ENTERTAINMENTS OF THE COURS: OR, ACADEMICAL CONVERSATIONS.  
Held upon the Cours at Paris, by a Cabal of the Principal Wits of that Court.  
Compiled by that eminent and now celebrated Author, Monsieur de Marmet, Lord of Valcroissant.  
And Rendered into English by Thomas Saintserf, Gent.  
LONDON, Printed by T. C. and are to be sold at the three Pigeons in St. Paul's Churchyard, 165 8.  
ENTERTIENMENTS of the COURSES at PARIS   

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE JAMES, Marquis of Montrose, Earl of Kincairn, and Lord Mugdock.  
My Lord,  
THe World will perceive how hasty I am to throw myself at your Lordship's feet by this poor Dedication: for rather than bring no Offering, I have fetched a small Present from France to pass through England to arrive at the happiness of your Lordship's Patronage. I confess my Author inscribed it, To the Wits; and I do so too in sending it to Your Lordship; whose large Soul is so brimful of knowledge, that the measure is admired when compared with Your years. But our thoughts are answered as soon as we remember that immortal Hero, Your glorious Father; whose Spirit was so eminent for Speculation and Practice, that his Camp was an Academy, admirably replenished with Discourses of the best and deepest Sciences; whose several Parts were strongly held up, (under Him the Head) by those knowing Noble Souls, the Earls of Kinoul and Airly, the Lords Gourdon, Ogilvy, Naper, and Maderty, and the two famous Spottswoods, (Sir Robert, and his Nephew) whose learned heads were too precious to be cut off by them who knew not how to understand them. This I am bold to mention, because such Noble Discourses banished from his Quarters all obscene and scurrilous language, with all those offensive satirical Reflections, (which now are the only current Wit among us) and if any such peeped forth in his presence, his severe looks told the speaker it was unwelcome. Nor did this proceed from a narrowness in his heart, being (to all who knew him) one of the most Munificent, as well as Magnificent Personages, in the world: which too well appeared, when Cities after Victories tendered large sums to be freed from the present encumbrance of his Army; He satisfied their desires, but refused their Moneys, still saying, that he could not at once have their Hearts and their Purses; his work was to vindicate his Master's rights, and restore them to their wont happiness. Nay, his unexpressibly malicious Enemies found that his Mercy transcended their Malice, when those brave Persons (after Quarter given) were butchered at St. Andrew's, he refused to retaliate on the Prisoners in his power, saying, their Barbarity was to Him no example; and if the meanest Corporal in his Army should give Quarter to their General, it should be strictly and religiously observed. And after all, when commanded to lay down Arms, (though he then saw it destructive to his Master) he in mere Passive obedience submitted, as soon as he obtained Indemnity for them who engaged with him without paying one farthing Composition, nobly suffering himself to be banished, which (be it recorded to all Posterity) was put in execution at the Haven of Montrose, the Third day of September, a day which twice since hath been registered in blood, at Dunbar, and at Worcester.  
[All this might seem Flattery to your Lordship, (from me who had the honour of employment under his Command, both at home and abroad) if it were not known to the world for Truth; since the Soul of the Great MONTROSE lives eminently in His SON: which began early to show its vigour, when your Lordship (than not full twelve years old) 
After the battle of Kilseioh.  was close Prisoner in Edinborough-Castle, from whence you nobly refused to be exchanged, lest you cost your great Father the benefit of a Prisoner, wherein He gladly met Your Resolution, Both so conspiring to this glorious Action, that neither outdid the other, though all the world besides.  
[May both Your Names still live to fill Chronicles, whereof we dare not doubt, since your hopeful alliance by your incomparable Lady to the illustrious Family of the renowned DOUGLASSES; for whose Honour here, and Felicity hereafter, may Your Lordship accept the Duty, and God hear the Prayers of  
My Lord, Your Lordship's most obedient and most devoted humble Servant, THOMAS SAINTSERF.   

A short Table of the Subjects handled in this Book.  
1. HE maintains the honour of Lady's 
page 4.  2. Of the Country 
p. 8.  3. Of Sympathy 
p. 10.  4. Of Habits, or Habitudes in all their parts 
p. 13.  5. Of Quarrels, and Duels 
p. 25.  6. Of the Palm, and the Laurel 
p. 33.  7. Of Glory, the sole reward of Champions, and Conquerors 
p. 35.  8. Of Sea-sickness 
p. 42.  9 Of the Turks maxim 
p. 47.  10. Of Clemency 
p. 52.  11. The Relation of a Comedy of the Days Reign of Semiramis 
p. 61  12. An Invertive against an able Poet 
p. 76.  13. For the Country 
p. 85.  14. Of Eloquence, and the delicate parts thereof 
p. 83.  15. An Apology for Monsieur de Balzac 
p. 94.  16. of the distinction of Wits 
p. 100  17. Of Metoposcopy 
p. 118.  18. Of the infallibility of the Horoscopes 
p. 120.  19 Whence comes the folly of learned men 
p. 127.  20. Whether the World be Eternal or no 
p. 131.  21. Of Academies, and the differences thereof 
p. 138.  22. Of the posture men ought to be in at Court 
p. 151.  23 Of Balls and Masques 
p. 177   
I Humbly desire my worthy Readers, out of their induigence to my necessary absence from the Press, and the Correctors praeteritions, to mend these following errors (which as they are many, so are they, I hope, the grossest in the Book) by reading Anthonomasies for Anchonomasies, page 21. as indifferent, for an indifferent, p. 24. no where, for no more, p. 31. Cacozelous, for Carozelous, p. 34. Of the Preface, and of the Work, Intrigo, for Intrique.  
