to wolves in bulk and strength. History is full of the mischief they have done in ancient times, and of the renown that valiant men have gained by conquering them. Hor. That is true; but those heroes that fought monsters in former days, were well armed; at least, the generality of them; but what could a number of naked men, before they had any arms at all, have to oppose to the teeth and claws of ravenous wolves that came in troops; and what impression could the greatest blow a man can strike, make upon the thick bristly hide of a wild boar? Cleo. As on the one hand, I have named every thing that man has to fear from wild beasts; so, on the other, we ought not to forget the things that are in his favour. In the first place, a wild man inured to hardship, would far exceed a tame one, in all feats of strength, nimbleness and activity; in the second, his anger would sooner and more usefully transport and assist him in his savage state, than it can do in society; where, from his infancy he is so many ways taught, and forced in his own defence, to cramp and stifle with his fears the noble gift of nature. In wild creatures we see, that most of them, when their own life or that of their young ones is at stake, fight with great obstinacy, and continue fighting to the last, and do what mischief they can, whilst they have breath, without regard to their being overmatched, or the disadvantages they labour under. It is observed likewise, that the more untaught and inconsiderate creatures are, the more entirely they are swayed by the passion that is uppermost: natural affection would make wild men and women too, sacrifice their lives, and die for their children; but they would die fighting; and one wolf would not find it an easy matter to carry of a child from his watchful parents, if they were both resolute, though they were naked. As to man's being born defenceless, it is not to be conceived, that he should long know the strength of his arms, without being acquainted with the articulation of his fingers, or at least, what is owing to it, his faculty of grasping and holding fast; and the most untaught savage would make use of clubs and staves before he came to maturity. As the danger men are in from wild beasts would be of the highest consequence, so it would employ their utmost care and industry: they would dig holes, and invent other stratagems, to distress their enemies, and destroy their young ones: as soon as they found out fire, they would make use of that element to guard themselves and annoy their foes: by the help of it they would soon learn to sharpen wood, which presently would put them upon making spears and other weapons that would cut. When men are angry enough with creatures to strike them, and these are running away, or flying from them, they are apt to throw at what they cannot reach: this, as soon as they had spears, would naturally lead them to the invention of darts and javelins. Here, perhaps, they may stop a while; but the same chain of thinking would, in time, produce bows and arrows: the elasticity of sticks and boughs of trees is very obvious; and to make strings of the guts of animals, I dare say, is more ancient than the use of hemp. Experience teaches us, that men may have all these, and many more weapons, and be very expert in the use of them, before any manner of government, except that of parents over their children, is to be seen among them: it is likewise very well known, that savages furnished with no better arms, when they are strong enough in number, will venture to attack, and even hunt after the fiercest wild beasts, lions and tigers not excepted. Another thing is to be considered, that likewise favours our species, and relates to the nature of the creatures, of which intemperate climates man has reason to stand in bodily fear of. Hor. Wolves and wild boars? Cleo. Yes. That great numbers of our species have been devoured by the first, is uncontested; but they most naturally go in quest of sheep and poultry; and, as long as they can get carrion, or any thing to fill their bellies with, they seldom hunt after men, or other large animals; which is the reason, that in the summer our species, as to personal insults, have not much to fear from them. It is certain likewise, that savage swine will hunt after men, and many of their maws have been crammed with human flesh: but they naturally feed on acorns, chestnuts, beach-mast, and other vegetables; and they are only carnivorous upon occasion, and through necessity, when they can get nothing else; in great frosts, when the country is bare, and every thing covered with snow. It is evident, then, that human creatures are not in any great and immediate danger from either of these species of beasts, but in hard winters, which happen but seldom in temperate climates. But as they are our perpetual enemies, by spoiling and devouring every thing that may serve for the sustenance of man, it is highly necessary, that we should not only be always upon our guard against them, but likewise never cease to assist one another in routing and destroying them. Hor. I plainly see, that mankind might subsist and survive to multiply, and get the mastery over all other creatures that should oppose them; and as this could never have been brought about, unless men had assisted one another against savage beasts, it is possible that the necessity men were in of joining and uniting together, was the first step toward society. Thus far I am willing to allow you to have proved your main point: but to ascribe all this to Providence, otherwise than that nothing is done without the Divine permission, seems inconsistent with the ideas we have of a perfectly good and merciful Being. It is possible, that all poisonous animals may have something in them that is beneficial to men; and I will not dispute with you, whether the most venomous of all the serpents which Lucan has made mention of, did not contain some antidote, or other fine medicine, still undiscovered: but when I look upon the vast variety of ravenous and blood-thirsty creatures, that are not only superior to us in strength, but likewise visibly armed by nature, as it were on purpose for our destruction; when, I say, I look upon these, I can find out no use for them, nor what they could be designed for, unless it be to punish us: but I can much less conceive, that the Divine Wisdom should have made them the means without which men could not have been civilized. How many thousands of our species must have been devoured in the conflicts with them! Cleo. Ten troops of wolves, with fifty in each, would make a terrible havoc, in a long winter, among a million of our species with their hands tied behind them; but among half that number, one pestilence has been known to slaughter more, than so many wolves could have eaten in the same time; notwithstanding the great resistance that was made against it, by approved of medicines and able physicians. It is owing to the principle of pride we are born with, and the high value we all, for the sake of one, have for our species, that men imagine the whole universe to be principally made for their use; and this error makes them commit a thousand extravagancies, and have pitiful and most unworthy notions of God and his works. It is not greater cruelty, or more unnatural, in a wolf to eat a piece of a man, than it is in a man to eat part of a lamb or a chicken. What, or how many purposes wild beasts were made for, is not for us to determine; but that they were made, we know; and that some of them must have been very calamitous to every infant nation, and settlement of men, is almost as certain: this you was fully persuaded of; and thought, moreover, that they must have been such an obstacle to the very subsistence of our species, as was insurmountable: In answer to this difficulty, which you started, I showed you, from the different instincts and peculiar tendencies of animals, that in nature a manifest provision was made for our species: by which, notwithstanding the rage and power of the fiercest beasts, we should make a shift, naked and defenceless, to escape their fury, so as to be able to maintain ourselves and multiply our kind, till by our numbers, and arms acquired by our own industry, we could put to flight, or destroy all savage beasts without exception, whatever spot of the globe we might have a mind to cultivate and settle on. The necessary blessings we receive from the sun, are obvious to a child; and it is demonstrable, that without it, none of the living creatures that are now upon the earth, could subsist. But if it were of no other use, being eight hundred thousand times bigger than the earth at least, one thousandth part of it would do our business as well, if it was but nearer to us in proportion. From this consideration alone, I am persuaded, that the sun was made to enlighten and cherish other bodies, besides this planet of ours. Fire and water were designed for innumerable purposes; and among the uses that are made of them, some are immensely different from others. But whilst we receive the benefit of these, and are only intent on ourselves, it is highly probable, that there are thousands of things, and perhaps our own machines among them, that, in the vast system of the universe, are now serving some very wise ends, which we shall never know. According to that plan of this globe, I mean the scheme of government, in relation to the living creatures that inhabit the earth, the destruction of animals is as necessary as the generation of them. Hor. I have learned that from the Fable of the Bees; and I believe what I have read there to be very true; that, if any one species was to be exempt from death, it would in time crush all the rest to pieces, though the first were sheep, and the latter all lions: but that the Supreme Being should have introduced society at the expence of so many lives of our species, I cannot believe, when it might have been done much better in a milder way. Cleo. We are speaking of what probably was done, and not of what might have been done. There is no question, but the same Power that made whales, might have made us seventy feet high, and given us strength in proportion. But since the plan of this globe requires, and you think it necessary yourself, that in every species some should die almost as fast as others are born, why should you take away any of the means of dying? Hor. Are there not diseases enough, physicians and apothecaries, as well as wars by sea and land, that may take off more than the redundancy of our species? Cleo. They may, it is true; but in fact they are not always sufficient to do this: and in populous nations we see, that war, wild beasts, hanging, drowning, and an hundred casualties together, with sickness and all its attendants, are hardly a match for one invisible faculty of ours, which is the instinct men have to preserve their species. Every thing is easy to the Deity; but to speak after an human manner, it is evident, that in forming this earth, and every thing that is in it, no less wisdom or solicitude was required, in contriving the various ways and means, to get rid and destroy animals, than seems to have been employed in producing them; and it is as demonstrable, that our bodies were made on purpose not to last beyond such a period, as it is, that some houses are built with a design not to stand longer than such a term of years. But it is death itself to which our aversion by nature is universal; as to the manner of dying, men differ in their opinions; and I never heard of one yet that was generally liked of. Hor. But nobody chooses a cruel one. What an unspeakable and infinitely excruciating torment must it be, to be torn to pieces, and eat alive by a savage beast! Cleo. Not greater, I can assure you; than are daily occasioned by the gout in the stomach, and the stone in the bladder. Hor. Which way can you give me this assurance; how can you prove it? Cleo. From our fabric itself, the frame of human bodies, that cannot admit of any torment, infinitely excruciating. The degrees of pain, as well as of pleasure, in this life are limited, and exactly proportioned to every one's strength; whatever exceeds that, takes away the senses; and whoever has once fainted away with the extremity of any torture, knows the fall extent of what here he can suffer, if he remembers what he felt. The real mischief which wild beasts have done to our species, and the calamities they have brought upon it, are not to be compared to the cruel usage, and the multiplicity of mortal injuries which men have received from one another. Set before your eyes a robust warrior, that having lost a limb in battle, is afterwards trampled upon by twenty horses; and tell me, pray, whether you think, that lying thus helpless with most of his ribs broke, and a fractured skull, in the agony of death, for several hours, he suffers less than if a lion had dispatched him? Hor. They are both very bad. Cleo. In the choice of things we are more often directed by the caprice of fashions, and the custom of the age, than we are by solid reason, or our own understanding. There is no greater comfort in dying of a dropsy, and in being eaten by worms, than there is in being drowned at sea, and becoming the prey of fishes. But in our narrow way of thinking, there is something that subverts and corrupt our judgment; how else could persons of known elegancy in their taste, prefer rotting and stinking in a loathsome sepulchre, to their being burnt in the open air to inoffensive ashes? Hor. I freely own, that I have an aversion to every thing that is shocking and unnatural. Cleo. What you call shocking, I do not know; but nothing is more common to nature, or more agreeable to her ordinary course, than that creatures should live upon one another. The whole system of animated beings on the earth seems to be built upon this; and there is not one species that we know of, that has not another that feeds upon it, either alive or dead; and most kind of fish are forced to live upon fish. That this in the last-mentioned, was not an omission or neglect, is evident from the large provision nature has made for it, far exceeding any thing she has done for other animals. Hor. You mean the prodigious quantity of roe they spawn. Cleo. Yes; and that the eggs contained in them, receive not their fecundity until after they are excluded; by which means the female may be filled with as many of them as her belly can hold, and the eggs themselves may be more closely crowded together, than would be consistent with the admission of any substance from the male: without this, one fish could not bring forth yearly such a prodigious shoal. Hor. But might not the aura seminalis of the male be subtle enough to penetrate the whole cluster of eggs, and influence every one of them, without taking up any room, as it does in fowls and other oviparous animals? Cleo. The ostrich excepted in the first place: in the second, there are no other oviparous animals in which the eggs are so closely compacted together, as they are in fish. But suppose the prolific power should pervade the whole mass of them; if all the eggs which some of the females are crammed with, were to be impregnated whilst they are within the fish, it is impossible but the aura seminalis, the prolific spirit of the male, though it took up no room itself, would, as it does in all other creatures, dilate, and more or less distend every egg; and the least expansion of so many individuals would swell the whole roe to a bulk that would require a much greater space, than the cavity that now contains them. Is not here a contrivance beyond imagination fine, to provide for the continuance of a species, though every individual of it should be born with an instinct to destroy it! Hor. What you speak of, is only true at sea, in a considerable part of Europe at least: for in fresh water, most kinds of fish do not feed on their own species, and yet they spawn in the same manner, and are as full of roe as all the rest: among them, the only great destroyer with us, is the pike. Cleo. And he is a very ravenous one: We see in ponds, that where pikes are suffered to be, no other fish shall ever increase in number. But in rivers, and all waters near any land, there are amphibious fowls, and many sorts of them, that live mostly upon fish: Of these water-fowls in many places are prodigious quantities. Besides these, there are otters, beavers, and many other creatures that live upon fish. In brooks and shallow waters, the hearn and bittern will have their share: What is taken off by them, perhaps is but little; but the young fry, and the spawn that one pair of swans are able to consume in one year, would very well serve to stock a considerable river. So they are but eat, it is no matter what eats them, either their own species or another: What I would prove, is, that nature produces no extraordinary numbers of any species, but she has contrived means answerable to destroy them. The variety of insects in the several parts of the world, would be incredible to any one that has not examined into this matter; and the different beauties to be observed in them is infinite: But neither the beauty, nor the variety, of them, are more surprising, than the industry of nature in the multiplicity of her contrivances to kill them; and if the care and vigilance of all other animals in destroying them were to cease at once, in two years time the greatest part of the earth, which is ours now, would be theirs, and in many countries insects would be the only inhabitants. Hor. I have heard that whales live upon nothing else; that must make a fine consumption. Cleo. That is the general opinion, I suppose, because they never find any fish in them; and because there are vast multitudes of insects in those seas, hovering on the surface of the water. This creature likewise helps to corroborate my assertion, that in the numbers produced of every species, the greatest regard is had to the consumption of them: This prodigious animal being too big to be swallowed, nature in it has quite altered the economy observed in all other fish; for they are viviparous, engender like other viviparous animals, and have never above two or three young ones at a time. For the continuance of every species among such an infinite variety of creatures as this globe yields, it was highly necessary, that the provision for their destruction should not be less ample, than that which was made for the generation of them; and therefore the solicitude of nature in procuring death, and the consumption of animals, is visibly superior to the care she takes to seed and preserve them. Hor. Prove that pray. Cleo. Millions of her creatures are starved every year, and doomed to perish for want of sustenance; but whenever any die, there is always plenty of mouths to devour them. But then, again, she gives all she has: nothing is so fine or elaborate, as that she grudges it for food; nor is any thing more extensive or impartial than her bounty: she thinks nothing too good for the meanest of her broods, and all creatures are equally welcome to every thing they can find to eat. How curious is the workmanship in the structure of a common fly; how inimitable are the celerity of his wings, and the quickness of all his motions in hot weather! Should a Pythagorean, that was likewise a good master in mechanics, by the help of a microscope, pry into every minute part of this changeable creature, and duly consider the elegancy of its machinery, would he not think it great pity, that thousands of millions of animated beings, so nicely wrought and admirably finished, should every day be devoured by little birds and spiders, of which we stand in so little need? Nay, do not you think yourself, that things would have been managed full as well, is the quantity of flies had been less, and there had been no spiders at all? Hor. I remember the fable of the Acorn and the Pumkin too well to answer you; I do not trouble my head about it. Cleo. Yet you found fault with the means, which I supposed Providence had made use of to make men associate; I mean the common danger they were in from wild beasts: though you owned the probability of its having been the first motive of their uniting. Hor. I cannot believe that Providence should have no greater regard to our species, than it has to flies, and the spawn of fish: or that nature has ever sported with the fate of human creatures, as she does with the lives of insects, and been as wantonly lavish of the first, as she seems to be of the latter. I wonder how you can reconcile this to religion; you that are such a stickler for Christianity. Cleo. Religion has nothing to do with it. But we are so full of our own species, and the excellency of it, that we have no leisure seriously to consider the system of this earth; I mean the plan on which the economy of it is built, in relation to the living creatures that are in and upon it. Hor. I do not speak as to our species, but in respect to the Deity: has religion nothing to do with it, that you make God the author of so much cruelty and malice? Cleo. It is impossible, you should speak otherwise, than in relation to our species, when you make use of those expressions, which can only signify to us the intentions things were done with, or the sentiments human creatures have of them; and nothing can be called cruel or malicious in regard to him who did it, unless his thoughts and designs were such in doing it. All actions in nature, abstractly considered, are equally indifferent; and whatever it may be to individual creatures, to die is not a greater evil to this earth, or the whole universe, than it is to be born. Hor. This is making the First Cause of things not an intelligent being. Cleo. Why so? Can you not conceive an intelligent, and even a most wise being, that is not only exempt from, but likewise incapable of entertaining any malice or cruelty? Hor. Such a being could not commit, or order things that are malicious and cruel. Cleo. Neither does God. But this will carry us into a dispute about the origin of evil; and from thence we must inevitably fall on free-will and predestination, which, as I have told you before, is an inexplicable mystery I will never meddle with. But I never said nor thought any thing irreverent to the Deity: on the contrary, the idea I have of the Supreme Being, is as transcendently great, as my capacity is able to form one, of what is incomprehensible; and I could as soon believe, that he could cease to exist, as that he should be the author of any real evil. But I should be glad to hear the method, after which you think society might have been much better introduced: Pray, acquaint me with that milder way you spoke of. Hor. You have thoroughly convinced me, that the natural love which it is pretended we have for our species, is not greater than what many other animals have for theirs: but if nature had actually given us an affection for one another, as sincere and conspicuous as that which parents are seen to have for their children, whilst they are helpless, men would have joined together by choice; and nothing could have hindered them from associating, whether their numbers had been great or small, and themselves either ignorant or knowing. Cleo. O mentes hominum cæcas! O Pectora cæca! Hor. You may exclaim as much as you please; I am persuaded that this would have united men in firmer bonds of friendship, than any common danger from wild beasts could have tied them with: but what fault can you find with it, and what mischief could have befallen us from mutual affection? Cleo. It would have been inconsistent with the scheme, the plan after which, it is evident, Providence has been pleased to order and dispose of things in the universe. If such an affection had been planted in man by instinct, there never could have been any fatal quarrels among them, nor mortal hatreds; men could never have been cruel to one another: in short, there could have been no wars of any duration; and no considerable numbers of our species could ever have been killed by one another's malice. Hor. You would make a rare state-physician, in prescribing war, cruelty and malice, for the welfare and maintenance of civil society. Cleo. Pray, do not misrepresent me: I have done no such thing: but if you believe the world is governed by Providence at all, you must believe likewise, that the Deity makes use of means to bring about, perform, and execute his will and pleasure: As for example, to have war kindled, there must be first misunderstandings and quarrels between the subjects of different nations, and dissentions among the respective princes, rulers, or governors of them: it is evident, that the mind of man is the general mint where the means of this sort must be coined; from whence I conclude, that if Providence had ordered matters after that mild way, which you think would have been the best, very little of human blood could have been spilt, if any at all. Hor. Where would have been the inconveniency of that? Cleo. You could not have had that variety of living creatures, there is now; nay, there would not have been room for man himself, and his sustenance: our species alone would have overstocked the earth, if there had been no wars, and the common course of Providence had not been more interrupted than it has been. Might I not justly say then, that this is quite contrary and destructive to the scheme on which it is plain this earth was built? This is a consideration which you will never give its due weight. I have once already put you in mind of it, that you yourself have allowed the destruction of animals to be as necessary as the generation of them. There is as much wisdom to be seen in the contrivances