Intrigo, for Intrique, Page 2. Cleomica, for Cleomia, p. 6. his time, for time, p 9 Intrigos, for Intriques, p. 9 reiterated, for resiterated, p. 12. any, for my, p. 15. all Council, for all the Council, p. 28. niceness, for nicens, p. 29. my modesty, for modesty, p. 32. in some kind, for in some sort, p. 39 Universe, for Divers, p. 40. Helm, Helmet, p. 44. Topmast, for Top, p. 44. Insolvent, for Insolvable, p. 45. gold, for good, p. 52. a Barbarian, for Barbarians, p. 54. virtue, for virtues, p. 57 sufficient, for sufficiently. p. 57 in assiduity, for his assiduity, p. 60. Semiramis, for Smn ramis, p. 73. as, for at, p. 66. Intrigo, for Intrique, p. 66. than it would, for the it would, p. 67. reduced, for deduced, p. 70. in the Communions, for in Communions, p. 70. those, for these, p. 72. a most, for most a, p. 77. Philoxcnes, for Philonenes, p. 78. Mines, for Mimes, p. 78. his talon, for this talon, p. 81. Nominizing, for Nounnizing, p. 83. affectations, for affections, p. 84. That is, for That in, p. 86. Clarity, for Charity, p. 89. I would not have refused the Challenge, for I would Challenge, p. 100 blinded, for beblinded, p. 101. we are to hold, for we held, p. 103. pass, for post, p. 104. and that a person, for a person, p. 105. and open a gap, for and a gap, p. 105. to himself in history, for to his in history, p. 105. act not, for are not, p. 105. a man is of, for a man of, p. 109. a brisk, for and brisk, p. 107. skatteringly, for skanningly, p. 113. the Climates, for of the Climates, p. 114. Cellules, for Cellutes, p. 119. perfectly, for perfectively, p. 121. they spewed, for they said, p. 126. his glory, for for his glory, 132. Omnipotent, for Omnitent, p. 132. by the whole, for and by the whole, p. 143. this Academy, for the Academy, p. 146. but that it, for that but that it, p. 147. knew, for know, p. 155. in his own, sor in own p. 156. they have caught, for they caught p. 163. as we live, for as he lives, p. 168. to God, for God, p. 168. near a forced, for a forced, p. 172. have but ordinary, for have ordinary, p. 174. taillery, for caillery, p. 176. there were, for thed are, p. 180. upon the same, for so upon the same, p. 193. conclusion, for copulusion, p. 192. of this, for of their, p. 192. being tied, for were tied, p. 193. a bowl-dish, for the bowl-dish, p. 193. shave an egg, for shame an eggshell, p. 194. attended, for attend, p. 196. with no, for with, p. 203.   

ENTERTAINMENTS OF THE COURS: OR, ACADEMICAL CONVERSATIONS.  
THAT IS, A miscellany of Civil, Philosophical, Physical, Metaphysical, Astrological, Historical, and Politic Discourses; held upon the Cours at Paris, by a Cabal of the Principal Wits of that Court.  
Compiled and set forth by that eminent and now celebrated Author, Monsieur de Marmet, Lord of Valeroissant.  
And Translated into English by THOMAS SAINTSERE, Gentleman.  
LONDON, Printed by T. C. for Humphrey Robinson, at the three Pigeons in St. Paul's Churchyard, 1658.   

THE AUTHOR TO THE WITS.  
I Forbear to dedicate my Book to great Persons, who ordinarily take as little notice of such works as are addressed to them, as they do of the Authors thereof; and who make but small reckoning of such like Presents; not for that they are not worthy of them; but because they are now adays too much persecuted by them, and in regard also that they are often either above their understanding, or disagreeing from their Genius. For my part, I prefer Wit before Birth, and Knowledge before Dignity: and consequently, I had rather direct my works to intelligent and ordinary persons, who will take pleasure to read them, and of whom I can revenge myself, if they requite my labour with contempt or detraction.  
The conversation of these Walks, (which was not composed for every body, & which I offer you) is published for no other end then to make your protection (which you must not refuse it) triumph with the greater pomp and splendour, and to exalt the force of your reason, and the vigour of your wit above the lowness of its value, by the favour of your patronage. I produce it not because the contagious fancy of writing wherewith men's spirits are now a days infected, hath siezed upon me, and made me fond of being reputed and cried up for an Author; for I am not tickled with that ambition, nor have I any other motive to make me fall into this disease, but to be favoured with your remedy. If my Work were without blemish, and more happy than the rest of these times are, which daily pass the censure of the Critics, I would present it you only for the goodness thereof, to profit you, and divert you from more serious cogitations in your vacant moments. But in regard that in all Ages there was never any great man who escaped the rigour of censure, and who hath not been in some kind obscured in History: I have reason to procure it as many Patrons and Readers as I can, and such also as may be as zealous for my reputation, as they are necessary for my weakness: Besides that indeed, the bonour I bear you, obliges me to do it, as much as the advantage I expect from your protection: For were you to combat none but mean persons, both in judgement and condition, your victory would be more prejudicial than glorious: But now all the Grandees of the Kingdom are as much in love with Minerva, as they were wont to be with Mars; and are as good at the Pen, as they are at the Sword: So that by sustaining my cause, you will be constrained (if I be reproved) to oppose the diversity of their opinions who produce most admirable and sublime conceits; and I shall be the object of the quaintness of your wits; the vigour and subtlety whereof will (I hope) 〈◊〉 as victoriously forth against a multitude of illustrious and competent Judges, as against the Cabal of pertinatious and fastidious Critics. I have recourse therefore to you, both for your interest and mine, in confidence of your civility and sufficiency, if you read (as I hope you will) this Letter I send you: For ingenious and prudent men read a book from the beginning; but fools and dunces conceive that the Liminary Epistles of all Books are alike, and have not the curiosity to look upon the soul of an Author; however it be that indeed, by which he discovers what he is, rather than by all the elegancy and substance of his writings: And though the number of them who make books be infinite, and their wits but very indifferent, yet do they write very differently, and by different motions: For, some do it for their own satisfaction; others, for that of the public; some again, for profit and subsistence; and most of them all, by a motion of vanity, and desire of reputation. These last hold themselves to be accomplished wits, and think it to be the property of sublime intelligences, to communicate and divulge themselves, thereby to receive the reflection, and procure a testimony that they live with some credit in men's minds; as if forsooth, the reputation of a true man of honour were to become a Book, and be exposed to the humour of every Cock-brained Sot, who will despise and deride it, when he ought to cherish and esteem it. As for me, Readers, none of these motives, but a better design obliged me to Pen this Conversation; as the love and delight of my Neighbour in the first place, and in regard that a well regulated affection begins always at home, I did it both to benefit and divert myself with these reflections. Now the better to illuminate, and inform you of my subject, know, that I give you in these Entertainments, a Man of Honour, or a Complete Man, Incognito, and so much disguised, that myself who masked him, have much a do to know him. It is but a Fragment and relic of the instructions which I gave my Son; and if you will vouch safe to make some deliberation upon these little discourses which I have drawn from thence, (and which make no unpleasant medley) you will find it to be a perfect model to form a True man of Honour, and that the use and application thereof will not be wholly unfruitful. But, fearing lest I should fall short of such Authors as have gone before me, both in the production and dispensation of so necessary a doctrine, as that which treats of a Man of Honour; I decline the ways wherein they walked, by huddling up things and matters in an agreeable confusion; and the better to delight you with a handsome variety, I forbear to present you with raw, rough, and indigested Precepts, as I did my Son; however it be also true that I followed some kind of order in the documents I gave him, and that to instruct him with the better judgement, and facilitate his advantage, I couched them with regularity, and dressed them with good language, and not with such gibbridge as I now offer them to you. I can easily show you how to observe both this order, and the instructions I gave my Son; the Principal whereof was to call upon