how numbers of living creatures might always be taken off and destroyed, to make room for those that continually succeed them, as there is in making all the different sorts of them, every one preserve their own species. What do you think is the reason, that there is but one way for us to come into the world? Hor. Because that one is sufficient. Cleo. Then from a parity of reason, we ought to think, that there are several ways to go out of the world, because one would not have been sufficient. Now, if for the support and maintenance of that variety of creatures which are here that they should die, is a postulatum as necessary as it is, that they should be born; and you cut off or obstruct the means of dying, and actually stop up one of the great gates, through which we see multitudes go to death; do you not oppose the scheme, nay, do you mar it less, than if you hindered generation! Is there never had been war, and no other means of dying, besides the ordinary ones, this globe could not have born, or at least not maintained, the tenth part of the people that would have been in it. By war, I do not mean only such as one nation has had against another, but civil as well as foreign quarrels, general massacres, private murders, poison, sword, and all hostile force, by which men, notwithstanding their pretence of love to their species, have endeavoured to take away one another's lives throughout the world, from the time that Cain slew Abel to this day. Hor. I do not believe, that a quarter of all these mischiefs are upon record: but what may be known from history, would make a prodigious number of men: much greater, I dare say, than ever was on earth at one time: But what would you infer from this? They would not have been immortal; and if they had not died in war, they must soon after have been slain by diseases. When a man of threescore is killed by a bullet in the field, it is odds, that he would not have lived four years longer, though he had stayed at home. Cleo. There are soldiers of threescore perhaps in all armies, but men generally go to the war when they are young; and when four or five thousand are lost in battle, you will find the greatest number to have been under five-and-thirty: consider now, that many men do not marry till after that age, who get ten or a dozen children. Hor. If all that die by the hands of another, were to get a dozen children before they die---- Cleo. There is no occasion for that; I suppose nothing, that is either extravagant or improbable; but that all such, as have been wilfully destroyed by means of their species, should have lived, and taken their chance with the rest; that every thing should have befallen them, that has befallen those that have not been killed that way; and the same likewise to their posterity; and that all of them should have been subject to all the casualties as well as diseases, doctors, apothecaries, and other accidents, that take away man's life, and shorten his days; war, and violence from one another, only excepted. Hor. But if the earth had been too full of inhabitants, might not Providence have sent pestilences and diseases oftener? More children might have died when they were young, or more women might have proved barren. Cleo. I do not know whether your mild way would have been more generally pleasing; but you entertain notions of the Deity that are unworthy of him. Men might certainly have been born with the instinct you speak of; but if this had been the Creator's pleasure, there must have been another economy; and things on earth, from the beginning, would have been ordered in a manner quite different from what they are now. But to make a scheme first, and afterwards to mend it, when it proves defective, is the business of finite wisdom; it belongs to human prudence alone to mend faults, to correct and redress what was done amiss before, and to alter the measures which experience teaches men, were ill concerted: but the knowledge of God was consummate from eternity. Infinite Wisdom is not liable to errors or mistakes; therefore all his works are universally good, and every thing is made exactly as he would have it: the firmness and liability of his laws and councils are everlasting, and therefore his resolutions are as unalterable, as his decrees are eternal. It is not a quarter of an hour ago, that you named wars among the necessary means to carry off the redundancy of our species; how come you now to think them useless? I can demonstrate to you, that nature, in the production of our species, has amply provided against the losses of our sex, occasioned by wars, by repairing them visibly, where they are sustained, in as palpable a manner, as she has provided for the great destruction that is made of fish, by their devouring one another. Hor. How is that, pray? Cleo. By sending more males into the world than females. You will easily allow me that our sex bears the brunt of all the toils and hazards that are undergone by sea and land; and that by this means a far greater number of men must be destroyed than there is of women: now if we see, as certainly we do, that of the infants yearly born, the number of males is always considerably superior to that of the females, is it not manifest, that nature has made a provision for great multitudes, which, if they were not destroyed, would be not only superfluous, but of pernicious consequence in great nations? Hor. That superiority in the number of males born is wonderful indeed; I remember the account that has been published concerning it, as it was taken from the bills of births and burials in the city and suburbs. Cleo. For fourscore years; in which the number of females born was constantly much inferior to that of the males, sometimes by many hundreds: and that this provision of nature, to supply the havoc that is made of men by wars and navigation, is still greater than could be imagined from that difference only, will soon appear, if we consider that women, in the first place, are liable to all diseases, within a trifle, that are incident to men; and that, in the second, they are subject to many disorders and calamities on account of their sex, which great numbers die of, and which men are wholly exempt from. Hor. This could not well be the effect of chance; but it spoils the consequence which you drew from my affectionate scheme, in case there had been no wars: for your fear that our species would have increased beyond all bounds, was entirely built upon the supposition, that those who have died in war should not have wanted women if they had lived; which, from this superiority in the number of males, it is evident, they should and must have wanted. Cleo. What you observe is true; but my chief aim was to show you how disagreeable the alteration you required would have been every way to the rest of the scheme, by which it is manifest things are governed at present. For, if the provision had been made on the other side; and nature, in the production of our species, had continually taken care to repair the loss of women that die of calamities not incident to men, then certainly there would have been women for all the men that have been destroyed by their own species, if they had lived; and the earth without war, as I have said, would have been over-stocked; or, if nature had ever been the same as she is now, that is, if more males had been born than females, and more females had died of diseases than males, the world would constantly have had a great superfluity of men, if there never had been any wars; and this disproportion between their number and that of the women would have caused innumerable mischiefs, that are now prevented by no other natural causes, than the small value men set upon their species, and their dissentions with one another. Hor. I can see no other mischief this would produce, than that the number of males which die without having ever tried matrimony, would be greater than it is now; and whether that would be a real evil or not, is a very disputable point. Cleo. Do not you think, that this perpetual scarcity of women, and superfluity of men, would make great uneasiness in all societies, how well soever people might love one another; and that the value, the price of women, would be so enhanced by it, that none but men in tolerable good circumstances would be able to purchase them? This alone would make us another world; and mankind could never have known that most necessary and now inexhaustible spring, from which all nations, where slaves are not allowed of, are constantly supplied with willing hands for all the drudgery of hard and dirty labour; I mean the children of the poor, the greatest and most extensive of all temporal blessings that accrue from society, on which all the comforts of life, in the civilized state, have their unavoidable dependance. There are many other things, from which it is plain, that such a real love of man for his species would have been altogether inconsistent with the present scheme; the world must have been destitute of all that industry, that is owing to envy and emulation; no society could have been easy with being a flourishing people at the expence of their neighbours, or enduring to be counted a formidable nation. All men would have been levellers; government would have been unnecessary; and there could have been no great bustle in the world. Look into the men of greatest renown, and the most celebrated achievements of antiquity, and every thing that has been cried up and admired in past ages by the fashionable part of mankind; if the same labours were to be performed over again, which qualification, which help of nature do you think would be the most proper means to have them executed; that instinct of real affection you required, without ambition or the love of glory; or a staunch principle of pride and selfishness, acting under pretence to, and assuming the resemblance of that affection? Consider, I beseech you, that no men governed by this instinct would require services of any of their species, which they would not be ready to perform for others; and you will easily see, that its being universal would quite alter the scene of society from what it is now. Such an instinct might be very suitable to another scheme different from this, in another world; where, instead of fickleness, and a restless desire after changes and novelty, there was observed an universal steadiness, continually preferred by a serene spirit of contentment among other creatures of different appetites from ours, that had frugality without avarice, and generosity without pride; and whose solicitude after happiness in a future state, was as active and apparent in life as our pursuits are after the enjoyments of this present. But, as to the world we live in, examine into the various ways of earthly greatness, and all the engines that are made use of to attain to the felicity of carnal men, and you will find, that the instinct you speak of must have destroyed the principles, and prevented the very existence of that pomp and glory to which human societies have been, and are still raised by worldly wisdom. Hor. I give up my affectionate scheme; you have convinced me that there could not have been that stir and variety, nor, upon the whole, that beauty in the world, which there have been, if all men had been naturally humble, good, and virtuous. I believe that wars of all sorts, as well as diseases, are natural means to hinder mankind from increasing too fast; but that wild beasts should likewise have been designed to thin our species, I cannot conceive; for they can only serve this end, when men are but few, and their numbers should be increased, instead of lessened; and afterwards, if they were made for that purpose, when men are strong enough, they would not answer it. Cleo. I never said that wild beasts was designed to thin our species. I have showed that many things were made to serve a variety of different purposes; that in the scheme of this earth, many things must have been considered that man has nothing to do with; and that it is ridiculous to think that the universe was made for our sake. I have said likewise, that as all our knowledge comes, à posteriori, it is imprudent to reason otherwise than from facts. That there are wild beasts, and that there are savage men, is certain; and that where there are but few of the latter, the first must always be very troublesome, and often fatal to them, is as certain; and when I reflect on the passions all men are born with, and their incapacity whilst they are untaught, I can find no cause or motive which is so likely to unite them together, and make them espouse the same interest, as that common danger they must always be in from wild beasts, in uncultivated countries, whilst they live in small families that all shift for themselves, without government or dependance upon one another: This first step to society, I believe to be an effect, which that same cause, the common danger so often mentioned, will never fail to produce upon our species in such circumstances: what other, and how many purposes wild beasts might have been designed for besides, I do not pretend to determine, as I have told you before. Hor. But whatever other purposes wild beasts were designed for, it still follows from your opinion, that the uniting of savages in common defence, must have been one; which to me seems clashing with our idea of the Divine Goodness. Cleo. So will every thing seem to do, which we call natural evil; if you ascribe human passions to the Deity, and measure Infinite Wisdom by the standard of our most shallow capacity; you have been at this twice already; I thought I had answered it. I would not make God the author of evil, any more than yourself; but I am likewise persuaded, that nothing could come by chance, in respect to the Supreme Being; and, therefore, unless you imagine the world not to be governed by Providence, you must believe that wars, and all the calamities we can suffer from man or beast, as well as plagues and all other diseases, are under a wise direction that is unfathomable. As there can be no effect without a cause, so nothing can be said to happen by chance, but in respect to him who is ignorant of the cause of it. I can make this evident to you, in an obvious and familiar example. To a man who knows nothing of the tennis-court, the skips and rebounds of the ball seems to be all fortuitous; as he is not able to guess at the several different directions it will receive before it comes to the ground; so, as soon as it has hit the place to which it was plainly directed at first, it is chance to him where it will fall: whereas, the experienced player, knowing perfectly well the journey the ball will make, goes directly to the place, if he is not there already, where it will certainly come within his reach. Nothing seems to be more the effect of chance than a cast of the dice: yet they obey the laws of gravity and motion in general, as much as any thing else; and from the impressions that are given them, it is impossible they should fall otherwise than they do: but the various directions which they shall receive in the whole course of the throw being entirely unknown, and the rapidity with which they change their situation being such, that our slow apprehension cannot trace them, what the cast will be is a mystery to human understanding, at fair play. But if the same variety of directions was given to two cubes of ten feet each, which a pair of dice receive, as well from one another as the box, the caster's fingers that cover it, and the table they are flung upon, from the time they are taken up until they lie still, the same effect would follow; and if the quantity of motion, the force that is imparted to the box and dice was exactly known, and the motion itself was so much retarded in the performance, that what is done in three or four seconds, should take up an hour's time, it would be easy to find out the reason of every throw, and men might learn with certainty to foretell which side of the cube would be uppermost. It is evident, then, that the words fortuitous and casual, have no other meaning than what depends upon our want of knowledge, foresight, and penetration; the reflection on which will show us, by what an infinity of degrees all human capacity falls short of that universal intuitus, with which the Supreme Being beholds at once every thing without exception, whether to us it be visible or invisible, past, present, or to come. Hor. I yield: you have solved every difficulty I have been able to raise; and I must confess, that your supposition concerning the first motive that would make savages associate, is neither clashing with good sense, nor any idea we ought to have of the Divine attributes; but, on the contrary, in answering my objections, you have demonstrated the probability of your conjecture, and rendered the wisdom and power of providence, in the scheme of this earth, both as to the contrivance and the execution of it, more conspicuous and palpable to me, than any thing I ever heard or read, had done before. Cleo. I am glad you are satisfied; though far from arrogating to myself so much merit as your civility would compliment me with. Hor. It is very clear to me now; that as it is appointed for all men to die, so it is necessary there should be means to compass this end; that from the number of those means, or causes of death; it is impossible to exclude either the malice of men, or the rage of wild beasts, and all noxious animals; and that if they had been actually designed by nature, and contrived for that purpose, we should have no more reason justly to complain of them, than we have to find fault with death itself, or that frightful train of diseases which are daily and hourly the manifest occasion of it. Cleo. They are all equally included in the curse, which after the fall was deservedly pronounced against the whole earth; and if they be real evils, they are to be looked upon as the consequence of sin, and a condign punishment, which the transgression of our first parents has drawn and entailed upon all their posterity. I am fully persuaded, that all the nations in the world, and every individual of our species, civilized or savage, had their origin from Seth, Sham, or Japhet: and as experience has taught us, that the greatest empires have their periods, and the best governed states and kingdoms may come to ruin; so it is certain, that the politest people being scattered and distressed, may soon degenerate, and some of them by accidents and misfortunes, from knowing and well taught ancestors, be reduced at last to savages of the first and lowest class. Hor. If what you are fully persuaded of, be true, the other is self-evident, from the savages that are still subsisting. Cleo. You once seemed to insinuate, that all the danger men were in from wild beasts, would entirely cease as soon as they were civilized, and lived in large and well-ordered societies; but by this you may see, that our species will never be wholly exempt from that danger; because mankind will always be liable to be reduced to savages; for, as this calamity has actually befallen vast multitudes that were the undoubted descendants of Noah; so the greatest prince upon earth, that has children, cannot be sure, that the same disaster will never happen to any of his posterity. Wild beasts may be entirely extirpated in some countries that are duly cultivated; but they will multiply in others that are wholly neglected; and great numbers of them range now, and are masters in many places, where they had been rooted and kept out before. I shall always believe that every species of living creatures in and upon this globe, without exception, continues to be, as it was at first, under the care of that same Providence that thought fit to produce it. You have had a great deal of patience, but I would not tire it: This first step towards society, now we have mastered it, is a good resting place, and so we will leave off for to-day. Hor. With all my heart: I have made you talk a great deal; but I long to hear the rest, as soon as you are at leisure. Cleo. I am obliged to dine at Windsor to-morrow; if you are not otherwise engaged, I can carry you where the honour of your company will be highly esteemed: my coach shall be ready at nine; you know you are in my way. Hor. A fine opportunity, indeed, of three or four hours chat. Cleo. I shall be all alone without you. Hor. I am your man, and shall expect you. Cleo. Adieu. THE SIXTH DIALOGUE BETWEEN HORATIO AND CLEOMENES HORATIO. Now we are off the stones, pray let us lose no time; I expect a great deal of pleasure from what I am to hear further. Cleo. The second step to society is the danger men are in from one another: for which we are beholden to that staunch principle of pride and ambition, that all men are born with. Different families may endeavour to live together, and be ready to join in common danger; but they are all of little use to one another, when there is no common enemy to oppose. If we consider that strength, agility, and courage would, in such a state, be the most valuable qualifications, and that many families could not live long together, but some, actuated by the principle I named, would strive for superiority: this must breed quarrels, in which the most weak and fearful will, for their own safety, always join with him of whom they have the best opinion. Hor. This would naturally divide multitudes into bands and companies, that would all have their different leaders, and of which the strongest and most valiant would always swallow up the weakest and most fearful. Cleo. What you say agrees exactly with the accounts we have of the uncivilized nations that are still subsisting in the world; and thus men may live miserably many ages. Hor. The very first generation that was brought up under the tuition of parents, would be governable: and would not every succeeding generation grow wiser than the foregoing? Cleo. Without doubt they would increase in knowledge and cunning: time and experience would have the same effect upon them as it has upon others; and in the particular things to which they applied themselves, they would become as expert and ingenious as the most civilized nations: but their unruly passions, and the discords occasioned by them, would never suffer them to be happy; their mutual contentions would be continually spoiling their improvements, destroying their inventions, and frustrating their designs. Hor. But would not their sufferings in time bring them acquainted with the causes of their disagreement; and would not that knowledge put them upon making of contracts, not to injure one another? Cleo. Very probably they would; but among such ill-bred and uncultivated people, no man would keep a contract longer than that interest lasted which made him submit to it. Hor. But might not religion, the fear of an invisible cause, be made serviceable to them, as to the keeping of their contracts? Cleo. It might, without dispute; and would, before many generations passed away. But religion could do no more among them, than it does among civilized nations; where the Divine vengeance is seldom trusted to only, and oaths themselves are thought to be of little service, where there is no human power to enforce the obligation, and punish perjury. Hor. But do not think, that the same ambition that made a man aspire to be a leader, would make him likewise desirous of being obeyed in civil matters, by the numbers he led? Cleo. I do; and moreover that, notwithstanding this unsettled and precarious way communities would live in, after three or four generations, human nature would be looked into, and begin to be understood: leaders would find out, that the more strife and discord there was amongst the people they headed, the less use they could make of them: this would put them upon various ways of curbing mankind; they would forbid killing and striking one another; the taking away by force the wives or children of others in the same community; they would invent penalties, and very early find out that nobody ought to be a judge in his own cause; and that old men, generally speaking, knew more than young. Hor. When once they have prohibitions and penalties, I should think all the difficulty surmounted; and I wonder why you said, that thus they might live miserably for many ages. Cleo. There is one thing of great moment, which has not been named yet; and until that comes to pass, no considerable numbers can ever be made happy; what signify the strongest contracts when we have nothing to show for them; and what dependence can we have upon oral tradition, in matters that require exactness; especially whilst the language that is spoken is yet very imperfect? Verbal reports are liable to a thousand cavils and disputes that are prevented by records, which every body knows to be unerring witnesses; and from the many attempts that are made to wrest and distort the sense of even written laws, we may judge how impracticable the administration of justice must be among all societies that are destitute of them. Therefore the third and last step to society, is the invention of letters. No multitudes can live peaceably without government; no government can subsist without laws; and no laws can be effectual long, unless they are wrote down: the consideration of this is alone sufficient to give us a great insight into the nature of man. Hor. I do not think so: the reason why no government can subsist without laws, is, because there are bad men in all multitudes; but to take patterns from them, when we would judge of human nature, rather than from the good ones that follow the dictates of their reason, is an injustice one would not be guilty of to brute