God in all his actions; to worship his Oracles in the mouths of his Anointed, (who are the gifts of Heaven;) to reverence and submit to the Mysteries of Faith; and not to scoff at Divine things, as Atheists and Libertines do. I can (I say) make you touch with your finger all such other documents of gallantry, both in Court and Camp, as are any way important and necessary to form a Man of Honour, by directing you in the Margin to the most essential Precepts thereof: But you will not have so little curiosity and prudence as to pass through this Walk without observing the rarities; nor will you be so much obstructed with Rheum, but that you will be able to smell the Roses which are in it, yea and pluck some of them too. You will peradventure find it strange, that I celebrate not mine own praises, nor those of my book, according to the custom of some Wits of the Times: but, besides that you know that it is unhandsome for any man so to do: Of two important and remarkable Precepts of antiquity, (the one to know one's self, and the other to make one's self known by speaking,) I prefer the bumility of the former; (where as others serve themselves of the vanity of the latter, to publish their pride;) and to make a right use of the latter, I always consider well both what I say, and what I do: For as on the one side I should be loath to have men say that my writings are full of vanity; that I am a fool; or that all my Rules are false; so am I no less glad on the other, to have ull the falsity fall to the Critics share, (if they make anill judgement of me) rather then one verity against this opinion should be found, either in my tongue or Pen; and especially in the latter, if I should chance to be so weak, as to be taken tripping in the former: For I am not of the humour of the greatest part of writers, who not hoping to attain an advantageous judgement of their works, presume to forge Apologiesfor themselves, and put them into their Prefaces, and (like silly and ill-favoured women, who kiss the Pencil which flatters them) either beg or hire some good pen to write in their behalf, without considering that the honour redounds to the Author, and not to them; according to those great Artists of antiquity, who wishing that all the reputation of their work might be ascribed to their ability, employed the best of their capacity, and the excellency of their Art upon the weakest and meanest subjects, to make it the more estimable and famous to Posterity. Nor am I of the humour of them who finding none to praise them so much as they desire, endeavour to blind the world, by audaciously borrowing the names of their friends, to set forth the imaginary elegancies of their writings, and the qualities which they fancy themselves to possess: And I vow to you Readers, that I cannot but blush for shame when I read such Epistles of this kind, as are directed to you; nor do I feed my fancy as they do, who often lie beyond probability, and are as well satisfied therewith, as Lovers are when they have dreamt that they have lain with their Mistresseses, though there be no such matter: For as these men enjoy their Loves but in conceit; so those take Bristol-stones for fine Diamonds; and the first and rough draught, for the perfection of a Picture; insomuch as that they forfeit the ornaments of Eloquence, by seeking them with so much violence; for since Nature is against them, it is in vain for them to labour to purchase the unperceivable address of Art. Some who conceive themselves to be the greatest Masters of this Profession, and who think they have found the secret of well writing, and of pleasing the whole world, are prone to gull and flatter themselves with the opinion that they are the sovereign Judges of Parnassus, (though without right or reason;) & so become the Adorers and Panegyrists of their own productions; but they tyre out Rhetoric to no purpose, and unsuccessfully extend themselves, together with the secrets of the Art, upon the praises they pretend to have acquired, though the noise of their writings (which is heard by none but themselves) be no greater than that which they would make by scrunching of a piece of Piecrust; and they ground their reputation upon the fine Apologies they make for themselves, as being sure enough that no body else would undertake to praise them: And indeed they have reason to do so, since it is necessary for dubious and improbable things to be thus supported; whereas on the other side, such as are certain, need no other prop then that which they have from themselves, and from the truth of their own essence. Therefore the certainty of this so just and well-grounded discourse, keeps me far enough from ascribing any esteem to what I do; because fame is better confined to four words of value, from an impartial and judicious person, then to the amplest and most elaborate Panegyrics, the most confirmative Eulogies, and the most authentical attestations, which have but the least supposition or savour of complacency and self-love: For these things are always unfaithful to them who trust in them, unless they be sustained by the testimony of others, and by the support of truth; without which two props all reputations must needs be dissipated and adulterated; they being to them as the Oak to the Ivy, to hold them up. One only suspetion (though ill grounded) abates the value of the noblest things; and that is pride, the least itch whereof is always fatal, if too much stirred. But men will tell me that all gallant persons are infected with ambition; that reputation is a ticklish thing; and that the love of Eloquence, which gives this passion of honour to Orators, is very charming and desirable; I grant it: But who is he, that effectively enjoys that Goddess, as he conceives he does? And who is he that as truly, and perfectly possesses, as he easily fancies he doth, that touching beauty, whose sweet and potent Empire reigns with sovereignty, over Rational Souls; and whose charms are so attractive, that the most barbarous spirit cannot resist them? He who were able to govern her peacefully alone, might call himself happy, and worthy of great honour, for his ambition would be fully satisfied, and his reputation advantageously established. But we must have Diogenes' Lantern to find him, and cry aloud with the Oblivious, Where is he? For I know but few Writers in France who can pretend to this advantage, and it may be there are not many more; I mean Monsieur de Scudery, and Monsieur de Balzac, (both famous for their merits and their Divine Writings) and some others of their Class; who have indeed all right to this pretention, and deservedly wear the Laurel for their praeheminencie therein: But it would be to no purpose to nominate them all particulary; for their works have illustrated their names, with such resplendent attributes, and titles (which are called in Rhetoric Anchonomasies) that they are easy enough to be known. Greece hath ever abounded with fair Women; witness Queen Helen, whose beauty, so much celebrated by antiquity, and so much admired by all the world in History, set all the Orient on fire, by the destruction of one City: But let Homer sing as much as he pleases of the excellency of this beauty, by the revolutions of her effects, and do what he can, to make us admire and adore her; for my part, I say still, that there came a much rarer miracle of perfection out of his Country, than she; I mean Eloquence, which hath kindled love and fire in all the Nations upon earth, and which merited at least, as well as his Helen, a History for her heauty; where as yet, we have but some pictures, of the tender and lively passions, of the great Masters thereof. This Grecian Girl, or this Heavenly Girl, (incomparably more charming than King Priam's Daughter-in-Law) which captivates the most determinate, and most resolute spirits, and inspires them with a certain kind of love, which understands reason, and guides itself by it: This fair Girl, I say, came to dwell, and set up an Academy at Parnassus, where she had a world of Courtiers, and Suitors: But not being satisfied with these alone, she went to travel up and down the world, and endeavoured to spread her Original, upon all the tongues which had her Copy: For the ancient Latins, who passionately loved foreign beauties (as their successors still do) stayed her, as she passed through Rome, and became her Amorous Idolaters; and indeed, by their cares and services, they received great favours, and most secret carresses from her: But she being of an inconstant and light humour, and fond of variety, after she had once cloyed herself with them, bid them farewell, and went on to see, and be seen, in the rest of the world. Wherefore it is not for any of our Frenchmen to think that they have gotten the virginity of this fair Lady of pleasure, howbeit