beasts; and it would be very wrong in us, for a few vicious horses, to condemn the whole species as such, without taking notice of the many fine spirited creatures that are naturally tame and gentle. Cleo. At this rate I must repeat every thing that I have said yesterday and the day before: I thought you was convinced, that it was with thought as it is with speech; and that though man was born with a capacity beyond other animals, to attain to both, yet, whilst he remained untaught, and never conversed with any of his species, these characteristics were of little use to him. All men uninstructed, whilst they are let alone, will follow the impulse of their nature, without regard to others; and therefore all of them are bad, that are not taught to be good; so all horses are ungovernable that are not well broken: for what we call vicious in them, is, when they bite or kick, endeavour to break their halter, throw their rider, and exert themselves with all their strength to shake off the yoke, and recover that liberty which nature prompts them to assert and desire. What you call natural, is evidently artificial, and belongs to education: no fine-spirited horse was ever tame or gentle, without management. Some, perhaps, are not backed until they are four years old; but then long before that time, they are handled, spoke to, and dressed; they are fed by their keepers, put under restraint, sometimes caressed, and sometimes made to smart; and nothing is omitted whilst they are young, to inspire them with awe and veneration to our species; and make them not only submit to it, but likewise take a pride in obeying the superior genius of man. But would you judge of the nature of horses in general, as to its fitness to be governed, take the foals of the best bred mares and finest stallions, and turn an hundred of them loose, fillies and colts together, in a large forest, till they are seven years old, and then see how tractable they will be. Hor. But this is never done. Cleo. Whose fault is that? It is not at the request of the horses, that they are kept from the mares; and that any of them are ever gentle or tame, is entirely owing to the management of man. Vice proceeds from the same origin in men, as it does in horses; the desire of uncontrouled liberty, and impatience of restraint, are not more visible in the one than they are in the other; and a man is then called vicious, when, breaking the curbs of precepts and prohibitions, he wildly follows the unbridled appetites of his untaught or ill-managed nature. The complaints against this nature of ours, are every where the same: man would have every thing he likes, without considering whether he has any right to it or not; and he would do every thing he has a mind to do, without regard to the consequence it would be of to others; at the same time that he dislikes every body, that acting from the same principle, have in all their behaviour not a special regard to him. Hor. That is, in short, man naturally will not do as he would be done by. Cleo. That is true; and for this, there is another reason in his nature: all men are partial in their judgments, when they compare themselves to others; no two equals think so well of each other, as both do of themselves; and where all men have an equal right to judge, there needs no greater cause of quarrel, than a present amongst them, with an inscription of detur digniori. Man in his anger behaves himself in the same manner as other animals; disturbing, in the pursuit self-preservation, those they are angry with; and all of them endeavour, according as the degree of their passion is, either to destroy, or cause pain and displeasure to their adversaries. That these obstacles to society are the faults, or rather properties of our nature, we may know by this, that all regulations and prohibitions that have been contrived for the temporal happiness of mankind, are made exactly to tally with them, and to obviate those complaints, which I said were every where made against mankind. The principal laws of all countries have the same tendency; and there is not one that does not point at some frailty, defect, or unfitness for society, that men are naturally subject to; but all of them are plainly designed as so many remedies, to cure and disappoint that natural instinct of sovereignty, which teaches man to look upon every thing as centring in himself, and prompts him to put in a claim to every thing he can lay his hands on. This tendency and design to mend our nature, for the temporal good of society, is no where more visible, than in that compendious as well as complete body of laws, that was given by God himself. The Israelites, whilst they were slaves in Egypt, were governed by the laws of their masters; and as they were many degrees removed from the lowest savages, so they were yet far from being a civilized nation. It is reasonable to think, that, before they received the law of God, they had regulations and agreements already established, which the ten commandments did not abolish; and that they must have had notions of right and wrong, and contracts among them against open violence, and the invasion of property, is demonstrable. Hor. How is that demonstrable? Cleo. From the decalogue itself: all wise laws are adapted to the people that are to obey them. From the ninth commandment, for example, it is evident, that a man's own testimony was not sufficient to be believed in his own affair, and that nobody was allowed to be a judge in his own case. Hor. It only forbids us to bear false witness against our neighbour. Cleo. That is true; and therefore the whole tenor and design of this commandment presupposes, and must imply what I say. But the prohibitions of stealing, adultery, and coveting any thing that belonged to their neighbours, are still more plainly intimating the same; and seem to be additions and amendments, to supply the defects of some known regulations and contracts that had been agreed upon before. If, in this view, we behold the three commandments last hinted at, we shall find them to be strong evidences, not only of that instinct of sovereignty within us, which at other times I have called a domineering spirit, and a principle of selfishness; but likewise of the difficulty there is to destroy, eradicate, and pull it out of the heart of man: for, from the eighth commandment it appears, that, though we debar ourselves from taking the things of our neighbour by force, yet there is danger that this instinct will prompt us to get them unknown to him in a clandestine manner, and deceive us with the insinuations of an oportet habere. From the foregoing precept, it is likewise manifest, that though we agree not to take away, and rob a man of the woman that is his own, it is yet to be feared, that if we like her, this innate principle that bids us gratify every appetite, will advise us to make use of her as if she was our own; though our neighbour is at the charge of maintaining her and all the children she brings forth. The last more especially is very ample in confirming my assertion. It strikes directly at the root of the evil, and lays open the real source of the mischiefs that are apprehended in the seventh and the eighth commandment: for without first actually trespassing against this, no man is in danger of breaking either of the former. This tenth commandment, moreover, insinuates very plainly, in the first place, that this instinct of ours is of great power, and a frailty hardly to be cured; in the second, that there is nothing which our neighbour can be possessed of, but, neglecting the consideration of justice and property, we may have a desire after it; for which reason it absolutely forbids us to covet any thing that is his: The Divine Wisdom, well knowing the strength of this selfish principle, which obliges us continually to assume every thing to ourselves; and that, when once a man heartily covets a thing, this instinct, this principle will over-rule and persuade him to leave no stone unturned to compass his desires. Hor. According to your way of expounding the commandments, and making them tally so exactly with the frailties of our nature, it should follow from the ninth, that all men are born with a strong appetite to forswear themselves, which I never heard before. Cleo. Nor I neither; and I confess that the rebuke there is in this smart turn of yours is very plausible; but the censure, how specious soever it may appear, is unjust, and you shall not find the consequence you hint at, if you will be pleased to distinguish between the natural appetites themselves, and the various crimes which they make us commit, rather than not be obeyed: For, though we are born with no immediate appetite to forswear ourselves, yet we are born with more than one, that, if never checked, may in time oblige us to forswear ourselves, or do worse, if it be possible, and they cannot be gratified without it; and the commandment you mention plainly implies, that by nature we are so unreasonably attached to our interest on all emergencies, that it is possible for a man to be swayed by it, not only to the visible detriment of others, as is manifest from the seventh and the eighth, but even though it should be against his own conscience: For nobody did ever knowingly bear false witness against his neighbour, but he did it for some end or other; this end, whatever it is, I call his interest. The law which forbids murder, had already demonstrated to us, how immensely we undervalue every thing, when it comes in competition with ourselves; for, though our greatest dread be destruction, and we know no other calamity equal to the dissolution of our being, yet such unequitable judges this instinct of sovereignty is able to make of us, that rather than not have our will, which we count our happiness, we choose to inflict this calamity on others, and bring total ruin on such as we think to be obstacles to the gratification of our appetites; and this men do, not only for hindrances that are present, or apprehended as to come, but likewise for former offences, and things that are past redress. Hor. By what you said last, you mean revenge, I suppose. Cleo. I do so; and the instinct of sovereignty which I assert to be in human nature, is in nothing so glaringly conspicuous as it is in this passion, which no mere man was ever born without, and which even the most civilized, as well as the most learned, are seldom able to conquer: For whoever pretends to revenge himself, must claim a right to a judicature within, and an authority to punish: Which, being destructive to the mutual peace of all multitudes, are for that reason the first things that in every civil society are snatched away out of every man's hands, as dangerous tools, and vested in the governing part, the supreme power only. Hor. This remark on revenge has convinced me more than any thing you have said yet, that there is some such thing as a principle of sovereignty in our nature; but I cannot conceive yet, why the vices of private, I mean particular persons, should be thought to belong to the whole species. Cleo. Because every body is liable to fall into the vices that are peculiar to his species; and it is with them, as it is with distempers among creatures of different kinds: There are many ailments that horses are subject to, which are not incident to cows. There is no vice, but whoever commits it had within him before he was guilty of it, a tendency towards it, a latent cause that disposed him to it: Therefore, all lawgivers have two main points to consider at setting out: First, what things will procure happiness to the society under their care: Secondly, what passions and properties there are in man's nature, that may either promote or obstruct this happiness. It is prudence to watch your fish ponds against the insults of hearns and bitterns; but the same precaution would be ridiculous against turkeys and peacocks, or any other creatures, that neither love fish, nor are able to catch them. Hor. What frailty or defect is it in our nature, that the two first commandments have a regard to, or, as you call it, tally with? Cleo. Our natural blindness and ignorance of the true Deity: For, though we all come into the world with an instinct toward religion that manifests itself before we come to maturity, yet the fear of an invisible cause, or invisible causes, which all men are born with, is not more universal, than the uncertainty which all untaught men fluctuate in, as to the nature and properties of that cause, or those causes: There can be no greater proof of this---- Hor. I want none; the history of all ages is a sufficient witness. Cleo. Give me leave: There can, I say, be no greater proof of this, than the second commandment, which palpably points at all the absurdities and abominations which the ill-guided fear of an invisible cause had already made, and would still continue to make men commit; and in doing this, I can hardly think, that any thing but Divine Wisdom could, in so few words, have comprehended the vast extent and sum total of human extravagancies, as it is done in that commandment: For there is nothing so high or remote in the firmament, nor so low or abject upon earth, but some men have worshipped it, or made it one way or other the object of their superstition. Hor.----Crocodilon adorat Pars hæc: illa pavet saturam serpentibus Ibin. Effigias sacri nitet aurea Cercopitheci. A holy monkey! I own it is a reproach to our species, that ever any part of it should have adored such a creature as a god. But that is the tip-top of folly, that can be charged on superstition. Cleo. I do not think so; a monkey is still a living creature, and consequently somewhat superior to things inanimate. Hor. I should have thought mens adoration of the sun or moon infinitely less absurd than to have seen them fall down before so vile, so ridiculous an animal. Cleo. Those who have adored the sun and moon never questioned, but they were intelligent as well as glorious beings. But when I mentioned the word inanimate, I was thinking on what the same poet you quoted said of the veneration men paid to leeks and onions, deities they raised in their own gardens. Porrum & cepe nefas violare, & frangere morsu: O sanctas genteis, quibus hæc nascuntur in hortis Numina!---- But this is nothing to what has been done in America fourteen hundred years after the time of Juvenal. If the portentous worship of the Mexicans had been known in his days, he would not have thought it worth his while to take notice of the Egyptians. I have often admired at the uncommon pains those poor people must have taken to express the frightful and shocking, as well as bizarre and unutterable notions they entertained of the superlative malice and hellish implacable nature of their vitzliputzli, to whom they sacrificed the hearts of men, cut out whilst they were alive. The monstrous figure and laboured deformity of that abominable idol, are a lively representation of the direful ideas those wretches framed to themselves of an invisible over-ruling power; and plainly show us, how horrid and execrable they thought it to be, at the same time that they paid it the highest adoration; and at the expence of human blood endeavoured, with fear and trembling, if not to appease the wrath and rage of it, at least to avert, in some measure, the manifold mischiefs they apprehended from it. Hor. Nothing, I must own, can render declaiming against idolatry more seasonable than a reflection upon the second commandment: But as what you have been saying required no great attention, I have been thinking of something else. Thinking on the purport of the third commandment, furnishes me with an objection, and I think a strong one, to what you have affirmed about all laws in general, and the decalogue in particular. You know I urged that it was wrong to ascribe the faults of bad men to human nature in general. Cleo. I do; and thought I had answered you. Hor. Let me try only once more. Which of the two, pray, do you think profane swearing to proceed from, a frailty in our nature, or an ill custom generally contracted by keeping of bad company? Cleo. Certainly the latter. Hor. Then it is evident to me, that this law is levelled at the bad men only, that are guilty of the vice forbid in it; and not any frailty belonging to human nature in general. Cleo. I believe you mistake the design of this law; and am of opinion, that it has a much higher aim than you seem to imagine. You remember my saying, that reverence to authority was necessary, to make human creatures governable. Hor. Very well; and that reverence was a compound of fear, love, and esteem. Cleo. Now let us take a view of what is done in the decalogue: In the short preamble to it, expressly made that the Israelites should know who it was that spoke to them, God manifests himself to those whom he had chosen for his people, by a most remarkable instance of his own great power, and their strong obligation to him, in a fact, that none of them could be ignorant of. There is a plainness and grandeur withal in this sentence, than which nothing can be more truly sublime or majestic; and I defy the learned world to show me another as comprehensive, and of equal weight and dignity, that so fully executes its purpose, and answers its design with the same simplicity of words. In that part of the second commandment, which contains the motives and inducements why men should obey the Divine laws, are set forth in the most emphatical manner: First, God's wrath on those that hate him, and the continuance of it on their posterity: Secondly, the wide extent of his mercy to those who love him and keep his commandments. If we duly consider these passages, we shall find, that fear, as well as love, and the highest esteem, are plainly and distinctly inculcated in them; and that the best method is made use of there, to inspire men with a deep sense of the three ingredients that make up the compound of reverence. The reason is plain: If people were to be governed by that body of laws, nothing was more necessary to enforce their obedience to them, than their awful regard and utmost veneration to him, at whose command they were to keep them, and to whom they were accountable for the breaking of them. Hor. What answer is all this to my objection? Cleo. Have a moment's patience; I am coming to it. Mankind are naturally fickle, and delight in change and variety; they seldom retain long the same impression of things they received at first, when they were new to them; and they are apt to undervalue, if not despise the best, when they grow common. I am of opinion, that the third commandment points at this frailty, this want of steadiness in our nature; the ill consequences of which, in our duty to the Creator, could not be better prevented than by a strict observance of this law, in never making use of his name, but in the most solemn manner, on necessary occasions, and in matters of high importance. As in the foregoing part of the decalogue, care had been already taken, by the strongest motives, to create and attract reverence, so nothing could be more wisely adapted to strengthen, and make it everlasting, than the contents of this law: For as too much familiarity breeds contempt, so our highest regard due to what is most sacred, cannot be kept up better than by a quite contrary practice. Hor. I am answered. Cleo. What weight reverence is thought to be of to procure obedience, we may learn from the same body of laws in another commandment. Children have no opportunity of learning their duty but from their parents and those who act by their authority or in their stead: Therefore, it was requisite, that men should not only stand in great dread of the law of God, but likewise have great reverence for those who first inculcated it, and communicated to them that this was the law of God. Hor. But you said, that the reverence of children to parents was a natural consequence of what they first experienced from the latter. Cleo. You think there was no occasion for this law, if man would do what is commanded in it of his own accord: But I desire you would consider, that though the reverence of children to parents is a natural consequence, partly of the benefits and chastisements they receive from them, and partly of the great opinion they form of the superior capacity they observe in them; experience teaches us, that this reverence may be over-ruled by stronger passions; and therefore it being of the highest moment to all government and sociableness itself, God thought fit to fortify and strengthen it in us, by a particular command of his own; and, moreover, to encourage it, by the promise of a reward for the keeping of it. It is our parents that first cure us of our natural wildness, and break in us the spirit of independency we are all born with: It is to them we owe the first rudiments of our submission; and to the honour and deference which children pay to parents, all societies are obliged for the principle of human obedience. The instinct of sovereignty in our nature, and the waywardness of infants, which is the consequence of it, discover themselves with the least glimmering of our understanding, and before children that have been most neglected, and the least taught, are always the most stubborn and obstinate; and none are more unruly, and fonder of following their own will, than those that are least capable of governing themselves. Hor. Then this commandment you think not obligatory, when we come to years of maturity. Cleo. Far from it: for though the benefit politically intended by this law be chiefly received by us, whilst we are under age and the tuition of parents; yet, for that very reason, ought the duty commanded in it, never to cease. We are fond of imitating our superiors from our cradle, and whilst this honour and reverence to parents continue to be paid by their children, when they are grown men and women, and act for themselves, the example is of singular use to all minors, in teaching them their duty, and not to refuse what they see others, that are older and wiser, comply with by choice: For, by this means, as their understanding increases, this duty, by degrees, becomes a fashion, which at last their pride will not suffer them to neglect. Hor. What you said last is certainly the reason, that among fashionable people, even the most vicious and wicked do outward homage, and pay respect to parents, at least before the world; though they act against, and in their hearts hate them. Cleo. Here is another instance to convince us, that good manners are not inconsistent with wickedness; and that men may be strict observers of decorums, and take pains to seem well-bred, and at the same time have no regard to the laws of God, and live in contempt of religion: and therefore to procure an outward compliance with this fifth commandment, no lecture can be of such force, nor any instruction so edifying to youth, among the modest sort of people, as the sight of a strong and vigorous, as well as polite and well dressed man, in a dispute giving way and submitting to a decrepit parent. Hor. But do you imagine that all the divine laws, even those that seem only to relate to God himself, his power and glory, and our obedience to his will, abstract from any consideration of our neighbour, had likewise a regard to the good of society, and the temporal happiness of his people? Cleo. There is no doubt of that; witness the keeping of the Sabbath. Hor. We have seen that very handsomely proved in one of the Spectators. Cleo. But the usefulness of it in human affairs, is of far greater moment, than that which the author of that paper chiefly takes notice of. Of all the difficulties that mankind have laboured under in completing society, nothing has been more puzzling or perplexing than the division of time. Our annual course round the sun, not answering exactly any number of complete days or hours, has been the occasion of immense study and labour: and nothing has more racked the brain of man, than the adjusting the year to prevent the confusion of seasons: but even when the year was divided into lunar months, the computation of time must have been impracticable among the common people: To remember twenty-nine, or thirty days, where feasts are irregular, and all other days show alike, must have been a great burden to the memory, and caused a continual confusion among the ignorant; whereas, a short period soon returning is easily remembered, and one fixed day in seven, so remarkably distinguished from the rest, must rub up the memory of the most unthinking. Hor. I believe that the Sabbath is a considerable help in the computation of time, and of greater use in human affairs, than can be easily imagined by those, who never knew the want of it. Cleo. But what is most remarkable in this fourth commandment, is God's revealing himself to his people, and acquainting an infant nation with a truth, which the rest of the world remained ignorant of for many ages. Men were soon made sensible of the sun's power, observed every meteor in the sky, and suspected the influence of the moon and other stars: but it was a long time, and man was far advanced in sublime notions, before the light of nature could raise mortal thought to the contemplation of an Infinite Being that is the author of the whole. Hor. You have descanted on this sufficiently when you spoke of Moses: pray let us proceed to the further establishment of society. I am satisfied that the third step towards it is the invention of letters; that without them no laws can be long effectual, and that the principal laws of all countries are remedies against human frailties; I mean, that they are designed as antidotes, to prevent the ill consequences of