some flatterers have endeavoured to chowce, and fool them with that opinion, and have served them, as those women use to do, who sell their Wenches Maidenheads a hundred times over: For, if they have any smack of good learning (as I think they have) and any skill in Languages, they know well enough, (against the sentence of a famous Author, who says, That it is impossible for an old Woman to be handsome) that Eloquence is a handsome, and old Courtesan, which hath as much of the Sensitive Soul, as of the Rational; that all the world hath had to do with her, and that never any body enjoyed her alone; that Caefar carried her into the Camp; that Cicero ushered her throughout the whole Roman Empire; and that before these, Isocrates, with his swavity; Demosthenes, with his vehemency, and many other Authors carried her all over Greece. So that these Gallants ought not to conceive themselves, to have found the Bean in the Cake, and swagger, and crack, of an imaginary good fortune. For my part, I go a quite contrary way to work, being far from this presumprion, and instead of praising myself, I entreat you my Readers, to excuse the faults, which you shall find in my Books; I mean, as well those, which may be directly imputed to me, as those of the Correctors of the Press; in regard I have freely and absolutely committed the Copy to their disposal, in case my friends at Court (who are some of those famous, and acquaint Wits, which composed the Academy, and were the delights of the greatest man that ever was) should approve, and like of it. But fearing least all the faults you may find in them, should leave some ill impression upon you, (as poison doth when we have touched it) and to banish the bad opinion you may retain of them otherwise (without taking notice of these petty fopperies) I conjure you, to break the bone, when you have picked it, take out the Marrow, and make your profit of such matters as will divert you. I caused this first Edition to be Printed in a small volume, for your conveniency; to the end that making it your Pocket-Companion, you might recreate yourselves with it, either in Coach or Chair, and chiefly in Walks, because it hath Entertainments for its Design; and the Cours, for its Scene: And I also willed it to be done, without the embellishment of great Letters, and Flourishes; to the end that the vogue, and value of the Work, might be due to nothing but its own goodness, and merit (if it have any) without the help of superficial dress, and ornament. I presume not to make you any great present, in the Form; nor expect any thanks from you, for the Matter, because I appear Anonymous, and disguised to the world, as being clad in paper: But to let you see, that I thank you for your Compliment, and for your praise, (without receiving either the one, or the other) I have oppugned the desire of some Courtiers of new Books, and laughed at them, for that they would not only have me qualify this Work with my Name, but make myself yet more ridiculous, by putting my picture also in it; in order to which, you shall see how prettily they went to work with me; for, some of them told me, that I must get myself drawn in Iron, because I had born Arms, and showed myself in the Field; others, that since I was now grown a Gown-man, and a Counsellor, I should do well to be drawn in a long Gown, with a Book in my hand, and a Bonnet upon the table, and consequently insert my Letters of Doctorate, and my reception into Parliament. But one of my friends (who is a notable Crack indeed) went farther, and showed me, that the quality of an Author (which I had) was to be preferred before all that, and that I ought to cause myself to be engraven in brass, in the Frontispiece of my Book, mantled with certain unknown Characters, (which might be taken for Prophecies) crowned with Laurel, like a Roman Emperor, or with Vervain, like Lucian's Demigods, and barbed, and caparrisoned stark naked, like an Hero; (That is, to put a Half-Corslet, and a Coat of Armour upon my bare body) and that if my Book were carried to the Northern Countries, my Picture would take cold in its arms, as having them naked a hands-breadth above the elbow, and that the winds (which are so violent in those parts) would blow off my Crown from my head. Thus (said this wag) must an Author be set out in his Works: But I think, he either jeered the Profession, or me, in regard he well knew, that I was not of the Class, of those illustrious Authors, who are worthy to be shown in their Books; and it is enough for men to laugh at my Writings, without laughing at my face. In effect, what benefit is it to the Public, to know the Authors of Books? For they ought but to draw either profit or pleasure from such Books as are good, and give them the value and price they deserve, provided they be able to comprehend them. Suppose this Book merited any esteem, and could purchase me any honour for having composed it, to what purpose would it be, to declare my name, to such as know me not, and are never likely to see me? Certainly this knowledge would be useless to them, and but a kind of visionary vanity to me; in regard that names do only note, and signify things plainly, and give no knowledge of them (because they do not represent them effectively) even though we see them, unless we knew them before. As for such as know me, I cannot teach them my Name, because they know it already; and it would be to no purpose likewise, to tell them, that this Book is mine, because that, by knowing me, they also know the strength, and drift of my wit, and capacity: And if my Work fall into the misfortune of many other, to be disparaged, and taken for a foppery, should not I be a very dolt, to publish myself for the Author? And had I not better hide myself, (like Apelles) behind the Curtain, and rejoice alone, if they who know not the Author, give it their favourable vote, and approbation? Or to disown it to my acquaintance, as a bastard put upon me to Father, if they find it to be simple, disgustful, or deformed? For what is it to any body, if Marmet Valcroissant the Elder, or any other whosoever, fumbled up these Entertainments together? And what need any one care to know, either by my name, or by my Book, whether I be a Citizen of Paris, or of Apt in Provence? Whether I be a Courtier of ten years standing, or live three hundred miles from Court? Whether I have true politeness, and elegancy of speech; and that character, which the Ancients called Urbanity? or whether I affect new Terms, Phrases, and the Style A la mode? Whether I have acquired the propriety of language of myself, or whether I learned it of my Nurse? And in fine, whether I be fain to study long, to utter my thoughts, or whether the air of my Birth, or Nature, have inspired me with a good faculty, and form of writing? All this, my Readers, is an indifferent to you, as it is useless to the whole world; and let the Work and the Workman be what they will, it is sufficient to esteem them, as they deserve. That false opinion, that it is necessary to be at the Court, to write, or speak well, (which you will find refuted in some part of this Treatise) and which had not the good luck to be started our Age, (because Antiquity thought, that the purity, and politeness of speech could be no more but at Rome:) This opinion, I say, would be disadvantageous to me, if I discovered my name, and men would impose some original sin of Provence upon my Style, by praeoccupation of Spirit; as they heretofore found fault, with the excellent Works of those famous Orators of Lions, and as they reproached even Titus-Livins himself, that his Style retained the tincture of the Paduan Tongue; and this for no other reason, but because they knew well enough, that those illustrious persons wrote not at Rome. Thus you see, that the Name of an Author is sometimes prejudicial to him, in his Book; and it is better for him, to have men judge of him by his Work, then of his Work by opinion: For so many Verses, and so many Prefaces in his behalf, so many Advertisements to the Reader, so many Dedicatory Epistles to great Persons, and so many Apologies in form of Prologue, are of small account to such as read a Book for the Subjects sake; and they are also very hurtful to the Author, because the greatest part of these persons, read not these things at all, and are content to speak ill of a Book howsoever; and so the Author makes himself a laughingstock, by arrogating to himself a false glory. Myself passed once through the trial of these dangers; and I confess, my modesty was never so near shipwreck, as at that time; for though I were far from complying toward its loss, and from so much as consenting to its deviation; yet could I heartily wish, that I were able to repeal my Name, and the flatterous praises, which men were pleased to bestow upon me. But Printed Books are like thrown stones, and irrevocable acts; and nothing but time can suppress them, how bad soever they be: Nor have I the vanity to think, that this which I now put forth, will last long, or that it is either one of the best, or even of the ordinary sort of Works: And if it were capable of sense, how much would it grieve, to see itself neglected, forsaken, and despised, by the Booksellers, and in good Libraries, amongst so many other, which are as so many noble Pictures, and magnificent Temples of Eloquence, and which the acquaint, and learned Wits cherish, and carry always about them, as their constant and grateful Companions! Certainly, it would not forbear to weep for sorrow and shame, as the figure of Solomon heretofore did, (which Constantine the Great caused to be set up in St. Sophy's Church) for rage and spite, and shed tears with admirable artifice, to see that holy Temple, so rich in Ornaments, so stately in matter, and so marvelous in structure, outstrip his. In like manner do I believe, with shame enough, that I have not been able to arrive to that Character of Eloquence, which our famous French Orators have attained; and this Present which I make you, is neither to take pride in my cheerfulness, nor discover my dulness: For I do out of humility, (submitting myself to your correction) that which so many others have done for want of knowledge and judgement; and that homage which I render in public, proceeds from the esteem I have of all the world; and not from the miscognizance of myself. But I take all the care I can, to avoid the engaging myself insensibly, in the slippery way of the Court, where Idiots and Novices suffer themselves to fall, and who are infected with cajolery; and I might be justly chidden for vainglory, if I did as some Courtiers do, who stand making of Congees, and Cringes, to be saluted, and who spinning out their Compliments, beyond measure, or exception, cast themselves into contempt and scorn, by speaking of themselves, thereby to be answered, and praised: and therefore to escape the suspicion of being vain, I forbear this humiliation, and baseness; though yet I should seem to hunt after reputation, by vilipending myself, I will not speak of myself at all, either good or evil, as not meriting (peradventure) either blame, or praise: And as the former shall not move me to indignation, if men say, I am not a good Author; so shall not the latter to pride; for neither of these passions shall disturb the peace of my Soul: So that, resolving neither to trouble myself, nor thank any body, whatsoever men say to my advantage, shall be very welcome to me; but knowing myself so well as I do, it shall not persuade me. I understand the difference which the Schools put, between Philosophers, and Sophists, and it is no easy matter, to make me take a Paradox, for an Article of Faith: I am able to distinguish glittering Armour, from Armour of Proof, and I know, that the former is better for show, then for service. Since the famous Relics of Antiquity present us with Panegyrics for Nero, and with Apologies for Buzirus, and that in times of old, People adored Beasts; I cannot endure to be deified by Eulogies; and consequently, though the Eloquence of a friend should have all the art, and address of those ancient Declamators, (who would needs make a Quartan Ague pass for a Goddess, and Poverty for a Good) yet would it no more move me, than the blame men may cast upon my Writings, which hurts me not at all, however it looks, at the beginning of this Discourse, as if I would formalize a little, and as if I vowed revenge: For, I am in my Career, and I find myself obliged to go on, even though I perish: And as people said, that the design of my Convesation of importance, which treats of dying well, after having lived ill, was too serious, and austere, for a man of my profession; that I ought to have kept it within the rules of Morality, without touching upon devotion; and that to invite the world to read it, I had done well to handle those so dilucid truths, and so necessary meditations in a Romantic way; and embellish so grave, and solid a Matter, with rich, and gay Ornaments of Language: As they did (I say) gloze, and comment thus upon that; so let them also say as they please, that my Entertainments are not brisk, and gallant enough, to be held upon the Cours by Courtiers, and that some of the Subjects thereof are too serious, and Scholastic: Let them say, that I had done well, to have used a better, and more exact dispensation, both in the Method, and in the Discourse, and that I should have omitted some matters therein: Let them reproach me, that my Style is neither good, nor well digested, and that it is languid, and Carozelous, as well as strong, and elevated: Let them accuse me, that my Language is not pure, nor my terms expressive; that my judgement is not well fortified, nor my spirit much enlightened to write well: Let them twit me, with the imitation of good Authors, and with the borrowing of conceits from the Ancients: And in fine, let such as are of a Critical Palate say as much as hath been written, by so many good and famous pens in this last Age; all this (my Readers) shall be indifferent to me; howbeit, according to custom, and Ceremony, I have desired your protection, against the Critics: Yea, though not only the Country Gentlemen, (who are but subalternative Judges) but even the very whole Court itself (which Judges soverainly, and soverainly well of these things) should condemn my Writings, it should not at all trouble me, yea, and it should touch me as little, as if the world had not talked of it at all: For in a word, I care not; and I am as well content, that you should despise, as value my Works, and that you should not read them, as read them; for it is not my design to gather pride, but virtue, from my Books, and to live like a Man of Honour. Farewell.   

ENTERTAINMENTS OF THE COURS AT PARIS: AND Academical Discourses.  
The first Walk.  
HOld Coachman, hold! cried the marquis de Bon air, passing one day in his Coach at the entrance of the Cours, by that of the Baron d' Aiguefueil, (in which was the Count de Rioumayon, a Counsellor of Parliament, Monsieur Hydaspe, Colonel of Horse, and Angelin the Philosopher) and looking upon the Company, said, Your Servant Gentlemen; have you any room for mein your Coach? I am weary of being alone in mine own. This charming Baron, who is the Centre of all men of virtue, either for their inclination, or his courtship, and whose curious and sublime spirit makes a noble acceptance, and a just choice of Geniuses, had picked out these Gallants as the cream of his elections, and after having treated them that day, carried them to the Cours, where entering (as aforesaid) to satisfy his own duty, and the Marquis' request, he answered, Come my Lord, we will find room for you; we are ravished to meet you, and here is no body, but will most willingly squeeze himself for your sake. Upon this the Colonel whispered him in the ear, saying, Let him alone, he is never better accompanied, then by his own fancies; for doubtless, he is now plotting some journey, some new fashion, some intrique, or some combat. I cannot handsomely refuse him, replied the Baron; I must answer his desire with some civility; and to make him a cold compliment, would be to slight his merit and acquaintance, and abuse my own duty. Then leaning half out of the Coach, he bid one of the Pages open the Boot; which the marquis perceiving, came out of his, and some compliments passed between him and the Baron, about placing him in the body of the Coach, which the Baron pressed upon him, as both honour and conveniency required.  
The marquis being set, and the Coach going on, the Baron asked him, My Lord, whither were you going so solitary, and pensive? You are a great Courtier of Ladies, and certainly you were not alone, without some design: I swear to you, my Lord, (said the marquis) I am wholly disengaged; for I have taken my leave of Cajollery, and hate those Prattleboxes like the plague; and setting that aversion aside, I have an indifferency for all such objects, as move any passion; and I came from home, without knowing whither to go; for when my Coachman asked me whither he should carry me? Even whither thou wilt, said I; all parts of Paris are alike to me, and never did I more freely trust myself in thy hands, than this evening. Certainly, my Lord, (said the Count de Rioumayon) your Coachman must needs be guided by the good spirit which governs you, and hath some secret intelligence with your fair passion, since he hath brought you unawares, to the place where your inclinations are. Look, there goes her Coach; you know whom I mean, and you know better than any body else, the truth of what is said thereof at Court.  