some properties, inseparable from our nature; which yet in themselves, without management or restraint, are obstructive and pernicious to society: I am persuaded likewise, that these frailties are palpably pointed at in the decalogue; that it was wrote with great wisdom, and that there is not one commandment in it, that has not a regard to the temporal good of society, as well as matters of higher moment. Cleo. These are the things, indeed, that I have endeavoured to prove; and now all the great difficulties and chief obstructions, that can hinder a multitude from being formed into a body politic, are removed: when once men come to be governed by written laws, all the rest comes on a-pace. Now property, and safety of life and limb may be secured: this naturally will forward the love of peace, and make it spread. No number of men, when once they enjoy quiet, and no man needs to fear his neighbour, will be long without learning to divide and subdivide their labour. Hor. I do not understand you. Cleo. Man, as I have hinted before, naturally loves to imitate what he sees others do, which is the reason that savage people all do the same thing: this hinders them from meliorating their condition, though they are always wishing for it: but if one will wholly apply himself to the making of bows and arrows, whilst another provides food, a third builds huts, a fourth makes garments, and a fifth utensils: they not only become useful to one another, but the callings and employments themselves will in the same number of years receive much greater improvements, than if all had been promiscuously followed by every one of the five. Hor. I believe you are perfectly right there; and the truth of what you say is in nothing so conspicuous, as it is in watch-making, which is come to a higher degree of perfection, than it would have been arrived at yet, if the whole had always remained the employment of one person; and I am persuaded, that even the plenty we have of clocks and watches, as well as the exactness and beauty they may be made of, are chiefly owing to the division that has been made of that art into many branches. Cleo. The use of letters must likewise very much improve speech itself, which before that time cannot but be very barren and precarious. Hor. I am glad to hear you mention speech again: I would not interrupt you when you named it once before: Pray what language did your wild couple speak, when first they met? Cleo. From what I have said already, it is evident, that they could have had none at all; at least, that it is my opinion. Hor. Then wild people must have an instinct to understand one another, which they lose when they are civilized. Cleo. I am persuaded that nature has made all animals of the same kind, in their mutual commerce, intelligible to one another, as far as is requisite for the preservation of themselves and their species: and as to my wild couple, as you call them, I believe there would be a very good understanding before many sounds passed between them. It is not without some difficulty, that a man born in society can form an idea of such savages, and their condition; and unless he has used himself to abstract thinking, he can hardly represent to himself such a state of simplicity, in which man can have so few desires, and no appetites roving beyond the immediate call of untaught nature: to me it seems very plain, that such a couple would not only be destitute of language, but likewise never find out, or imagine that they stood in need of any; or that the want of it was any real inconvenience to them. Hor. Why do you think so? Cleo. Because it is impossible that any creatures should know the want of what it can have no idea of: I believe, moreover, that if savages, after they are grown men and women, should hear others speak, be made acquainted with the usefulness of speech, and consequently become sensible of the want of it in themselves, their inclination to learn it would be as inconsiderable as their capacity; and if they should attempt it, they would find it an immense labour, a thing not to be surmounted; because the suppleness and flexibility in the organs of speech, that children are endued with, and which I have often hinted at, would be lost in them; and they might learn to play masterly upon the violin, or any other the most difficult musical instrument, before they could make any tolerable proficiency in speaking. Hor. Brutes make several distinct sounds to express different passions by: as for example, anguish, and great danger, dogs of all sorts express with another noise than they do rage and anger; and the whole species express grief by howling. Cleo. This is no argument to make us believe, that nature has endued man with speech; there are innumerable other privileges and instincts which some brutes enjoy, and men are destitute of: chickens run about as soon as they are hatched; and most quadrupeds can walk without help, as soon as they are brought forth. If ever language came by instinct, the people that spoke it must have known every individual word in it; and a man in the wild state of nature would have no occasion for a thousandth part of the most barren language that ever had a name. When a man's knowledge is confined within a narrow compass, and he has nothing to obey, but the simple dictates of nature, the want of speech is easily supplied by dumb signs; and it is more natural to untaught men to express themselves by gestures, than by sounds; but we are all born with a capacity of making ourselves understood, beyond other animals, without speech: to express grief, joy, love, wonder and fear, there are certain tokens that are common to the whole species. Who doubts that the crying of children was given them by nature, to call assistance and raise pity, which latter it does so unaccountably beyond any other sound? Hor. In mothers and nurses, you mean. Cleo. I mean in the generality of human creatures. Will you allow me, that warlike music generally rouses and supports the spirits, and keeps them from sinking. Hor. I believe I must. Cleo. Then I will engage, that the crying (I mean the vagitus) of helpless infants will stir up compassion in the generality of our species, that are within the hearing of it, with much greater certainty than drums and trumpets will dissipate and chase away fear, in those they are applied to. Weeping, laughing, smiling, frowning, sighing, exclaiming, we spoke of before. How universal, as well as copious, is the language of the eyes, by the help of which the remotest nations understand one another at first sight, taught or untaught, in the weightiest temporal concern that belongs to the species? and in that language our wild couple would at their first meeting intelligibly say more to one another without guile, than any civilized pair would dare to name without blushing. Hor. A man, without doubt, may be as impudent with his eyes, as he can be with his tongue. Cleo. All such looks, therefore, and several motions, that are natural, are carefully avoided among polite people, upon no other account, than that they are too significant: it is for the same reason that stretching ourselves before others, whilst we are yawning, is an absolute breach of good manners, especially in mixed company of both sexes. As it is indecent to display any of these tokens, so it is unfashionable to take notice of, or seem to understand them: this disuse and neglect of them is the cause, that whenever they happen to be made, either through ignorance or wilful rudeness, many of them are lost and really not understood, by the beau monde, that would be very plain to savages without language, who could have no other means of conversing than by signs and motions. Hor. But if the old stock would never either be able or willing to acquire speech, it is possible they could teach it their children: then which way could any language ever come into the world from two savages? Cleo. By slow degrees, as all other arts and sciences have done, and length of time; agriculture, physic, astronomy, architecture, painting, &c. From what we see in children that are backward with their tongues, we have reason to think, that a wild pair would make themselves intelligible to each other by signs and gestures, before they would attempt it by sounds: but when they lived together for many years, it is very probable, that for the things they were most conversant with they would find out sounds, to stir up in each other the ideas of such things, when they were out of sight; these sounds they would communicate to their young ones; and the longer they lived together the greater variety of sounds they would invent, as well for actions as the things themselves: they would find that the volubility of tongue, and flexibility of voice, were much greater in their young ones, than they could remember it ever to have been in themselves: it is impossible, but some of these young ones would either by accident or design, make use of this superior aptitude of the organs at one time or other; which every generation would still improve upon; and this must have been the origin of all languages, and speech itself, that were not taught by inspiration. I believe moreover, that after language (I mean such as is of human invention) was come to a great degree of perfection, and even when people had distinct words for every action in life, as well as every thing they meddled or conversed with, signs and gestures still continued to be made for a great while, to accompany speech; because both are intended for the same purpose. Hor. The design of speech is to make our thoughts known to others. Cleo. I do not think so. Hor. What! do not men speak to be understood? Cleo. In one sense they do; but there is a double meaning in those words, which I believe you did not intend: if by man's speaking to be understood you mean, that when men speak, they desire that the purport of the sounds they utter should be known and apprehended by others, I answer in the affirmative: but if you mean by it, that men speak, in order that their thoughts may be known, and their sentiments laid open and seen through by others, which likewise may be meant by speaking to be understood, I answer in the negative. The first sign or sound that ever man made, born of a woman, was made in behalf, and intended for the use of him who made it; and I am of opinion, that the first design of speech was to persuade others, either to give credit to what the speaking person would have them believe; or else to act or suffer such things, as he would compel them to act or suffer, if they were entirely in his power. Hor. Speech is likewise made use of to teach, advise, and inform others for their benefit, as well as to persuade them in our own behalf. Cleo. And so by the help of it men may accuse themselves and own their crimes; but nobody would have invented speech for those purposes; I speak of the design, the first motive and intention that put man upon speaking. We see in children that the first things they endeavour to express with words are their wants and their will; and their speech is but a confirmation of what they asked, denied, or affirmed, by signs before. Hor. But why do you imagine that people would continue to make use of signs and gestures, after they could sufficiently express themselves in words? Cleo. Because signs confirm words, as much as words do signs; and we see, even in polite people, that when they are very eager they can hardly forbear making use of both. When an infant, in broken imperfect gibberish, calls for a cake or a play-thing, and at the same time points at and reaches after it, this double endeavour makes a stronger impression upon us, than if the child had spoke its wants in plain words, without making any signs, or else looked at and reached after the thing wanted, without attempting to speak. Speech and action assist and corroborate one another, and experience teaches us that they move us much more, and are more persuasive jointly than separately; vis unita fortior; and when an infant makes use of both, he acts from the same principle that an orator does when he joins proper gestures to an elaborate declamation. Hor. From what you have said it should seem that action is not only more natural, but likewise more ancient than speech itself, which before I should have thought a paradox. Cleo. Yet it is true; and you shall always find that the most forward, volatile, and fiery tempers make more use of gestures when they speak, than others that are more patient and sedate. Hor. It is a very diverting scene to see how this is overdone among the French, and still more among the Portuguese: I have often been amazed to see what distortions of face and body, as well as other strange gesticulations with hands and feet, some of them will make in their ordinary discourses: But nothing was more offensive to me, when I was abroad, than the loudness and violence which most foreigners speak with, even among persons of quality, when a dispute arises, or any thing is to be debated: before I was used to it, it put me always upon my guard; for I did not question but they were angry; and I often recollected what had been said in order to consider whether it was not something I ought to have resented. Cleo. The natural ambition and strong desire men have to triumph over, as well as persuade others, are the occasion of all this. Heightening and lowering the voice at proper seasons, is a bewitching engine to captivate mean understandings; and loudness is an assistant to speech, as well as action is: uncorrectness, false grammar, and even want of sense, are often happily drowned in noise and great bustle; and many an argument has been convincing, that had all its force from the vehemence it was made with: the weakness of the language itself may be palliatively cured by strength of elocution. Hor. I am glad that speaking low is the fashion among well-bred people in England; for bawling and impetuosity I cannot endure. Cleo. Yet this latter is more natural; and no man ever gave in to the contrary practice, the fashion you like, that was not taught it either by precept or example: and if men do not accustom themselves to it whilst they are young, it is very difficult to comply with it afterwards: but it is the most lovely, as well as most rational piece of good manners that human invention has to boast of in the art of flattery; for when a man addresses himself to me in a calm manner, without making gestures or other motions with head or body, and continues his discourse in the same submissive strain and composure of voice, without exalting or depressing it, he, in the first place, displays his own modesty and humility in an agreeable manner; and, in the second, makes me a great compliment in the opinion which he seems to have of me; for by such a behaviour he gives me the pleasure to imagine that he thinks me not influenced by my passions, but altogether swayed by my reason: he seems to lay his stress on my judgment, and therefore to desire, that I should weigh and consider what he says without being ruffled or disturbed: no man would do this unless he trusted entirely to my good sense, and the rectitude of my understanding. Hor. I have always admired this unaffected manner of speaking, though I never examined so deeply into the meaning of it. Cleo. I cannot help thinking, but that, next to the laconic and manly spirit that runs through the nation, we are very much beholden for the strength and beauty of our language to this tranquillity in discourse, which for many years has been in England, more than any where else, a custom peculiar to the beau monde, who, in all countries, are the undoubted refiners of language. Hor. I thought that it was the preachers, play-wrights, orators, and fine writers that refined upon language. Cleo. They make the best of what is ready coined to their hands; but the true and only mint of words and phrases is the court; and the polite part of every nation are in possession of the jus et norma loquendi. All technic words indeed, and terms of art, belong to the respective artists and dealers, that primarily and literally make use of them in their business; but whatever is borrowed from them for metaphorical use, or from other languages, living or dead, must first have the stamp of the court, and the approbation of beau monde before it can pass for current; and whatever is not used among them, or comes abroad without their sanction, is either vulgar, pedantic, or obsolete. Orators therefore, historians, and all wholesale dealers in words, are confined to those that have been already well received, and from that treasure they may pick and choose what is most for their purpose; but they are not allowed to make new ones of their own, any more than bankers are suffered to coin. Hor. All this while I cannot comprehend what advantage or disadvantage speaking loud or low can be of to the language itself; and if what I am saying now was set down, it must be a real conjurer that, half a year hence, should be able to tell by the writing, whether it had been bawled out or whispered. Cleo. I am of opinion that when people of skill and address accustom themselves to speak in the manner aforesaid, it must in time have an influence upon the language, and render it strong and expressive. Hor. But your reason? Cleo. When a man has only his words to trust to, and the hearer is not to be affected by the delivery of them, otherwise than if he was to read them himself, it will infallibly put men upon studying not only for nervous thoughts and perspicuity, but likewise for words of great energy, for purity of diction, compactness of style, and fullness, as well as elegancy of expressions. Hor. This seems to be far fetched, and yet I do not know but there may be something in it. Cleo. I am sure you will think so, when you consider that men that do speak are equally desirous and endeavouring to persuade and gain the point they labour for, whether they speak loud or low, with gestures or without. Hor. Speech, you say, was invented to persuade; I am afraid you lay too much stress upon that: it certainly is made use of likewise for many other purposes. Cleo. I do not deny that. Hor. When people scold, call names, and pelt one another with scurrilities, what design is that done with? If it be to persuade others, to have a worse opinion of themselves than they are supposed to entertain, I believe it is seldom done with success. Cleo. Calling names is showing others, and showing them with pleasure and ostentation, the vile and wretched opinion we have of them; and persons that make use of opprobrious language, are often endeavouring to make those whom they give it to, believe that they think worse of them than they really do. Hor. Worse than they do! Whence does that ever appear? Cleo. From the behaviour and the common practice of those that scold and call names. They rip up and exaggerate not only the faults and imperfections of their adversary himself, but likewise every thing that is ridiculous or contemptible in his friends or relations: They will fly to, and reflect upon every thing which he is but in the least concerned in, if any thing can possibly be said of it that is reproachful; the occupation he follows, the party he sides with, or the country he is of. They repeat with joy the calamities and misfortunes that have befallen him or his family: They see the justice of Providence in them, and they are sure they are punishments he has deserved. Whatever crime he has been suspected of, they charge him with, as if it had been proved upon him. They call in every thing to their assistance; bare surmises, loose reports, and known calumnies; and often upbraid him with what they themselves, at other times, have owned not to believe. Hor. But how comes the practice of scolding and calling names to be so common among the vulgar all the world over? there must be a pleasure in it, though I cannot conceive it: I ask to be informed; what satisfaction or other benefit is it, that men receive or expect from it? what view is it done with? Cleo. The real cause and inward motive men act from, when they use ill language, or call names in earnest, is, in the first place, to give vent to their anger, which it is troublesome to stifle and conceal. Secondly, to vex and afflict their enemies with greater hopes of impunity than they could reasonably entertain, if they did them any more substantial mischief, which the law would revenge: but this never comes to be a custom, nor is thought of, before language is arrived to great perfection, and society is carried to some degree of politeness. Hor. That is merry enough, to assert that scurrility is the effect of politeness. Cleo. You shall call it what you please, but in its original it is a plain shift to avoid fighting, and the ill consequences of it; for nobody ever called another rogue and rascal, but he would have struck him if it had been in his own power, and himself had not been withheld by the fear of something or other: therefore, where people call names without doing further injury, it is a sign not only that they have wholesome laws amongst them against open force and violence, but likewise that they obey and stand in awe of them; and a man begins to be a tolerable subject, and is nigh half civilized, that in his passion will take up and content himself with this paultry equivalent; which never was done without great self-denial at first: for otherwise the obvious, ready, and unstudied manner of venting and expressing anger, which nature teaches, is the same in human creatures that it is in other animals, and is done by fighting; as we may observe in infants of two or three months old, that never yet saw any body out of humour; for even at that age they will scratch, fling, and strike with their heads as well as arms and legs, when any thing raises their anger, which is easily, and at most times unaccountably provoked; often by hunger, pain, and other inward ailments. That they do this by instinct, something implanted in the frame, the mechanism of the body before any marks of wit or reason are to be seen in them, I am fully persuaded; as I am likewise, that nature teaches them the manner of fighting peculiar to their species; and children strike with their arms as naturally as horses kick, dogs bite, and bulls push with their horns. I beg your pardon for this digression. Hor. It was natural enough, but if it had been less so, you would not have slipt the opportunity of having a fling at human nature, which you never spare. Cleo. We have not a more dangerous enemy than our own inborn pride: I shall ever attack, and endeavour to mortify it when it is in my power: For the more we are persuaded that the greatest excellencies the best men have to boast of, are acquired, the greater stress it will teach us to lay upon education; and the more truly solicitous it will render us about it: And the absolute necessity of good and early instructions, can be no way more clearly demonstrated, than by exposing the deformity as well as the weakness of our untaught nature. Hor. Let us return to speech: if the chief design of it is to persuade, the French have got the start of us a great way; theirs is really a charming language. Cleo. So it is without doubt to a Frenchman. Hor. And every body else, I should think, that understands it, and has any taste: do not you think it to be very engaging? Cleo. Yes, to one that loves his belly; for it is very copious in the art of cookery, and every thing that belongs to eating and drinking. Hor. But without banter, do not you think that the French tongue is more proper, more fit to persuade in, than ours? Cleo. To coax and wheedle in, I believe it may. Hor. I cannot conceive what nicety it is you aim at, in that distinction. Cleo. The word you named includes no idea of reproach or disparagement; the greatest capacities may, without discredit to them, yield to persuasion, as well as the least; but those who can be gained by coaxing and wheedling, are commonly supposed to be persons of mean parts and weak understandings. Hor. But pray come to the point: which of the two do you take to be the finest language? Cleo. That is hard to determine: Nothing is more difficult than to compare the beauties of two languages together, because what is very much esteemed in the one, is often not relished at all in the other: In this point, the Pulchrum & Honestum varies, and is different every where, as the genius of the people differs. I do not set up for a judge, but what I have commonly observed in the two languages, is this: All favourite expressions in French, are such as either sooth or tickle; and nothing is more admired in English than what pierces or strikes. Hor. Do you take yourself to be entirely impartial now? Cleo. I think so; but if I am not, I do not know how to be sorry for it: There are some things in which it is the interest of the society that men should be biassed; and I do not think it amiss, that men should be inclined to love their own language, from the same principle that they love their country. The French call us barbarous, and we say they are fawning: I will not believe the first, let them believe what they please. Do you remember the six lines in the Cid, which Corneille is said to have had a present of six thousand livres for? Hor. Very well. Mon Pere est mort, Elvire, & la premiere Espee Dont s'est arme Rodrigue a sa trame coupee. Pleures, pleures mes yeux, & fondes vous en eau, La moitie de ma vie a mis l'autre au tombeau; Et m'oblige a venger, apres ce coup funeste, Cell qui je n'ay plus sur celle qui me reste. Cleo. The same thought expressed in our language, to all the advantage it has in the French, would be hissed by an English audience. Hor. That is no compliment to the taste of your country. Cleo. I do not know that: Men may have no bad taste, and yet not be so ready at conceiving, which way one half of one's life can put the other into the grave: To me, I own it is puzzling, and it has too much the air of a riddle to be seen in heroic poetry. Hor. Can you find no delicacy at all in the thought? Cleo. Yes; but it is too fine spun; it is the delicacy of a cobweb; there is no strength in it. Hor. I have always admired these lines; but now you have made me out of conceit with them: Methinks I spy another fault that is much greater. Cleo. What is that? Hor. The author makes his heroine say a thing which was false in fact: One half, says Chimene, of my life has put the other into the grave, and obliges me to revenge, &c. Which is the nominative of the verb obliges? Cleo. One half of my life. Hor. Here lies the fault; it is this, which I think is not true; for the one half of her life, here mentioned, is plainly that half which was left; it is Rodrigues her lover: Which way did he oblige her to seek for revenge? Cleo. By what he had done, killing her father. Hor. No, Cleomenes, this excuse is insufficient. Chimene's calamity sprung from the dilemma she was in between her love and her duty; when the latter was inexorable, and violently pressing her to solicit the punishment, and employ with zeal all her interest and eloquence to obtain the death of him, whom the first had made dearer to her than her own life; and therefore it was the half that was gone, that was put in the grave, her dead father, and not Rodrigues which obliged her to sue for justice: Had the obligation she lay under come from this quarter, it might soon have been cancelled, and herself released without crying out her eyes. Cleo. I beg pardon for differing from you, but I believe the poet is in the right. Hor. Pray, consider which it was that made Chimene prosecute Rodrigues, love, or honour. Cleo. I do; but still I cannot help thinking, but that her lover, by having killed her father, obliged Chimene to prosecute him, in the same manner as a man, who will give no satisfaction to his creditors, obliges them to arrest him; or as we would say to a coxcomb, who is offending us with his discourse, If you go on thus, Sir, you will oblige me to treat you ill: Though all this while the debtor might be as little desirous of being arrested, and the coxcomb of being ill treated, as Rodrigues was of being prosecuted. Hor. I believe you are in the right, and I beg Corneille's pardon. But now I desire you would tell me what you have further to say of society: What other advantages do multitudes receive from the invention of letters, besides the improvements it makes in their laws and language? Cleo. It is an encouragement to all other inventions in general, by preserving the knowledge of every useful improvement that is made. When laws begin to be well known, and the execution of them is facilitated by general approbation, multitudes may be kept in tolerable concord among themselves: It is then that it appears, and not before, how much the superiority of man's understanding beyond other animals, contributes to his sociableness, which is only retarded by it in his savage state. Hor. How so, pray; I do not understand you. Cleo. The superiority of understanding, in the first place, makes man sooner sensible of grief and joy, and capable of entertaining either with greater difference as to the degrees, than they are felt in other creatures: Secondly, it renders him more industrious to please himself; that is, it furnishes self-love with a greater variety of shifts to exert itself on all emergencies, than is made use of by animals of less capacity. Superiority of understanding likewise gives us a foresight, and inspires us with hopes, of which other creatures have little, and that only of things immediately before them. All these things are so many tools, arguments, by which self-love reasons us into content, and renders us patient under many afflictions, for the sake of supplying those wants that are most pressing: this is of infinite use to a man, who finds himself born in a body politic, and it must make him fond of society; whereas, the same endowment before that time, the same superiority of understanding in the state of nature, can only serve to render man incurably averse to society, and more obstinately tenacious of his savage liberty, than any other creature would be, that is equally necessitous. Hor. I do not know how to refute you: there is a justness of thought in what you say, which I am forced to assent to; and yet it seems strange: How come you by this insight into the heart of man, and which way is that skill of unravelling human nature to be obtained? Cleo. By diligently observing what excellencies and qualifications are really acquired in a well-accomplished man; and having done this impartially, we may be sure that the remainder of him is nature. It is for want of duly separating and keeping asunder these two things, that men have uttered such absurdities on this subject; alleging as the causes of man's fitness for society, such qualifications as no man ever was endued with, that was not educated in a society, a civil establishment, of several hundred years standing. But the flatterers of our species keep this carefully from our view: instead of separating what is acquired from what is natural, and distinguishing between them, they take pains to unite and confound them together. Hor. Why do they? I do not see the compliment; since the acquired, as well as natural parts, belong to the same person; and the one is not more inseparable from him than the other. Cleo. Nothing is so near to a man, nor so really and entirely his own, as what he has from nature; and when that dear self, for the sake of which he values or despises, loves or hates every thing else, comes to be stript and abstracted from all foreign acquisitions, human nature makes a poor figure: it shows a nakedness, or at least an undress, which no man cares to be seen in. There is nothing we can be possessed of that is worth having, which we do not endeavour, closely to annex, and make an ornament of to ourselves; even wealth and power, and all the gifts of fortune, that are plainly adventitious, and altogether remote from our persons; whilst they are our right and property, we do not love to be considered without them. We see likewise that men, who are come to be great in the world from despicable beginnings, do not love to hear of their origin. Hor. That is no general rule. Cleo. I believe it is, though there may be exceptions from it; and these are not without reasons. When a man is proud of his parts, and wants to be esteemed for his diligence, penetration, quickness and assiduity, he will make perhaps an ingenuous confession, even to the exposing of his parents; and in order to set off the merit that raised him, bespeaking himself of his original meanness. But this is commonly done before inferiors, whose envy will be lessened by it, and who will applaud his candour and humility in owning this blemish: but not a word of this before his betters, who value themselves upon their families; and such men could heartily wish that their parentage was unknown, whenever they are with those that are their equals in quality, though superior to them in birth; by whom they know that they are hated for their advancement, and despised for the lowness of their extraction. But I have a shorter way of proving my assertion. Pray, is it good manners to tell a man that he is meanly born, or to hint at his descent, when it is known to be vulgar? Hor. No: I do not say it is. Cleo. That decides it, by showing the general opinion about it. Noble ancestors, and every thing else that is honourable and esteemed, and can be drawn within our sphere, are an advantage to our persons, and we all desire they should be looked upon as our own. Hor. Ovid did not think so, when he said, Nam genus & proavos & quæ non fecimus ipsi, vix ea nostra voco. Cleo. A pretty piece of modesty in a speech, where a man takes pains to prove that Jupiter was his great grandfather. What signifies a theory, which a man destroys by his practice? Did you ever know a person of quality pleased with being called a bastard, though he owed his being, as well as his greatness, chiefly to his mother's impudicity? Hor. By things acquired, I thought you meant learning and virtue; how come you to talk of birth and descent? Cleo. By showing you, that men are unwilling to have any thing that is honourable separated from themselves, though it is remote from, and has nothing to do with their persons: I would convince you of the little probability there is, that we should be pleased with being considered, abstract from what really belongs to us; and qualifications, that in the opinion of the best and wisest are the only things for which we ought to be valued. When men are well-accomplished, they are ashamed of the lowest steps from which they rose to that perfection; and the more civilized they are, the more they think it injurious to have their nature seen, without the improvements that have been made upon it. The most correct authors would blush to see every thing published, which in the composing of their works they blotted out and stifled; and which yet it is certain they once conceived: for this reason they are justly compared to architects, that remove the scaffolding before they show their buildings. All ornaments bespeak the value we have for the things adorned. Do not you think, that the first red or white that ever was laid upon a face, and the first false hair that was wore, were put on with great secrecy, and with a design to deceive? Hor. In France, painting is now looked upon as part of a woman's dress; they make no mystery of it. Cleo. So it is with all the impositions of this nature, when they come to be so gross that they can be hid no longer; as men's perukes all over Europe: but if these things could be concealed, and were not known, the tawny coquette would heartily wish that the ridiculous dawbing she plasters herself with might pass for complexion; and the bald-pated beau would be as glad to have his full-bottomed wig looked upon as a natural head of hair. Nobody puts in artificial teeth, but to hide the loss of his own. Hor. But is not a man's knowledge a real part of himself? Cleo. Yes, and so is his politeness; but neither of them belong to his nature, any more than his gold watch or his diamond ring; and even from these he endeavours to draw a value and respect to his person. The most admired among the fashionable people that delight in outward vanity, and know how to dress well, would be highly displeased if their clothes, and skill in putting them on, should be looked upon otherwise than as part of themselves; nay, it is this part of them only, which, whilst they are unknown, can procure them access to the highest companies, the courts of princes; where it is manifest, that both sexes are either admitted or refused, by no other judgment than what is formed of them from their dress, without the least regard to their goodness, or their understanding. Hor. I believe I apprehend you. It is our fondness of that self, which we hardly know what it consists in, that could first make us think of embellishing our persons; and when we have taken pains in correcting, polishing, and beautifying nature, the same self-love makes us unwilling to have the ornaments seen separately from the thing adorned. Cleo. The reason is obvious. It is that self we are in love with, before it is adorned, as well as after, and every thing which is confessed to be acquired, seems to point at our original nakedness, and to upbraid us with our natural wants; I would say, the meanness and deficiency of our nature. That no bravery is so useful in war, as that which is artificial, is undeniable; yet the soldier, that by art and discipline has manifestly been tricked and wheedled into courage, after he has behaved himself in two or three battles with intrepidity, will never endure to hear that he has not natural valour; though all his acquaintance, as well as himself, remember the time that he was an arrant coward. Hor. But since the love, affection, and benevolence we naturally have for our species, is not greater than other creatures have for theirs, how comes it, that man gives more ample demonstrations of this love on thousand occasions, than any other animal? Cleo. Because no other animal has the same capacity or opportunity to do it. But you may ask the same of his hatred: the greater knowledge and the more wealth and power a man has, the more capable he is of rendering others sensible of the passion he is affected with, as well when he hates as when he loves them. The more a man remains uncivilized, and the less he is removed from the state of nature, the less his love is to be depended upon. Hor. There is more honesty and less deceit among plain, untaught people, than there is among those that are more artful; and therefore I should have looked for true love and unfeigned affection among those that live in a natural simplicity, rather than any where else. Cleo. You speak of sincerity; but the love which I said was less to be depended upon in untaught than in civilized people, I supposed to be real and sincere in both. Artful people may dissemble love, and pretend to friendship, where they have none; but they are influenced by their passions and natural appetites as well as savages, though they gratify them in another manner: well-bred people behave themselves in the choice of diet and the taking of their repasts, very differently from savages; so they do in their amours; but hunger and lust are the same in both. An artful man, nay, the greatest hypocrite, whatever his behaviour is abroad, may love his wife and children at his heart, and the sincerest man can do no more. My business is to demonstrate to you, that the good qualities men compliment our nature and the whole species with, are the result of art and education. The reason why love is little to be depended upon in those that are uncivilized, is because the passions in them are more fleeting and inconstant; they oftener jostle out and succeed one another, than they are and do in well-bred people, persons that are well educated, have learned to study their ease and the comforts of life; to tie themselves up to rules and decorums for their own advantage, and often to submit to small inconveniencies to avoid greater. Among the lowest vulgar, and those of the meanest education of all, you seldom see a lasting harmony: you shall have a man and his wife that have a real affection for one another, be full of love one hour, and disagree the next for a trifle; and the lives of many are made miserable from no other faults in themselves, than their want of manners and discretion. Without design they will often talk imprudently, until they raise one another's anger; which neither of them being able to stifle, she scolds at him; he beats her; she bursts out into tears; this moves him, he is sorry; both repent, and are friends again: and with all the sincerity imaginable resolve never to quarrel for the future, as long as they live: all this will pass between them in less than half a day, and will perhaps be repeated once a month, or oftener, as provocations offer, or either of them is more or less prone to anger. Affection never remained long uninterrupted between two persons without art; and the best friends, if they are always together, will fall out, unless great discretion be used on both sides. Hor. I have always been of your opinion, that the more men were civilized the happier they were; but since nations can never be made polite but by length of time, and mankind must have been always miserable before they had written laws, how come poets and others to launch out so much in praise of the golden age, in which they pretend there was so much peace, love, and sincerity? Cleo. For the same reason that heralds compliment obscure men of unknown extraction with illustrious pedigrees: as there is no mortal of high descent, but who values himself upon his family, so extolling the virtue and happiness of their ancestors, can never fail pleasing every member of a society: but what stress would you lay upon the fictions of poets? Hor. You reason very clearly, and with great freedom, against all heathen superstition, and never suffer yourself to be imposed upon by any fraud from that quarter; but when you meet with any thing belonging to the Jewish or Christian religion, you are as credulous as any of the vulgar. Cleo. I am sorry you should think so. Hor. What I say is fact. A man that contentedly swallows every thing that is said of Noah and his ark, ought not to laugh at the story of Deucalion and Pyrrha. Cleo. Is it as credible, that human creatures should spring from stones, because an old man and his wife threw them over their heads, as that a man and his family, with a great number of birds and beasts, should be preserved in a large ship, made convenient for that purpose? Hor. But you are partial: what odds is there between a stone and a lump of earth, for either of them to become a human creature? I can as easily conceive how a stone should be turned into a man or a woman, as how a man or a woman should be turned into a stone; and I think it not more strange, that a woman should be changed into a tree, as was Daphne, or into marble as Niobe, than that she should be transformed into a pillar of salt, as the wife of Lot was. Pray suffer me to catechise you a little. Cleo. You will hear me afterwards, I hope. Hor. Yes, yes. Do you believe Hesiod? Cleo. No. Hor. Ovid's Metamorphosis? Cleo. No. Hor. But you believe the story of Adam and Eve, and Paradise. Cleo. Yes. Hor. That they were produced at once, I mean at their full growth; he from a lump of earth, and she from one of his ribs? Cleo. Yes. Hor. And that as soon as they were made, they could speak, reason, and were endued with knowledge? Cleo. Yes. Hor. In short, you believe the innocence, the delight, and all the wonders of Paradise, that are related by one man; at the same time that you will not believe what has been told us by many, of the uprightness, the concord, and the happiness of a golden age. Cleo. That is very true. Hor. Now give me leave to show you, how unaccountable, as well as partial, you are in this. In the first place, the things naturally impossible, which you believe, are contrary to your own doctrine, the opinion you have laid down, and which I believe to be true: for you have proved, that no man would ever be able to speak, unless he was taught it; that reasoning and thinking come upon us by slow degrees; and that we can know nothing that has not from without been conveyed to the brain, and communicated to us through the organs of the senses. Secondly, in what you reject as fabulous, there is no manner of improbability. We know from history, and daily experience teaches us, that almost all the wars and private quarrels that have at any time disturbed mankind, have had their rise from the differences about superiority, and the meum & tuum: therefore before cunning, covetousness and deceit, crept into the world; before titles of honour, and the distinction between servant and master were known; why might not moderate numbers of people have lived together in peace and amity, when they enjoyed every thing in common; and have been content with the product of the earth in a fertile soil and a happy climate? Why cannot you believe this? Cleo. Because it is inconsistent with the nature of human creatures, that any number of them should ever live together in tolerable concord, without laws or government, let the soil, the climate, and their plenty be whatever the most luxuriant imagination shall be pleased to fancy them. But Adam was altogether the workmanship of God; a preternatural production: his speech and knowledge, his goodness and innocence were as miraculous, as every other part of his frame. Hor. Indeed, Cleomenes, this is insufferable; when we are talking philosophy you foist in miracles: why may not I do the same, and lay that the people of the golden age were made happy by miracle? Cleo. It is more probable that one miracle should, at a stated time, have produced a male and female, from whom all the rest of mankind are descended in a natural way; than that by a continued series of miracles several generations of people should have all been made to live and act contrary to their nature; for this must follow from the account we have of the golden and silver ages. In Moses, the first natural man, the first that was born of a woman, by envying and slaying his brother, gives an ample evidence of the domineering spirit, and the principle of sovereignty, which I have asserted to belong to our nature. Hor. You will not be counted credulous, and yet you believe all those stories, which even some of our divines have called ridiculous, if literally understood. But I do not insist upon the golden age, if you will give up Paradise: a man of sense, and a philosopher, should believe neither. Cleo. Yet you have told me that you believed the Old and New Testament. Hor. I never said that I believed every thing that is in them, in a literal sense. But why should you believe miracles at all? Cleo. Because I cannot help it: and I promise never to mention the name to you again, if you can show me the bare possibility that man could ever have been produced, brought into the world without miracle. Do you believe there ever was a man who had made himself? Hor. No: that is a plain contradiction. Cleo. Then it is manifest the first man must have been made by something; and what I say of man, I may say of all matter and motion in general. The doctrine of Epicurus, that every thing is derived from the concourse and fortuitous jumble of atoms, is monstrous and extravagant beyond all other follies. Hor. Yet there is no mathematical demonstration against it. Cleo. Nor is there one to prove, that the sun is not in love with the moon, if one had a mind to advance it; and yet I think it a greater reproach to human understanding to believe either, than it is to believe the most childish stories that are told of fairies and hobgoblins. Hor. But there is an axiom very little inferior to a mathematical demonstration, ex nihilo nihil fit, that is directly clashing with, and contradicts the creation out of nothing. Do you understand how something can come from nothing? Cleo. I do not, I confess, any more than I can comprehend eternity, or the Deity itself: but when I cannot comprehend what my reason assures me must necessarily exist, there is no axiom or demonstration clearer to me, than that the fault lies in my want of capacity, the shallowness of my understanding. From the little we know of the sun and stars, their magnitudes, distances, and motion; and what we are more nearly acquainted with, the gross visible parts in the structure of animals and their economy, it is demonstrable, that they are the effects of an intelligent cause, and the contrivance of a Being infinite in wisdom as well as power. Hor. But let wisdom be as superlative, and power as extensive as it is possible for them to be, still it is impossible to conceive how they should exert themselves, unless they had something to act upon. Cleo. This is not the only thing which, though it be true, we are not able to conceive: How came the first man to exist? and yet here we are. Heat and moisture are the plain effects from manifest causes, and though they bear a great sway, even in the mineral as well as the animal and vegetable world, yet they cannot produce a sprig of grass without a previous seed. Hor. As we ourselves, and every thing we see, are the undoubted parts of some one whole, some are of opinion, that this all, the to pan, the universe, was from all eternity. Cleo. This is not more satisfactory or comprehensible than the system of Epicurus, who derives every thing from wild chance, and an undesigned struggle of senseless atoms. When we behold things which our reason tells us could not have been produced without wisdom and power, in a degree far beyond our comprehension, can any thing be more contrary to, or clashing with that same reason, than that the things in which that high wisdom and great power are visibly displayed, should be coeval with the wisdom and power themselves that contrived and wrought them? Yet this doctrine which is spinosism in epitome, after having been neglected many years, begins to prevail again, and the atoms lose ground: for of atheism, as well as superstition, there are different kinds that have their periods and returns, after they have been long exploded. Hor. What makes you couple together two things so diametrically opposite? Cleo. There is greater affinity between them than you imagine: they are of the same origin. Hor. What, atheism and superstition! Cleo. Yes, indeed; they both have their rise from the same cause, the same defect in the mind of man, our want of capacity in discerning truth, and natural ignorance of the Divine essence. Men that from their most early youth have not been imbued with the principles of the true religion, and have not afterwards continued to be strictly educated in the same, are all in great danger of falling either into the one or the other, according to the difference there is in the temperament and complexion they are of, the circumstances they are in, and the company they converse with. Weak minds, and those that are brought up in ignorance, and a low condition, such as are much exposed to fortune, men of slavish principles, the covetous and mean-spirited, are all naturally inclined to, and easily