Go, you are a wag, said the Marquis! What? Will you submit your thoughts 
1. He maintains the honour of Ladies.  to calumnious reports; and suffer your judgement, to accomplish the ruin, of a Lady of honour? Indeed, if it be true, that those things which present themselves to our eyes, make more impression upon our minds then Reason, and that we are more disposed to prefer detraction, and slander, before the true relation, of such virtues as are found in a person; I confess, it looks as if I were dispensed with, for speaking advantageously, of the merit of her whom you now hinted; in regard that she gives so clear arguments, to entertain you upon the misfortune, which is befallen her in my behalf: But I should think myself a Traitor to so many Virtues as she hath, if I let you not know, that she possesses them without spot, and without defect, and that, after having vanquished those Monsters which might stir rebellion in her Soul, she hath made them slaves, to her good nature.  
The satisfaction of our own Consciences, is the sovereign remedy of discontentment of mind, and the true testimony to justify our actions: It were a baseness, to saint upon report only; for whilst the calm is coming, the storm ceases; and when we have innocency for our shield, the sharpest shots of calumny prove dull, and ineffective. This is the reason, why this Lady hath never much troubled her self, at whatsoever the whole Court hath said concerning our frequentation; and howbeit some ill interpreters might censure her of impudence, for showing so little shame thereof; yet are the most settled judgements sufficiently persuaded to the contrary, and the most clear-sighted eyes explicate (to her advantage) that her constancy, and stability, are the justifications of her innocence, and that good intentions never make any account at all, of the noises of detraction: Gild is never without a character; we may read the fear of punishment, in the faces of offenders; and though their inward remorse be indeed no great affliction to the body, yet doth it torment, and confound the mind, with horrible thoughts, and dreams, which plainly appear afterwards in their eyes, and express, that the contempt of virtue hath caused an insurrection of Passions.  
He who violated and murdered Cleomia, had strange visions after her death: Apollodorus his dream, that he was flayed by the Scythians, was a visible punishment of the treason he had secretly committed: Deuxis, for having falsely boasted, that he had enjoyed a certain Roman Lady, had never afterwards, the heart to come into her company, and testified, by the shame of his flight, the falsity, both of his supposition, and of his slander.  
Now if these Heros, who had invincible spirits, had yet the pictures of shame, fear, and terror, expressed upon their faces; how, I pray you, can it be possible, for a woman, whose sex is no less bashful than frail, to have the confidence to appear at the Cours, and show her face, after having blemished her honour, and especially being published? As there are different Lovers, so are there different Loves; and although that sympathy, which is (peradventure) between us, may have produced some frequentation, and that frequentation some little kindness, yet neither have her desires, nor mine, transcended the bounds, of an agreeable, and innocent conversation.  
He would have gone on, but the Counsellor interrupted him, saying, I am sorry, that the confusion, and rumbling of the Coaches, makes me lose one half of those fine things which my Lord Marquis hath uttered, and that instead of satisfaction, I receive trouble from his discourse. It is true indeed (said the Count de Rioumayon) we can hardly hear one another speak here; and if we stay, we shall lose all the pleasure of our walk, which consists chiefly in conversation. I think so too, said the Baron; and therefore let us withdraw ourselves out of the crowd, where the best divertisement we can have, is but to see the going up and down of Coaches, and such persons in them as are indifferent to us, and where we shall also be deprived, of the charms, and sweetness of your entertainments. Shall we go out, and walk in some place apart, where we may have more quiet, and more conveniency, to entertain ourselves? They all agreed; and the Baron having commanded a Page to bid the Coachman drive off from the Cours, and carry them gently, to some private walk by the River side; Our Philosopher (said the Marquis) is highly pleased with this humour; for he is so much in love with the Country, and solitude, that he is out of his centre, when he is not in his Countryhouse.  
It is true (said Angelin) that I am extremely taken with the Country, and 
2. Of the Country.  that I find all my delights there; but you shall never hear me say, that I am in my Element there, though I enjoy the sweets of my solitude, according to my wish; for this term, is followed by a temptation of vanity, to which I am not subject, and I content myself, with the innocent use, of those pleasures it gives me, without staining them with vainglory. According to the example of an ancient Grecian, it hath been counted the Paradise of the Learned, and the Element of good wits; but as our sight is shortened, and hath its distance bounded by the objects which limit it, so do persons of an ordinary soul, find but their equal proportion of contentment, in the employments of the Country; whereas the most sublime ones have matter enough, to set the strong imagination they have of good things on work, as not being diftracted, either by the embarasments of the world, or by the serious divertisements which men receive in the Towns.  
Aristotle's Master said, that his friends were his importuners, and the thiefs of time. Now if he, being a Philosopher, and living as such, were importuned by his friends, and they were a burden to him; how would you have a man, who is always in company, to settle himself upon an assiduous study, or upon weighty reflections? And how is it possible for him to do any thing perfectly, amongst interruptions? For there is much difference, between the Active, and the Contemplative life; and the later of these, is much more nice, and delicate, than the former; and therefore no wonder, if the ancient Philosophers succeeded better in their Science, than they of later Ages; and if the old Anchorites found felicity, and the chief degree of perfection, in the life which they led in the Deserts, which was purely speculative, and where there was nothing to divert them from the meditation, of the most secret, and high mysteries. And without this quiet; how is it possible to live, in the encumbrances, and instability, of the things of this world; amongst the juggle, and cheateries of the Court; amongst the intriques', and praevarications in affairs; amongst the ambitions, and dangers of war; and in fine, amongst the haunts, and conversations of women? Great persons never see truth, but through the casement of flattery: Treachery and courtships, are vails for mortal enmities: Interest breeds strife: Partiality makes evil Unions; and all Conversations, in fine, are now corrupted; and therefore happy is he, who can say, Like a fugitive, have I absented myself, from the cursed commerce of men, and have kept myself in the repose of solitude, because I never found any elsewhere, and for that I have seen much malice, and perpetual contentions amongst them.  
You speak here (said Hydaspe) of 
5. Of sympathy.  certain evils which are met with in the world; but you are careful enough, for your own inclinations sake, not to touch a whit upon the pleasures, and charms of the Court. I pray Sir, (said the Counsellor to Hydaspe) do not interrupt him; he both cuts, and condemns himself, in his own words; for he said just now, that he would not grant solitude to be his Element, and yet we see, with what heat he speaks, and how that passion which overrules him, transports him, and sinks him into the matter, in favour of what he loves. You shall give me leave to tell him (said Hydaspe) that all the fine things of the Country are dead, and dumb, and so by consequence, can give no perfect pleasure to witty persons, and that when they are seen the second time, they afford no satisfaction at all; and tell me, Sir, I pray you, (said he to the Philosopher) without speaking of the various divertisements we have at Court, or in the Towns, can there be in the most stately houses, and in the most beautiful places of the Country, any employments, or entertainments, comparable to those charms which we receive, in the conversation of Lad es?  
The Philosopher was going to speak; but the Baron answered; Our going out of the Cours interrupted my Lord Marquis just now, upon this fine subject of the conversation of Ladies; for he had indeed, begun a very handsome discourse in their behalf, or at least, in his own defence, when my Lord of Rioumayon dallied with him, about his good fortunes.  
These Gentlemen (said the marquis) think that as soon as a man hath any frequentation, or a little habit with a Lady, all kind of liberty is infallible, and the conquest inevitable; but they are much mistaken, upon these false opinions; and howbeit that sex makes show of weakness, yet is it stronger, and makes more resistance than we think. As for what concerns myself, I have already protested to you, that however the acquaintance, and sympathy, which I may have with that Lady whose Coach we met upon the Cours, hath given me her frequentation, and that frequentation hath produced some kindness; yet have I never had any particular conversation with her, but always an innocent, and indifferent affection.  
I believe as much, said the Baron, with his ordinary swavity, and complacency, who (though he comprise in himself all the eloquence and subtlety of the Court, and all the depth, and height of the Academies, and be able to nourish his mind with his own aliments) would needs notwithstanding, win that of the marquis, and taste the thoughts thereof, by engaging him upon some handsome subject. I doubt not of it, said he, to comply with his discourse, and I believe, that the long habits you have had with that Lady, have produced that inclination which you call sympathy, and that those habits, according to their force and power, have, by resiterated acts, formed that reciprocal affection, and passion, which you have for one another.  
When you say, that habit forms sympathy, (said the Count) you understand it not according to the large extent of its significations, but to explicate it, and restrain it, according to the terms of Courtiers, who interpret it to be an often-repeated frequentation, and conversation, and conceive that frequentation may engender sympathy; which, for my part, I cannot avow, however some gloss of argument, and captious subtlety may be brought for it, to gull the mind, but not to give it rational satisfaction.  
There is no great difference, said Angelin, (seeing these Gentlemen engaged in 
4 Of habitudes in all their parts.  a fair field, and disposed to enter into these matters) between frequentation, and habit; and frequentation is as able to beget sympathy, as habit, construe it how you please; All they can differ in, is, that the former acts, when it is often near a subject, and in a particular place; and the later looks upon all things in general, and the application of the means to achieve them. Pardon me, if I tell you, that after I shall have showed you what habit is, you will range yourselves on my side, and rationally grant what is due, to my opinion, and Philosophy. It is true, that in regard I cannot speak home to you hereof, without using such terms as seem little suitable to the Cours, and to Courtiers, I ought to protest to you, that I will utter nothing but what shall be pleasing, and acceptable to you; but being to treat with wits, which are capable of Sciences, and quaintness of speech, and who know, that the discourses of all things in the world may justly be agitated in a walk, and that the Ancients did ever practise it in their Licea; I will, without hampering myself with excuses, tell you plainly, that, Make you habit consist, as much as you please, in a certain disposition, whereby the subject is either proper, or improper, in behalf of itself, or any other; for my part, I had rather take it for a quality scarce movable, which results from one or more actions of the vital Power, being afterwards made capable, and having a natural inclination, to produce the like acts; and in this sense it is, that this quality may be very properly called habit; as also when a man has any thing, which he hath acquired by his own actions, which is, when he gains the inclination he courts; and this is that, which proves my proposition; besides that by this mean, the Subject arrives to the highest point of perfection. The Prince of Philosophers calls Habit a disposition, which hath the power to produce an act in perfect manner, that is to say, easily; and what more easy, and more efficacious way can a man have to act, then when, by divers acts, he entirely wins the person he desires, by gaining first the Will, and then the Inclination, which are the faculties dependent on, and inseparable from, Sympathies? Now you see, that since reiterated acts obtain our desires, it is not hard for Habit to form Sympathy, when we seek it; nor is my human wisdom, and industry able to hinder the event thereof.  
As for the division of Habits, we must leave it to the Sixth Book of Morals, where it is divided into three Classes, which serve nothing at all to my purpose upon this subject; for all I should be able to say of it, would make no impression upon your minds; and the matters being merely Scholastic, and tedious, I will only let you see the difference which there is, between Supernatural, and Natural Habits, and how, according to the cause which produces them, they are either infused, or acquired.  
You know that those which are Infused, come immediately from God, by the Theological Virtues, which we receive in Baptism; and that the Acquired, are those which we purchase with pains, and trouble, and which are necessary to facilitate operation.  
There are moreover, according to the Subject, four more, in conformity with the four Powers which possess them, and which are amply deduced in Philosophy. But from the whole Treatise of Habits, I draw but this conclusion; that Habit is a quality, which gives us a disposition, and a great facility, to operate; and that it differs from the disposition in this, that the disposition may be easily lost, but the Habit seldom; and that if acts produce it, multiplication augments it, and makes it more stable in the person which possesses it. So that if Habit facilitate operation; if Disposition be less efficacious than it; and if the reiteration of acts strengthen it; can you deny, but that Habit forms Sympathy; since of what disposition soever a soul be, she is able to change it at pleasure, by the facility she hath to operate, and by the force she gets in frequentation? Thus much for the Habits of the Philosophers.  
As for the Habits of Courtiers, which are long Frequentatians, is there any thing more powerful to form an inclination? And doth not even Nature herself grow to be changed, by constant Conversations? It is easy to exact what a man desires of a soul, by the ordinary documents, wherewith we may inspire her by the ear, and by the apparent examples which we may present before her eyes; for there slide into the heart, certain divine, and imperceptible Specieses, or forms, which, when they have once imprinted themselves upon us, we take them to be properly our own, and think that they are derived from us; though in the mean while, they come not from our Nature, but from them who are pleased to frame them, and who often cause us many inward griefs. If Nature, and Inclination could not be changed, all the ancient Philosophers would not have given us for a precept, that amongst all frequentations, we should choose the best, and not only fly the bad, but the unsettled, yea, and even the different ones; for the bad do certainly corrupt us, and the different, hinder the good natural Habits we have; and though the embarasment of a Rabble do not change us, yet it hinders us; and since even violence itself is necessary for us to follow the good way, we must not doubt, but the least impediment will trouble us.  
Take not these documents for fabulous stories; for all the Fathers, since the Scripture, are of this opinion; and St. Paul goes much further upon this subject, when he says, that one crumb of leaven, spoils a whole heap of dough. If St. Paul wrote it, St. John the Apostle put it in practice, when he shunned the Bath where Cerinth had washed himself, because he was not only an enemy to the Faith, but a wicked man besides, even in his own Religion.  