susceptible of superstition; and there is no absurdity so gross, nor contradiction so plain, which the dregs of the people, most gamesters, and nineteen women in twenty, may not be taught to believe, concerning invisible causes. Therefore multitudes are never tainted with irreligion; and the less civilized nations are, the more boundless is their credulity. On the contrary, men of parts and spirit, of thought and reflection, the assertors of liberty, such as meddle with mathematics and natural philosophy, most inquisitive men, the disinterested that live in ease and plenty; if their youth has been neglected, and they are not well-grounded in the principles of the true religion, are prone to infidelity; especially such amongst them, whose pride and sufficiency are greater than ordinary; and if persons of this sort fall into hands of unbelievers, they run great hazard of becoming atheists or sceptics. Hor. The method of education you recommend, in pinning men down to an opinion, may be very good to make bigots, and raise a strong party to the priests; but to have good subjects, and moral men, nothing is better than to inspire youth with the love of virtue, and strongly to imbue them with sentiments of justice and probity, and the true notions of honour and politeness. These are the true specifics to cure man's nature, and destroy in him the savage principles of sovereignty and selfishness, that infest and are so mischievous to it. As to religious matters, prepossessing the mind, and forcing youth into a belief, is more partial and unfair, than it is to leave them unbiassed, and unprejudiced till they come to maturity, and are fit to judge as well as choose for themselves. Cleo. It is this fair and impartial management you speak in praise of, that will ever promote and increase unbelief; and nothing has contributed more to the growth of deism in this kingdom, than the remissness of education in sacred matters, which for some time has been in fashion among the better sort. Hor. The public welfare ought to be our principal care; and I am well assured, that it is not bigotry to a sect or persuasion; but common honesty, uprightness in all dealings, and benevolence to one another, which the society stands most in need of. Cleo. I do not speak up for bigotry; and where the Christian religion is thoroughly taught as it should be, it is impossible, that honesty, uprightness or benevolence should ever be forgot; and no appearances of those virtues are to be trusted to, unless they proceed from that motive; for without the belief of another world, a man is under no obligation for his sincerity in this: his very oath is no tie upon him. Hor. What is it upon an hypocrite that dares to be perjured? Cleo. No man's oath is ever taken, if it is known that once he has been forsworn; nor can I ever be deceived by an hypocrite, when he tells me that he is one; and I shall never believe a man to be an atheist, unless he owns it himself. Hor. I do not believe there are real atheists in the world. Cleo. I will not quarrel about words; but our modern deism is no greater security than atheism: for a man's acknowledging the being of a God, even an intelligent first Cause, is of no use, either to himself or others, if he denies, a Providence and a future state. Hor. After all, I do not think that virtue has any more relation to credulity, than it has to want of faith. Cleo. Yet it would and ought to have, if we were consistent with ourselves; and if men were swayed in their actions by the principles they side with, and the opinion they profess themselves to be of, all atheists would be devils, and superstitious men saints: but this is not true; there are atheists of good morals, and great villains superstitious: nay, I do not believe there is any wickedness that the worst atheist can commit, but superstitious men may be guilty of it; impiety not excepted; for nothing is more common amongst rakes and gamesters, than to hear men blaspheme, that believe in spirits, and are afraid of the devil. I have no greater opinion of superstition than I have of atheism; what I aimed at, was to prevent and guard against both; and I am persuaded that there is no other antidote to be obtained by human means, so powerful and infallible against the poison of either, as what I have mentioned. As to the truth of our descent from Adam, I would not be a believer, and cease to be a rational creature: what I have to say for it, is this. We are convinced that human understanding is limited; and by the help of every little reflection, we may be as certain that the narrowness of its bounds, its being so limited, is the very thing, the sole cause, which palpably hinders us from diving into our origin by dint of penetration: the consequence is, that to come at the truth of this origin, which is of very great concern to us, something is to be believed: but what or whom to believe is the question. If I cannot demonstrate to you that Moses was divinely inspired, you will be forced to confess, that there never was any thing more extraordinary in the world, than that, in a most superstitious age, one man brought up among the grossest idolaters, that had the vilest and most abominable notions of the Godhead, should, without help, as we know of, find out the most hidden and most important truths by his natural capacity only; for, besides the deep insight he had in human nature, as appears from the decalogue, it is manifest that he was acquainted with the creation out of nothing, the unity and immense greatness of that Invisible Power that has made the universe; and that he taught this to the Israelites, fifteen centuries before any other nation upon earth was so far enlightened: it is undeniable, moreover, that the history of Moses, concerning the beginning of the world and mankind, is the most ancient and least improbable of any that are extant; that others, who have wrote after him on the same subject, appear most of them to be imperfect copiers of him; and that the relations which seem not to have been borrowed from Moses, as the accounts we have of Sommona-codam, Confucius, and others, are less rational, and fifty times more extravagant and incredible, than any thing contained in the Pentateuch. As to the things revealed, the plan itself, abstract from faith and religion; when we have weighed every system that has been advanced, we shall find; that, since we must have had a beginning, nothing is more rational or more agreeable to good sense, than to derive our origin from an incomprehensible creative Power, that was the first Mover and Author of all things. Hor. I never heard any body entertain higher notions, or more noble sentiments of the Deity, than at different times I have heard from you; pray, when you read Moses, do not you meet with several things in the economy of Paradise, and the conversation between God and Adam, that seem to be low, unworthy, and altogether inconsistent with the sublime ideas you are used to form of the Supreme Being. Cleo. I freely own, not only that I have thought so, but likewise that I have long stumbled at it: but when I consider, on the one hand, that the more human knowledge increases, the more consummate and unerring the Divine Wisdom appears to be, in every thing we can have any insight into; and on the other, that the things hitherto detected, either by chance or industry, are very inconsiderable both in number and value, if compared to the vast multitude of weightier matters that are left behind and remain still undiscovered: When, I say, I consider these things, I cannot help thinking, that there may be very wise reasons for what we find fault with, that are, and perhaps ever will be, unknown to men as long the world endures. Hor. But why should he remain labouring under difficulties we can easily solve, and not say with Dr. Burnet, and several others, that those things are allegories, and to be understood in a figurative sense? Cleo. I have nothing against it; and shall always applaud the ingenuity and good offices of men, who endeavour to reconcile religious mysteries to human reason and probability; but I insist upon it, that nobody can disprove any thing that is said in the Pentateuch, in the most literal sense; and I defy the wit of man to frame or contrive a story, the best concerted fable they can invent, how man came into the world, which I shall not find as much fault with, and be able to make as strong objections to, as the enemies of religion have found with, and raised against the account of Moses: If I may be allowed to take the same liberty with their known forgery, which they take with the Bible, before they have brought one argument against the veracity of it. Hor. It may be so. But as first I was the occasion of this long digression, by mentioning the golden age; so now, I desire we may return to our subject. What time, how many ages do you think it would require to have a well-civilized nation from such a savage pair as yours? Cleo. That is very uncertain; and I believe it impossible, to determine any thing about it. From what has been said, it is manifest, that the family descending from such a stock, would be crumbled to pieces, reunited, and dispersed again several times, before the whole of any part of it could be advanced to any degree of politeness. The best forms of government are subject to revolutions, and a great many things must concur to keep a society of men together, till they become a civilized nation. Hor. Is not a vast deal owing, in the raising of a nation, to the difference there is in the spirit and genius of people? Cleo. Nothing, but what depends upon climates, which is soon over-balanced by skilful government. Courage and cowardice, in all bodies of men, depend entirely upon exercise and discipline. Arts and sciences seldom come before riches, and both flow in faster or slower, according to the capacity of the governors, the situation of the people, and the opportunities they have of improvements; but the first is the chief: to preserve peace and tranquillity among multitudes of different views, and make them all labour for one interest, is a great task; and nothing in human affairs requires greater knowledge, than the art of governing. Hor. According to your system, it should be little more, than guarding against human nature. Cleo. But it is a great while before that nature can be rightly understood; and it is the work of ages to find out the true use of the passions, and to raise a politician that can make every frailty of the members add strength to the whole body, and by dextrous management turn private Vices into public Benefits. Hor. It must be a great advantage to an age, when many extraordinary persons are born in it. Cleo. It is not genius, so much as experience, that helps men to good laws: Solon, Lycurgus, Socrates and Plato, all travelled for their knowledge, which they communicated to others. The wisest laws of human invention are generally owing to the evasions of bad men, whose cunning had eluded the force of former ordinances that had been made with less caution. Hor. I fancy that the invention of iron, and working the oar into a metal, must contribute very much to the completing of society; because men can have no tools nor agriculture without it. Cleo. Iron is certainly very useful; but shells and flints, and hardening of wood by fire, are substitutes that men make a shift with; if they can but have peace, live in quiet, and enjoy the fruits of their labour. Could you ever have believed, that a man without hands could have shaved himself, wrote good characters, and made use of a needle and thread with his feet? Yet this we have seen. It is said by some men of reputation, that the Americans in Mexico and Peru have all the signs of an infant world; because, when the Europeans first came among them, they wanted a great many things, that seem to be of easy invention. But considering that they had nobody to borrow from, and no iron at all, it is amazing which way they could arrive at the perfection we found them in. First, it is impossible to know, how long multitudes may have been troublesome to one another, before the invention of letters came among them, and they had any written laws. Secondly, from the many chasms in history, we know by experience, that the accounts of transactions and times in which letters are known, may be entirely lost. Wars and human discord may destroy the most civilized nations, only by dispersing them; and general devastations spare arts and sciences no more than they do cities and palaces. That all men are born with a strong desire, and no capacity at all to govern, has occasioned an infinity of good and evil. Invasions and persecutions, by mixing and scattering our species, have made strange alterations in the world. Sometimes large empires are divided into several parts, and produce new kingdoms and principalities; at others, great conquerors in few years bring different nations under one dominion. From the decay of the Roman empire alone we may learn, that arts and sciences are more perishable, much sooner lost, than buildings or inscriptions; and that a deluge of ignorance may overspread countries, without their ceasing to be inhabited. Hor. But what is it at last, that raises opulent cities and powerful nations from the smallest beginnings? Cleo. Providence. Hor. But Providence makes use of means that are visible; I want to know the engines it is performed with. Cleo. All the ground work that is required to aggrandize nations, you have seen in the Fable of the Bees. All sound politics, and the whole art of governing, are entirely built upon the knowledge of human nature. The great business in general of a politician is to promote, and, if he can, reward all good and useful actions on the one hand; and on the other, to punish, or at least discourage every thing that is destructive or hurtful to society. To name particulars would be an endless task. Anger, lust, and pride, may be the causes of innumerable mischiefs, that are all carefully to be guarded against: but setting them aside, the regulations only that are required to defeat and prevent all the machinations and contrivances that avarice and envy may put man upon, to the detriment of his neighbour, are almost infinite. Would you be convinced of these truths, do but employ yourself for a month or two, in surveying and minutely examining into every art and science, every trade, handicraft and occupation, that are professed and followed in such a city as London; and all the laws, prohibitions, ordinances and restrictions that have been found absolutely necessary, to hinder both private men and bodies corporate, in so many different stations, first from interfering with the public peace and welfare; secondly, from openly wronging and secretly over-reaching, or any other way injuring one another: if you will give yourself this trouble, you will find the number of clauses and provisos, to govern a large flourishing city well, to be prodigious beyond imagination; and yet every one of them tending to the same purpose, the curbing, restraining, and disappointing the inordinate passions, and hurtful frailties of man. You will find, moreover, which is still more to be admired, the greater part of the articles in this vast multitude of regulations, when well understood, to be the result of consummate wisdom. Hor. How could these things exist, if there had not been men of very bright parts and uncommon talents? Cleo. Among the things I hint at, there are very few that are the work of one man, or of one generation; the greatest part of them are the product, the joint labour of several ages. Remember what in our third conversation I told you, concerning the arts of ship-building and politeness. The wisdom I speak of, is not the offspring of a fine understanding, or intense thinking, but of sound and deliberate judgment, acquired from a long experience in business, and a multiplicity of observations. By this sort of wisdom, and length of time, it may be brought about, that there shall be no greater difficulty in governing a large city, than (pardon the lowness of the simile) there is in weaving of stockings. Hor. Very low indeed. Cleo. Yet I know nothing to which the laws and established economy of a well ordered city may be more justly compared, than the knitting-frame. The machine, at first view, is intricate and unintelligible; yet the effects of it are exact and beautiful; and in what is produced by it, there is a surprising regularity: but the beauty and exactness in the manufacture are principally, if not altogether, owing to the happiness of the invention, the contrivance of the engine. For the greatest artist at it can furnish us with no better work, than may be made by almost any scoundrel after half a year's practice. Hor. Though your comparison be low, I must own that it very well illustrates your meaning. Cleo. Whilst you spoke, I have thought of another, which is better. It is common now, to have clocks that are made to play several tunes with great exactness: the study and labour, as well as trouble of disappointments, which, in doing and undoing, such a contrivance must necessarily have cost from the beginning to the end, are not to be thought of without astonishment; there is something analogous to this in the government of a flourishing city, that has lasted uninterrupted for several ages: there is no part of the wholesome regulations belonging to it, even the most trifling and minute, about which great pains and consideration have not been employed, as well as length of time; and if you will look into the history and antiquity of any such city, you will find that the changes, repeals, additions and amendments, that have been made in and to the laws and ordinances by which it is ruled, are in number prodigious: but that when once they are brought to as much perfection as art and human wisdom can carry them, the whole machine may be made to play of itself, with as little skill as it required to wind up a clock; and the government of a large city once put into good order, the magistrates only following their noses, will continue to go right for a while, though there was not a wise man in it; provided that the care of Providence was to watch over it in the same manner as it did before. Hor. But supposing the government of a large city, when it is once established, to be very easy, it is not so with whole states and kingdoms: is it not a great blessing to a nation, to have all places of honour and great trust filled with men of parts and application, of probity and virtue? Cleo. Yes; and of learning, moderation, frugality, candour and affability: look out for such as fast as you can; but in the mean time the places cannot stand open, the offices must be served by such as you can get. Hor. You seem to insinuate, that there is a great scarcity of good men in the nation. Cleo. I do not speak of our nation in particular, but of all states and kingdoms in general. What I would say, is, that it is the interest of every nation to have their home government, and every branch of the civil administration so wisely contrived, that every man of middling capacity and reputation may be fit for any of the highest posts. Hor. That is absolutely impossible, at least in such a nation as ours: for what would you do for judges and chancellors? Cleo. The study of the law is very crabbed and very tedious; but the profession of it is as gainful, and has great honours annexed to it: the consequence of this is, that few come to be eminent in it, but men of tolerable parts and great application. And whoever is a good lawyer, and not noted for dishonesty, is always fit to be a judge, as soon as he is old and grave enough. To be a lord chancellor, indeed, requires higher talents; and he ought not only to be a good lawyer and an honest man, but likewise a person of general knowledge and great penetration. But this is but one man: and considering what I have said of the law, and the power which ambition and the love of gain have upon mankind, it is morally impossible, that, in the common course of things among the practitioners in chancery, there should not at all times be one or other fit for the seals. Hor. Must not every nation have men that are fit for public negotiations, and persons of great capacity to serve for envoys, ambassadors and plenipotentiaries? must they not have others at home, that are likewise able to treat with foreign ministers? Cleo. That every nation must have such people, is certain; but I wonder that the company you have kept both at home and abroad, have not convinced you that the things you speak of require no such extraordinary qualifications. Among the people of quality that are bred up in courts of princes, all middling capacities must be persons of address, and a becoming boldness, which are the most useful talents in all conferences and negotiations. Hor. In a nation so involved in debts of different kinds, and loaded with such a variety of taxes as ours is, to be thoroughly acquainted with all the funds, and the appropriations of them, must be a science not to be attained to without good natural parts and great application; and therefore the chief management of the treasury must be a post of the highest trust, as well as endless difficulty. Cleo. I do not think so: most branches of the public administration are in reality less difficult to those that are in them, than they seem to be to those that are out of them, and are strangers to them. If a jack and the weights of it were out of sight, a sensible man unacquainted with that matter, would be very much puzzled, if he was to account for the regular turning of two or three spits well loaded, for hours together; and it is ten to one, but he would have a greater opinion of the cook or the scullion, than either of them deserved. In all business that belong to the exchequer, the constitution does nine parts in ten; and has taken effectual care, that the happy person whom the king shall be pleased to favour with the superintendency of it, should never be greatly tired or perplexed with his office; and likewise that the trust, the confidence that must be reposed in him, should be very near as moderate as his trouble. By dividing the employments in a great office, and subdividing them into many parts, every man's business may be made so plain and certain, that, when he is a little used to it, it is hardly possible for him to make mistakes: and again, by careful limitations of every man's power, and judicious checks upon every body's trust, every officer's fidelity may be placed in so clear a light, that the moment he forfeits it, he must be detected. It is by these arts that the weightiest affairs, and a vast multiplicity of them, may be managed with safety as well as dispatch, by ordinary men, whose highest good is wealth and pleasure; and that the utmost regularity may be observed in a great office, and every part of it; at the same time, that the whole economy of it seems to be intricate and perplexed to the last degree, not only to strangers, but the greatest part of the very officers that are employed in it. Hor. The economy of our exchequer, I own, is an admirable contrivance to prevent frauds and encroachments of all kinds; but in the office, which is at the head of it, and gives motion to it, there is greater latitude. Cleo. Why so? A lord treasurer, or if his office be executed by commissioners, the chancellor of the exchequer, are no more lawless, and have no greater power with impunity to embezzle money, than the meanest clerk that is employed under them. Hor. Is not the king's warrant their discharge? Cleo. Yes; for sums which the king has a right to dispose of, or the payment of money for uses directed by parliament; not otherwise; and if the king, who can do no wrong, should be imposed upon, and his warrant be obtained for money at random, whether it is appropriated or not, contrary to, or without a direct order of the legislature, the treasurer obeys at his peril. Hor. But there are other posts, or at least there is one still of higher moment, and that requires a much greater, and more general capacity than any yet named. Cleo. Pardon me: as the lord chancellor's is the highest office in dignity, so the execution of it actually demands greater, and more uncommon abilities than any other whatever. Hor. What say you to the prime minister who governs all, and acts immediately under the king? Cleo. There is no such officer belonging to our constitution; for by this, the whole administration is, for very wise reasons, divided into several branches. Hor. But who must give orders and instructions to admirals, generals, governors, and all our ministers in foreign courts? Who is to take care of the king's interest throughout the kingdom, and of his safety? Cleo. The king and his council, without which, royal authority is not supposed to act, superintend, and govern all; and whatever the monarch has not a mind immediately to take care of himself, falls in course to that part of the administration it belongs to, in which every body has plain laws to walk by. As to the king's interest, it is the same with that of the nation; his guards are to take care of his person; and there is no business of what nature soever, that can happen in or to the nation, which is not within the province, and under the inspection of some one or other of the great officers of the crown, that are all known, dignified, and distinguished by their respective titles; and amongst them, I can assure you, there is no such name as prime minister. Hor. But why will you prevaricate with me after this manner? You know yourself, and all the world knows and sees, that there is such a minister; and it is easily proved, that there always have been such ministers: and in the situation we are, I do not believe a king could do without. When there are a great many disaffected people in the kingdom, and parliament-men are to be chosen, elections must be looked after with great care, and a thousand things are to be done, that are necessary to disappoint the sinister ends of malecontents, and keep out the Pretender; things of which the management often requires great penetration, and uncommon talents, as well as secrecy and dispatch. Cleo. How sincerely soever you may seem to speak in defence of these things, Horatio, I am sure, from your principles, that you are not in earnest. I am not to judge of the exigency of our affairs: But as I would not pry into the conduct, or scan the actions of princes, and their ministers, so I pretend to justify or defend no wisdom but that of the constitution itself. Hor. I do not desire you should: Only tell me, whether you do not think, that a man, who has and can carry this vast burden upon his shoulders, and all Europe's business in his breast, must be a person of a prodigious genius, as well as general knowledge, and other great abilities. Cleo. That a man, invested with so much real power, and an authority so extensive, as such ministers generally have, must make a great figure, and be considerable above all other subjects, is most certain: But it is my opinion, that there are always fifty men in the kingdom, that, if employed, would be fit for this post, and, after a little practice, shine in it, to one who is equally qualified to be a Lord High Chancellor of Great Britain. A prime minster has a vast, an unspeakable advantage barely by being so, and by every body's knowing him to be, and treating him as such: A man who in every office, and every branch of it throughout the administration, has the power, as well as the liberty, to ask and see whom and what he pleases, has more knowledge within his reach, and can speak of every thing with greater exactness than any other man, that is much better versed in affairs, and has ten times greater capacity. It is hardly possible, than an active man, of tolerable education, that is not destitute of a spirit nor of vanity, should fail of appearing to be wise, vigilant, and expert, who has the opportunity whenever he thinks fit, to make use of all the cunning and experience, as well as diligence and labour of every officer in the civil administration; and if he has but money enough, and will employ men to keep up a strict correspondence in every part of the kingdom, he can remain ignorant of nothing; and there is hardly any affair or transaction, civil or military, foreign or domestic, which he will not be able greatly to influence, when he has a mind either to promote or obstruct it. Hor. There seems to be a great deal in what you say, I must confess; but I begin to suspect, that what often inclines me to be of your opinion, is your dexterity in placing things in the light you would have seen them in, and the great skill you have in depreciating what is valuable, and detracting from merit. Cleo. I protest that I speak from my heart. Hor. When I reflect on what I have beheld with my own eyes, and what I still see every day of the transactions between statesmen and politicians, I am very well assured you are in the wrong: When I consider all the stratagems, and the force as well as finesse that are made use of to supplant and undo prime ministers, the wit and cunning, industry and address, that are employed to misrepresent all their actions, the calumnies and false reports that are spread of them, the ballads and lampoons that are published, the set speeches and studied invectives that are made against them; when I consider, I say, and reflect on these things, and every thing else that is said and done, either to ridicule or to render them odious, I am convinced, that to defeat so much art and strength, and disappoint so much malice and envy as prime ministers are generally attacked with, require extraordinary talents: No man of only common prudence and fortitude could maintain himself in that post for a twelvemonth, much less for many years together, though he understood the world very well, and had all the virtue, faithfulness, and integrity in it; therefore, there must be some fallacy in your assertion. Cleo. Either I have been deficient in explaining myself or else I have had the misfortune to be misunderstood. When I insinuated that men might be prime ministers without extraordinary endowments, I spoke only in regard to the business itself, that province, which, if there was no such minister, the king and council would have the trouble of managing. Hor. To direct and manage the whole machine of government, he must be a consummate statesman in the first place. Cleo. You have too sublime a notion of that post. To be a consummate statesman, is the highest qualification human nature is capable of possessing. To deserve that name, a man must be well versed in ancient and modern history, and thoroughly acquainted with all the courts of Europe, that he may know not only the public interest in every nation, but likewise the private views, as well as inclinations, virtues, and vices of princes and ministers: Of every country in Christendom, and the borders of it, he ought to know the product and geography, the principal cities and fortresses; and of these their trade and manufactures, their situation, natural advantages, strength, and number of inhabitants; he must have read men as well as books, and perfectly well understand human nature, and the use of the passions: He must, moreover, be a great master in concealing the sentiments of his heart, have an entire command over his features, and be well skilled in all the wiles and stratagems to draw out secrets from others. A man, of whom all this, or the greatest part of it, may not be said with truth, and that he has had great experience in public affairs, cannot be called a consummate statesman; but he may be fit to be a prime minister, though he had not a hundredth part of those qualifications. As the king's favour creates prime ministers, and makes their station the post of the greatest power as well as profit, so the same favour is the only bottom which those that are in it have to stand upon: The consequence is, that the most ambitious men in all monarchies are ever contending for this post as the highest prize, of which the enjoyment is easy, and all the difficulty in obtaining and preserving it. We see accordingly, that the accomplishments I spoke of to make a statesman are neglected, and others aimed at and studied, that are more useful and more easily acquired. The capacities you observe in prime ministers are of another nature, and consist in being finished courtiers, and thoroughly understanding the art of pleasing and cajoling with address. To procure a prince what he wants, when it is known, and to be diligent in entertaining him with the pleasures he calls for, are ordinary services: Asking is no better than complaining; therefore, being forced to ask, is to have cause of complaint, and to see a prince submit to the slavery of it, argues great rusticity in his courtiers; a polite minister penetrates into his master's wishes, and furnishes him with what he delights in, without giving him the trouble to name it. Every common flatterer can praise and extol promiscuously every thing that is said or done, and find wisdom and prudence in the most indifferent actions; but it belongs to the skilful courtier to set fine glosses upon manifest imperfections, and make every failing, every frailty of his prince, have the real appearance of the virtues that are the nearest, or, to speak more justly, the least opposite to them. By the observance of these necessary duties, it is that the favour of princes may be long preserved, as well as obtained. Whoever can make himself agreeable at a court, will seldom fail of being thought necessary; and when a favourite has once established himself in the good opinion of his master, it is easy for him to make his own family engross the king's ear, and keep every body from him but his own creatures: Nor is it more difficult, in length of time, to turn out of the administration every body that was not of his own bringing in, and constantly be tripping up the heels of those who attempt to raise themselves by any other interest or assistance. A prime minister has by his place great advantages over all that oppose him; one of them is, that nobody, without exception, ever filled that post but who had many enemies, whether he was a plunderer or a patriot: Which being well known, many things that are laid to a prime minister's charge are not credited among the impartial and more discreet part of mankind, even when they are true. As to the defeating and disappointing all the envy and malice they are generally attacked with, if the favourite was to do all that himself, it would certainly, as you say, require extraordinary talents and a great capacity, as well as continual vigilance and application; but this is the province of their creatures, a task divided into a great number of parts; and every body that has the least dependence upon, or has any thing to hope from the minister, makes it his business and his study, as it is his interest, on the one hand, to cry up their patron, magnify his virtues and abilities, and justify his conduct; on the other, to exclaim against his adversaries, blacken their reputation, and play at them every engine, and the same stratagems that are made use of to supplant the minister. Hor. Then every well-polished courtier is fit to be a prime minister, without learning or languages, skill in politics, or any other qualification besides. Cleo. No other than what are often and easily met with: It is necessary that he should be a man, at least, of plain common sense, and not remarkable for any gross frailties or imperfections; and of such, there is no scarcity almost in any nation: He ought to be a man of tolerable health and constitution, and one who delights in vanity, that he may relish, as well as be able to bear the gaudy crowds that honour his levees, the constant addresses, bows, and cringes of solicitors, and the rest of the homage that is perpetually paid him. The accomplishment he stands most in need of, is to be bold and resolute, so as not to be easily shocked or ruffled; if he be thus qualified, has a good memory, and is, moreover, able to attend a multiplicity of business, if not with a continual presence of mind, at least seemingly without hurry or perplexity, his capacity can never fail of being extolled to the skies. Hor. You say nothing of his virtue nor his honesty; there is a vast trust put in a prime minister: If he should be covetous, and have no probity, nor love for his country, he might make strange havoc with the public treasure. Cleo. There is no man that has any pride, but he has some value for his reputation; and common prudence is sufficient to hinder a man of very indifferent principles from stealing, where he would be in great danger of being detected, and has no manner of security that he shall not be punished for it. Hor. But great confidence is reposed in him where he cannot be traced; as in the money for secret services, of which, for reasons of state, it may be often improper even to mention, much more to scrutinize into the particulars; and in negotiations with other courts, should he be only swayed by selfishness and private views, without regard to virtue of the public, is it not in his power to betray his country, sell the nation, and do all manner of mischief? Cleo. Not amongst us, where parliaments are every year sitting. In foreign affairs nothing of moment can be transacted but what all the world must know; and should any thing be done or attempted that would be palpably ruinous to the kingdom, and in the opinion of natives and foreigners grossly and manifestly clashing with our interest, it would raise a general clamour, and throw the minister into dangers, which no man of the least prudence, who intends to stay in his country, would ever run into. As to the money for secret services, and perhaps other sums, which ministers have the disposal of, and where they have great latitudes, I do not question but they have opportunities of embezzling the nation's treasure: but to do this without being discovered, it must be done sparingly, and with great discretion: The malicious overlookers that envy them their places, and watch all their motions, are a great awe upon them: the animosities between those antagonists, and the quarrels between parties, are a considerable part of the nation's security. Hor. But would it not be a greater security to have men of honour, of sense and knowledge, of application and frugality, preferred to public employments? Cleo. Yes, without doubt. Hor. What confidence can we have in the justice or integrity of men; that, on the one hand, show themselves on all occasions mercenary and greedy after riches; and on the other, make it evident, by their manner of living, that no wealth or estate could ever suffice to support their expences, or satisfy their desires! besides, would it not be a great encouragement to virtue and merit, if from the posts of honour and profit all were to be debarred and excluded, that either wanted capacity or were enemies to business; all the selfish, ambitious, vain, and voluptuous? Cleo. Nobody disputes it with you; and if virtue, religion, and future happiness were sought after by the generality of mankind, with the same solicitude, as sensual pleasure, politeness, and worldly glory are, it would certainly be best that none but men of good lives, and known ability, should have any place in the government whatever: but to expert that this ever should happen, or to live in hopes of it in a large, opulent, and flourishing kingdom, is to betray great ignorance in human affairs? and whoever reckons a general temperance, frugality, and disinterestedness among the national blessings, and at the same time solicits Heaven for ease and plenty, and the increase of trade, seems to me, little to understand what he is about. The best of all, then, not being to be had, let us look out for the next best, and we shall find, that of all possible means to secure and perpetuate to nations their establishment, and whatever they value, there is no better method than with wise laws to guard and entrench their constitution, and contrive such forms of administration that the commonweal can receive no great detriment from the want of knowledge or probity of ministers, if any of them should prove less able or honest, than they could wish them. The public administration must always go forward; it is a ship that can never lie at anchor: the most knowing, the most virtuous, and the least self-interested ministers are the best; but, in the mean time there must be ministers. Swearing and drunkenness are crying sins among seafaring men, and I should think it a very desirable blessing to the nation, if it was possible to reform them: but all this while we must have sailors; and if none were to be admitted on board of any of his majesty's ships, that had sworn above a thousand oaths, or had been drunk above ten times in their lives, I am persuaded that the service would suffer very much by the well-meaning regulation. Hor. Why do not you speak more openly, and say that there is no virtue or probity in the world? for all the drift of your discourse is tending to prove that. Cleo. I have amply declared myself upon this subject already in a former conversation; and I wonder you will lay again to my charge what I once absolutely denied: I never thought that there were no virtuous or religious men; what I differ in with the flatterers of our species, is about the numbers which they contend for; and I am persuaded that you yourself, in reality, do not believe that there are so many virtuous men as you imagine you do. Hor. How come you to know my thoughts better than I do myself? Cleo. You know I have tried you upon this head already, when I ludicrously extolled and set a fine gloss on the merit of several callings and professions in the society, from the lowest stations of life to the highest: it then plainly appeared, that, though you have a very high opinion of mankind in general, when we come to particulars, you was as severe, and every whit as censorious as myself. I must observe one thing to you, which is worth consideration. Most, if not all people, are desirous of being thought impartial; yet nothing is more difficult than to preserve our judgment unbiassed, when we are influenced either by our love or our hatred; and how just and equitable soever people are, we see that their friends are seldom so good, or their enemies so bad as they represent them, when they are angry with the one, or highly pleased with the other. For my part, I do not think that, generally speaking, prime ministers are much worse than their adversaries, who for their own interest defame them, and at the same time, move Heaven and earth to be in their places. Let us look out for two persons of eminence in any court of Europe, that are equal in merit and capacity, and as well matched in virtues and vices, but of contrary parties; and whenever we meet with two such, one in favour and the other neglected, we shall always find that whoever is uppermost, and in great employ, has the applause of his party; and if things go tolerably well, his friends will attribute every good success to his conduct, and derive all his actions from laudable motives: the opposite side can discover no virtues in him; they will not allow him to act from any principles but his passions; and if any thing be done amiss, are very sure that it would not have happened if their patron had been in the same post. This is the way of the world. How immensely do often people of the same kingdom differ in the opinion they have of their chiefs and commanders, even when they are successful to admiration! we have been witnesses ourselves that one part of the nation has ascribed the victories of a general entirely to his consummate knowledge in martial affairs, and superlative capacity in action; and maintained that it was impossible for a man to bear all the toils and fatigues he underwent with alacrity, or to court the dangers he voluntarily exposed himself to, if he had not been supported, as well as animated, by the true spirit of heroism, and a most generous love for his country: these, you know, were the sentiments of one part of the nation, whilst the other attributed all his successes to the bravery of his troops, and the extraordinary care that was taken at home to supply his army; and insisted upon it, that from the whole course of his life, it was demonstrable, that he had never been buoyed up or actuated by any other principles than excess of ambition, and an unsatiable greediness after riches. Hor. I do not know but I may have said so myself. But after all, the Duke of Marlborough was a very great man, an extraordinary genius. Cleo. Indeed was he, and I am glad to hear you own it at last. Virtutem incolumem odimus, Sublatum ex oculis quærimus invidi. Hor. A propos. I wish you would bid them stop for two or three minutes: some of the horses perhaps may stale the while. Cleo. No excuses, pray. You command here. Besides, we have time enough.----Do you want to go out? Hor. No; but I want to set down something, now I think of it, which I have heard you repeat several times. I have often had a mind to ask you for it, and it always went out of my head again. It is the epitaph which your friend made upon the Duke. Cleo. Of Marlborough? with all my heart. Have you paper? Hor. I will write it upon the back of this letter; and as it happens, I mended my pencil this morning. How does it begin? Cleo. Qui belli, aut paucis virtutibus astra petebant. Hor. Well. Cleo. Finxerunt homines sæcula prisca Deos. Hor. I have it. But tell me a whole distich at a time; the sense is clearer. Cleo. Quae martem sine patre tulit, sine matre Minervam, Illustres mendax Græcia jactet avos. Hor. That is really a happy thought. Courage and conduct: just the two qualifications he excelled in. What is the next? Cleo. Anglia quem genuit jacet hac, Homo, conditus Urna, Antiqui, qualem non habuere Deum. Hor.----I thank you. They may go on now. I have seen several things since first I heard this epitaph of you, that are manifestly borrowed from it. Was it never published? Cleo. I believe not. The first time I saw it was the day the Duke was buried, and ever since it has been handed about in manuscript; but I never met with it in print yet. Hor. It is worth all his Fable of the Bees, in my opinion. Cleo. If you like it so well, I can show you a translation of it, lately done by a gentleman of Oxford, if I have not lost it. It only takes in the first and last distich, which indeed contain the main thought: The second does not carry it on, and is rather a digression. Hor. But it demonstrates the truth of the first in a very convincing manner; and that Mars had no father, and Minerva no mother, is the most fortunate thing a man could wish for, who wanted to prove that the account we have of them is fabulous. Cleo. Oh, here it is. I do not know whether you can read it; I copied it in haste. Hor. Very well. The grateful ages past a God declar'd, Who wisely council'd, or who bravely war'd: Hence Greece her Mars and Pallas deify'd; Made him the heroe's, her the patriot's guide. Ancients, within this urn a mortal lies Shew me his peer among your deities. It is very good. Cleo. Very lively; and what is aimed at in the Latin, is rather more clearly expressed in the English. Hor. You know I am fond of no English verse but Milton's. But do not let this hinder our conversation. Cleo. I was speaking of the partiality of mankind in general, and putting you in mind how differently men judged of actions, according as they liked or disliked the persons that performed them. Hor. But before that you was arguing against the necessity, which I think there is, for men of great accomplishments and extraordinary qualifications in the administration of public affairs. Had you any thing to add? Cleo. No; at least I do not remember that I had. Hor. I do not believe you have an ill design in advancing these notions; but supposing them to be true, I cannot comprehend that divulging them can have any other effect than the increase of sloth and ignorance; for if men may fill the highest places in the government without learning or capacity, genius or knowledge, there is an end of all the labour of the brain, and the fatigue of hard study. Cleo. I have made no such general assertion; but that an artful man may make a considerable figure in the highest post of the administration, and other great employments, without extraordinary talents, is certain: as to consummate statesmen, I do not believe there ever were three persons upon earth at the same time, that deserved that name. There is not a quarter of the wisdom, solid knowledge, or intrinsic worth in the world that men talk of and compliment one another with; and of virtue or religion there is not an hundredth part in reality of what there is in appearance. Hor. I allow that those who set out from no better motives, than avarice and ambition, aim at no other ends but wealth and honour; which, if they can but get anywise they are satisfied; but men who act from principles of virtue and a public spirit, take pains with alacrity to attain the accomplishments that will make them capable of serving their country: and if virtue be so scarce, how come there to be men of skill in their professions? for that there are men of learning and men of capacity, is most certain. Cleo. The foundation of all accomplishments must be laid in our youth, before we are able or allowed to choose for ourselves, or to judge, which is the most profitable way of employing our time. It is to good discipline, and the prudent care of parents and masters, that men are beholden for the greatest part of their improvements; and few parents are so bad as not to wish their offspring might be well accomplished: the same natural affection that makes men take pains to leave their children rich, renders them solicitous about their education. Besides, it is unfashionable, and consequently a disgrace to neglect them. The chief design of parents in bringing up their children to a calling or profession, is to procure them a livelihood. What promotes and encourages arts and sciences, is the reward, money and honour; and thousands of perfections are attained to, that would have had no existence, if men had been less proud or less covetous. Ambition, avarice, and often necessity, are great spurs to industry and application; and often rouse men from sloth and indolence, when they are grown up, whom no persuasions or chastisement of fathers or tutors, made any impression upon in their youth. Whilst professions are lucrative, and have great dignities belonging to them, there will always be men that excel in them. In a large polite nation, therefore, all sorts of learning will ever abound, whilst the people flourish. Rich parents, and such as can afford it, seldom fail bringing up their children to literature: from this inexhaustible spring it is, that we always draw much larger supplies than we stand in need of, for all the callings and professions where the knowledge of the learned languages is required. Of those that are brought up to letters, some neglect them, and throw by their books as soon as they are their own masters; others grow fonder of study, as they increase in years; but the greatest part will always retain a value for what has cost them pains to acquire. Among the wealthy, there will be always lovers of knowledge, as well as idle people: every science will have its admirers, as men differ in their tastes and pleasures; and there is no part of learning but somebody or other will look into it, and labour at it, from no better principles than some men are fox hunters, and others take delight in angling. Look upon the mighty labours of antiquaries, botanists, and the vertuosos in butterflies, cockle-shells, and other odd productions of nature; and mind the magnificent terms they all make use of in their respective provinces, and the pompous names they often give to what others, who have no taste that way, would not think worth any mortal's notice. Curiosity is often as bewitching to the rich, as lucre is to the poor; and what interest does in some, vanity does in others; and great wonders are often produced from a happy mixture of both. Is it not amazing, that a temperate man should be at the expence of four or five thousand a-year, or, which is much the same thing, be contented to lose the interest of above a hundred thousand pounds, to have the reputation of being the possessor and owner of rarities and knicknacks in a very great abundance, at the same time that he loves money, and continues slaving for it in his old age! It is the hopes either of gain or reputation, of large revenues and great dignities that promote learning; and when we say that any calling, art or science, is not encouraged, we mean no more by it, than that the masters or professors of it are not sufficiently rewarded for their pains, either with honour or profit. The most holy functions are no exception to what I say; and few ministers of the gospel are so disinterested as to have a less regard to the honours and emoluments that are or ought to be annexed to their employment, than they have to the service and benefit they should be of to others; and among those of them that study hard and take uncommon pains, it is not easily proved that many are excited to their extraordinary labour by a public spirit or solicitude for the spiritual welfare of the laity: on the contrary, it is visible, in the greatest part of them, that they are animated by the love of glory and the hopes of preferment; neither is it common to see the most useful parts of learning neglected for the most trifling, when, from the latter, men have reason to hope that they shall have greater opportunities of showing their parts, than offer themselves from the former. Ostentation and envy have made more authors than virtue and benevolence. Men of known capacity and erudition are often labouring hard to eclipse and ruin one another's glory. What principle must we say two adversaries act from, both men of unquestionable good sense and extensive knowledge, when all the skill and prudence they are masters of are not able to stifle, in their studied performances, and hide from the world, the rancour of their minds, the spleen and animosity they both write with against one another. Hor. I do not say that such act from principles of virtue. Cleo. Yet you know an instance of this in two grave divines, men of fame and great merit, of whom each would think himself very much injured, should his virtue be called in question. Hor. When men have an opportunity, under pretence of zeal for religion, or the public good, to vent their passion, they take great liberties. What was the quarrel? Cleo. De lana caprina. Hor. A trifle. I cannot guess yet. Cleo. About the metre of the comic poets among the ancients. Hor. I know what you mean now; the manner of scanding and chanting those verses. Cleo. Can you think of any thing belonging to literature, of less importance, or more useless? Hor. Not readily. Cleo. Yet the great contest between them, you see, is which of them understands it best, and has known it the longest. This instance, I think, hints to us how highly improbable it is, though men should act from no better principles than envy, avarice, and ambition, that when learning is once established, any part of it, even the most unprofitable, should ever be neglected in such a large opulent nation as ours is; where there are so many places of honour, and great revenues to be disposed of among scholars. Hor. But since men are fit to serve in most places with so little capacity, as you insinuate, why should they give themselves that unnecessary trouble of studying hard, and acquiring more learning than there is occasion for? Cleo. I thought I had answered that already; a great many, because they take delight in study and knowledge. Hor. But there are men that labour at it with so much application, as to impair their healths, and actually to kill themselves with the fatigue of it. Cleo. Not so many as there are that injure their healths, and actually kill themselves with hard drinking, which is the most unreasonable pleasure of the two, and a much greater fatigue. But I do not deny that there are men who take pains to qualify themselves in order to serve their country; what I insist upon is, that the number of those who do the same thing to serve themselves with little regard to their country, is infinitely greater. Mr. Hutcheson, who wrote the Inquiry into the Original of our Ideas of Beauty and Virtue, seems to be very expert at weighing and measuring the quantities of affection, benevolence, &c. I wish that curious metaphysician would give himself the trouble, at his leisure, to weigh two things separately: First, the real love men have for their country, abstracted from selfishness. Secondly, the ambition they have of being thought to act from that love, though they feel none. I wish, I say, that this ingenious gentleman would once weigh these two asunder; and afterwards, having taken in impartially all he could find of either, in this or any other nation, show us in his demonstrative way, what proportion the quantities bore to each other.--Quisque sibi commissus est, says Seneca; and certainly, it is not the care of others, but the care of itself, which nature has trusted and charged every individual creature with. When men exert themselves in an extraordinary manner, they generally do it to be the better for it themselves; to excel, to be talked of, and to be preferred to others, that follow the same business, or court the same favours. Hor. Do you think it more probable, that men of parts and learning should be preferred, than others of less capacity? Cleo. Cæteris paribus, I do. Hor. Then you must allow that there is virtue at least in those who have the disposal of places. Cleo. I do not say there is not; but there is likewise glory and real honour accruing to patrons for advancing men of merit; and if a person who has a good living in his gift, bestows it upon a very able man, every body applauds him, and every parishioner is counted to be particularly obliged to him. A vain man does not love to have his choice disapproved of, and exclaimed against by all the world, any more than a virtuous man; and the love of applause, which is innate to our species, would alone be sufficient to make the generality of men, and even the greatest part of the most vicious, always choose the most worthy, out of any number of candidates; if they knew the truth, and no stronger motive arising from consanguinity, friendship, interest, or something else, was to interfere with the principle I named. Hor. But, methinks, according to your system, those should be soonest preferred that can best coax and flatter. Cleo. Among the learned there are persons of art and address, that can mind their studies without neglecting the the world: these are the men that know how to ingratiate themselves with persons of quality; employing to the best advantage all their parts and industry for that purpose. Do but look into the lives and the deportment of such eminent men, as we have been speaking of, and you will soon discover the end and advantages they seem to propose to themselves from their hard study and severe lucubrations. When you see men in holy orders, without call or necessity, hovering about the courts of princes; when you see them continually addressing and scraping acquaintance with the favourites; when you hear them exclaim against the luxury of the age, and complain of the necessity they are under of complying with it; and at the same time you see, that they are forward, nay eager and take pains with satisfaction, in the way of living, to imitate the beau monde, as far as it is in their power: that no sooner they are in possession of one preferment, but they are ready, and actually soliciting for another, more gainful and more reputable; and that on all emergencies, wealth, power, honour and superiority are the things they grasp at, and take delight in; when, I say, you see these things, this concurrence of evidences, is it any longer difficult to guess at, or rather is there room to doubt of the principles they act from, or the tendency of their labours? Hor. I have little to say to priests, and do not look for virtue from that quarter. Cleo. Yet you will find as much of it among divines, as you will among any other class of men; but every where less in reality, than there is in appearance. Nobody would be thought insincere, or to prevaricate; but there are few men, though they are so honest as to own what they would have, that will acquaint us with the true reason why they would have it: therefore the disagreement between the words and actions of men is at no time more conspicuous, than when we would learn from them their sentiments, concerning the real worth of things. Virtue, is without doubt, the most valuable treasure which man can be possessed of; it has every body's good word; but where is the country in which it is heartily embraced, præmia si tollas? Money, on the other hand, is deservedly called the root of all evil: there has not been a moralist nor a satirist of note, that has not had a fling at it; yet what pains are taken, and what hazards are run to acquire it, under various pretences of designing to do good with it! As for my part, I verily believe, that as an accessary cause, it has done more mischief in the world than any one thing besides: yet it is impossible to name another, that is so absolutely necessary to the order, economy, and the very existence of the civil society; for as this is entirely built upon the variety of our wants, so the whole superstructure is made up of the reciprocal services which men do to each other. How to get these services performed by others, when we have occasion for them, is the grand and almost constant solicitude in life of every individual person. To expect that others should serve us for nothing, is unreasonable; therefore all commerce that men can have together, must be a continual bartering of one thing for another. The feller who transfers the property of a thing, has his own interest as much at heart as the buyer who purchases that property: and, if you want or like a thing, the owner of it, whatever stock or provision he may have of the same, or how greatly soever you may stand in need of it, will never part with it, but for a consideration which he likes better than he does the thing you want. Which way shall I persuade a man to serve me, when the service I can repay him in, is such as he does not want or care for? Nobody who is at peace, and has no contention with any of the society, will do any thing for a lawyer; and a physician can purchase nothing of a man, whose whole family is in perfect health. Money obviates and takes away all those difficulties, by being an acceptable reward for all the services men can do to one another. Hor. But all men valuing themselves above their worth, every body will over-rate his labour. Would not this follow from your system? Cleo. It certainly would, and does. But what is to be admired is, that the larger the numbers are in a society, the more extensive they have rendered the variety of their desires, and the more operose the gratification of them is become among them by custom; the less mischievous is the consequence of that evil, where they have the use of money: whereas, without it, the smaller the number was of a society, and the more strictly the members of it, in supplying their wants, would confine themselves to those only that were necessary for their subsistence, the more easy it would be for them to agree about the reciprocal services I spoke of. But to procure all the comforts of life, and what is called temporal happiness, in a large polite nation, would be every whit as practicable without speech, as it would be without money, or an equivalent to be used instead of it. Where this is not wanting, and due care is taken of it by the legislature, it will always be the standard, which the worth of every thing will be weighed by. There are great blessings that arise from necessity; and that every body is obliged to eat and drink, is the cement of civil society. Let men set what high value they please upon themselves, that labour which most people are capable of doing, will ever be the cheapest. Nothing can be dear of which there is great plenty, how beneficial soever it may be to man; and scarcity enhances the price of things much oftener than the usefulness of them. Hence it is evident why those arts and sciences will always be the most lucrative, that cannot be attained to, but in great length of time, by tedious study and close application; or else require a particular genius, not often to be met with. It is likewise evident, to whose lot, in all societies, the hard and dirty labour, which nobody would meddle with, if he could help it, will ever fall: but you have seen enough of this in the Fable of the Bees. Hor. I have so, and one remarkable saying I have read there on this subject, which I shall never forget. "The poor," says the author, "have nothing to stir them up to labour, but their wants, which it is wisdom to relieve, but folly to cure." Cleo. I believe the maxim to be just, and that it is not less calculated for the real advantage of the poor, than it appears to be for the benefit of the rich. For, among the labouring people, those will ever be the least wretched as to themselves, as well as most useful to the public, that being meanly born and bred, submit to the station they are in with cheerfulness; and contented, that their children should succeed them in the same low condition, inure them from their infancy to labour and submission, as well as the cheapest diet and apparel; when, on the contrary, that sort of them will always be the least serviceable to others, and themselves the most unhappy, who, dissatisfied with their labour, are always grumbling and repining at the meanness of their condition; and, under pretence of having a great regard for the welfare of their children, recommend the education of them to the charity of others; and you shall always find, that of this latter class of poor, the greatest part are idle sottish people, that, leading dissolute lives themselves, are neglectful to their families, and only want, as far as it is in their power, to shake off that burden of providing for their brats from their own shoulders. Hor. I am no advocate for charity schools; yet I think it is barbarous, that the children of the labouring poor, should be for ever pinned down, they, and all their posterity, to that slavish condition; and that those who are meanly born, what parts or genius soever they might be of, should be hindered and debarred from raising themselves higher. Cleo. So should I think it barbarous, if what you speak of was done any where, or proposed to be done. But there is no degree of men in Christendom that are pinned down, they and their posterity, to slavery for ever. Among the very lowest sort, there are fortunate men in every country; and we daily see persons, that without education, or friends, by their own industry and application, raise themselves from nothing to mediocrity, and sometimes above it, if once they come rightly to love money and take delight in saving it: and this happens more often to people of common and mean capacities, than it does to those of brighter parts. But there is a prodigious difference between debarring the children of the poor from ever rising higher in the world, and refusing to force education upon thousands of them promiscuously, when they should be more usefully employed. As some of the rich must come to be poor, so some of the poor will come to be rich in the common course of things. But that universal benevolence, that should every where industriously lift up the indigent labourer from his meanness, would not be less injurious to the whole kingdom than a tyrannical power, that should, without a cause, cast down the wealthy from their ease and affluence. Let us suppose, that the hard and dirty labour throughout the nation requires three millions of hands, and that every branch of it is performed by the children of the poor. Illiterate, and such as had little or no education themselves; it is evident, that if a tenth part of these children, by force and design, were to be exempt from the lowest drudgery, either there must be so much work left undone, as would demand three hundred thousand people; or the defect, occasioned by the numbers taken off, must be supplied by the children of others, that had been better bred. Hor. So that what is done at first out of charity to some, may, at long run, prove to be cruelty to others. Cleo. And will depend upon it. In the compound of all nations, the different degrees of men ought to bear a certain proportion to each other, as to numbers, in order to render the whole a well proportioned mixture. And as this due proportion is the result and natural consequence of the difference there is in the qualifications of men, and the vicissitudes that happen among them, so it is never better attained to, or preserved, than when nobody meddles with it. Hence we may learn, how the short-sighted wisdom of perhaps well-meaning people, may rob us of a felicity that would flow spontaneously from the nature of every large society, if none were to divert or interrupt the stream. Hor. I do not care to enter into these abstruse matters; what have you further to say in praise of money? Cleo. I have no design to speak either for or against it; but be it good or bad, the power and dominion of it are both of vast extent, and the influence of it upon mankind has never been stronger or more general in any empire, state, or kingdom, than in the most knowing and politest ages, when they were in their greatest grandeur and prosperity; and when arts and sciences were the most flourishing in them: Therefore, the invention of money seems to me to be a thing more skilfully adapted to the whole bent of our nature, than any other or human contrivance. There is no greater remedy against sloth or stubbornness; and with astonishment I have beheld the readiness and alacrity with which it often makes the proudest men pay homage to their inferiors: It purchases all services, and cancels all debts; nay, it does more, for when a person is employed in his occupation, and he who sets him to work, a good paymaster, how laborious, how difficult or irksome soever the service be, the obligation is always reckoned to lie upon him who performs it. Hor. Do not you think, that many eminent men in the learned professions would dissent from you in this? Cleo. I know very well, that none ought to do it, if ever they courted business, or hunted after employment. Hor. All you have said is true among mercenary people; but upon noble minds that despise lucre, honour has far greater efficacy than money. Cleo. The highest titles, and the most illustrious births, are no security against covetousness; and persons of the first quality, that are actually generous and munificent are often as greedy after gain, when it is worth their while, as the most sordid mechanics are for trifles: The year twenty has taught us, how difficult it is to find out those noble minds that despise lucre, when there is a prospect of getting vastly. Besides, nothing is more universally charming than money; it suits with every station, the high, the low, the wealthy, and the poor: whereas, honour has little influence on the mean, slaving people, and rarely affects any of the vulgar; but if it does, money will almost every where purchase honour; nay, riches of themselves are an honour to all those who know how to use them fashionably. Honour, on the contrary, wants riches for its support; without them it is a dead weight that oppresses its owner; and titles of honour, joined to a necessitous condition, are a greater burden together than the same degree of poverty is alone: for the higher a man's quality is, the more considerable are his wants in life; but the more money he has, the better he is able to supply the greatest extravagancy of them. Lucre is the best restorative in the world, in a literal sense, and works upon the spirits mechanically; for it is not only a spur that excites men to labour, and makes them in love with it, but it likewise gives relief in weariness, and actually supports men in all fatigues and difficulties. A labourer of any sort, who is paid in proportion to his diligence, can do more work than another who is paid by the day or the week, and has standing wages. Hor. Do not you think, then, that there are men in laborious offices, who, for a fixed salary, discharge their duties with diligence and assiduity? Cleo. Yes, many; but there is no place or employment in which there are required or expected, that continual attendance and uncommon severity of application, that some men harass and punish themselves with by choice, when every fresh trouble meets with a new recompence; and you never saw men so entirely devote themselves to their calling, and pursue business with that eagerness, dispatch, and perseverance in any office of preferment, in which the yearly income is certain and unalterable, as they often do in those professions where the reward continually accompanies the labour, and the fee immediately either precedes the service they do to others, as it is with the lawyers, or follows it, as it is with the physicians. I am sure you have hinted at this in our first conversation yourself. Hor. Here is the castle before us. Cleo. Which I suppose you are not sorry for. Hor. Indeed I am, and would have been glad to have heard you speak of kings and other sovereigns with the same candour, as well as freedom, with which you have treated prime ministers, and their envious adversaries. When I see a man entirely impartial, I shall always do him that justice, as to think, that if he is not in the right in what he says, at least he aims at truth. The more I examine your sentiments, by what I see in the world, the more I am obliged to come into them; and all this morning I have said nothing in opposition to you, but to be better informed, and to give you an opportunity to explain yourself more amply. I am your convert, and shall henceforth look upon the Fable of the Bees very differently from what I did; for though, in the Characteristics, the language and the diction are better, the system of man's sociableness is more lovely and more plausible, and things are set off with more art and learning; yet in the other there is certainly more truth, and nature is more faithfully copied in it almost every where. Cleo. I wish you would read them both once more, and, after that, I believe you will say that you never saw two authors who seem to have wrote with more different views. My friend, the author of the Fable, to engage and keep his readers in good humour, seems to be very merry, and to do something else, whilst he detects the corruption of our nature; and having shown man to himself in various lights, he points indirectly at the necessity, not only of revelation and believing, but likewise of the practice of Christianity manifestly to be seen in mens lives. Hor. I have not observed that: Which way has he done it indirectly? Cleo. By exposing, on the one hand, the vanity of the world, and the most polite enjoyments of it; and, on the other, the insufficiency of human reason and heathen virtue to procure real felicity: for I cannot see what other meaning a man could have by doing this in a Christian country, and among people that all pretend to seek after happiness. Hor. And what say you of Lord Shaftsbury? Cleo. First, I agree with you that he was a man of erudition, and a very polite writer; he has displayed a copious imagination, and a fine turn of thinking, in courtly language and nervous expressions: But, as on the one hand, it must be confessed, that his sentiments on liberty and humanity are noble and sublime, and that there is nothing trite or vulgar in the Characteristics; so, on the other, it cannot be denied, that the ideas he had formed of the goodness and excellency of our nature, were as romantic and chimerical as they are beautiful and amiable; that he laboured hard to unite two contraries that can never be reconciled together, innocence of manners, and worldly greatness; that to compass this end, he favoured deism, and, under pretence of lashing priestcraft and superstition, attacked the Bible itself; and, lastly, that by ridiculing many passages of Holy Writ, he seems to have endeavoured to sap the foundation of all revealed religion, with design of establishing Heathen virtue on the ruins of Christianity. FINIS. NOTES [1] This was wrote in 1714. [2] This was wrote in 1714. [3] P. 212, 213. First Edit. 175, 176. [4] P. 215. First Edit. 178. [5] P. 106. First Edit. 77. [6] P. 116. First Edit. 87. [7] P. 115, 116. First Edit. 86, 87. [8] Quis est tam vecors qui non intelligat, numine hoc tantum imperium esse natum, actum, et retentum? Cic. Orat. de Harush. Resp.