As the herb Aconitum, kills us by touching it, and the rage of a mad Dog communicates itself unperceivably, from the person bitten to the bystanders; so are we perverted by evil company, and so are others also corrupted by us afterwards. In like manner by the Habits which we often repeat with honest people, we may be able to change a perverse, and corrupt nature, and inspire good manners afterwards, into such as we frequent. Augustus Caesar's Daughters were of this opinion, when Livia, having well-behaved, and modest persons about her, hoped to participate of their virtues; and Julia often seeing some vain, and loose-lived young fellows, thought by her good example, and frequentation, to reduce them, or at least, to make herself perfect amongst the wicked; as those Roses are sweetest, which grow near a bed of Garlic.  
However you conclude upon Habits, and Frequentation (said the marquis) they never have the power to frame a Sympathy, or Inclination, because they depend upon the blood, and are graffed upon Nature. All they can do, is only to raise them, and quicken them, when they are either dead, or faint. Love is a torch which kindles another, and burns not long alone, and without help: the experience I have had thereof, in order to this Lady, is certain; and human prudence, for as much as concerns this economy, or dispensation, hath no other jurisdiction, then only to move, and not to form. I have ever observed in that adorable person I love, (even in despite of her rigours) a spark of the fire of Sympathy, which would have been extinguished, if I had not stirred it, and I never believed, that she was quite deprived of it. And though in the consideration of her first repulses, (not hoping ever to be able to obtain her favour) I had read the Remedies of Ovid, Samocratus, and Nigidus, against love; and though men persuaded me, that it was as easy, to disentangle one's self from love, as it was to break with a friend when one had a mind to it, (howbeit there is granted a difference between a Friend, and a Lover, in regard that the one loves for the good of the object beloved, and the other for himself, and that the passion of the Friend is lasting, and that of the Lover inconstant) yet have I found all these rules untrue, in myself, and that they have nothing in them but false baits, and ill-studied lessons, having spent my spirits in vain, and fruitlessly endeavoured, to produce a virtue by a defect, and to fix my love upon another, if I could have found a beauty worthy of exchange.  
As for the distinction of a Lover from a Friend, I have likewise had the same motions (to which a compliance to please him might lead me) with those, the opinion whereof might spur on my hopes, to the achievement of my desires; and as for the facility of forsaking her, alas! I have found it to be the most powerful of impossibilities, after having put in practice all the lessons of those enemies of the Sex, who died at Capua, in the service, and pursuit of the Ladies they loved, for punishment of their crime of writing against Love. I have tried all things in vain, as flattered by the opinion, that she had a leven of Sympathy which I must cultivate, and fearing to die like the rest, for chastisement of my fault of endeavouring to leave her, and not really to inspire her with an inclination, as you would needs fancy, and pass for infallible rules, and definitions, in this point. And hereby you may judge, of the effect of Sympathy, and of the power of fair eyes; and that the chains of such as adore them, are so strong, that even the disdain of the persons themselves who have framed them, hath much ado to break them.  
In these motions of tenderness, I passionately cried, Pardon, my lovely Princess, the effects of my levity, and let me depart always from you with joy, and never by constraint! Judges are often inclined to clemency, by considering that the Malefactors before them, have more offended God then Man, and that since the Supreme Goodness hath forgiven them their crimes against him, they have no reason to punish them, for the offences they have committed against men, betwixt whom and the Divine Justice there is no comparison. Just so, the punishment which yourindignation fancies, ought not to be for me, because I have already received absolution of my fault, from my fidelity, which was first offended, by the actions of my despair; and therefore you, who are my Judge, must mitigate your wrath, and receive me into mercy.  
In order to these motions, I consider an infallible sign of the absolute empire, which a beauty enlivened by a good wit hath, over all things created, by that which it possesses over the wills of men, who are the chiefest; and this power is evident, and known, by the submissions, respects, and enterprises, which they embrace, to render themselves acceptable, and by what they put in execution, as a mark of their despair; for, as the Will is the only part, which God intended to be free, and that his infinite goodness seems to have no other limits then for his own occasions; I shall not conceive myself guilty of impiety, if I say, that the love which we bear towards women, deprives us also of the use of our Free Will, and hath a kind of tyrannical influence upon our liberty. I have ever observed this truth amongst Lovers, when I have read in Histories, how many have died for their Mistresses; and how a vehement affection, and an extreme love slights all kinds of dangers whatsoever; and I had sufficient experience of this power in myself, when I fought rather for the interests of her whom I worshipped, then for my friends, yea, and rather for a fancy which concerned her, then for my own particular quarrels. And yet it is very true withal, (said the Colonel) that such combats as are made upon such slight grounds, have seldom any good issue; for Cupid, who is but a baby, and a wanton giddy-brained baby, is apt to be pettish without cause, and comes always home by weeping cross, when he plays with Bellona; whereas on the other side, if the justice of a cause presides, the event proves as favourable as can be desired.  
I was much pleased (said the Counsellor) these days past, that my youngest Brother fought with a young Spark, Son to a Financier, for a punctillo of Honour, of small consideration, and almost for nothing, by hearing the Marshal of France (who took up the business) discourse of quarrels, and of the address which it is needful to have in them; and indeed that noble Lord, (who hath a high spirit, and a great judgement, (and who is one of our best friends) spoke thereof with much reason, and with great testification of affection towards my Brother: for having called him into his Cabinet, where I was, and knowing what a sputter he makes by his daily squabbling, and fight; to stop the fury of his hot and giddy spirit, and instruct him about these mad freeks, he said thus to him; The love I bear towards your Family, obliges me to give you a sound check; for it is not the way to get reputation, and esteem, to be such a Ranter as you are, and to be every day brawling, and scuffling. It is true, that of all the parts which compose a true man of honour, boldness is the most remarkable, and valour the most necessary; since without these two august qualities, a man who pretends to bravery, cannot be in vogue, nor so much as aspire to it; for the former sets him forth, and makes him considerable in company, and at Court, and the later gives him good success in War, and Duels; but with this proviso still, that these fine parts be accompanied with moderation, and judgement, and that their passion be tempered by prudence, which is the production of the understanding, and the light of the soul.  
I will say nothing of this necessary boldness, and valour, in the Camp, 
6. Of Quarrels, and Duels.  which is both carried on by the fire of honour; and which is as well ushered up by command, as balanced by discipline; but I speak only of that boldness, and valour, which is necessary in a civil life, and in the disorders which cause quarrels; for this aught to be ruled by discretion, and judgement (as I have already said) and rectified by a habit of prudence. A man who will appear in company, must be bold, so far as to utter his mind freely, and clearly, and be resolute, both in countenance, posture, and action; but his words must be composed with modesty, and judgement, and he must consider the place, and persons present, and what he intends to say, before he speaks. He must not rant, nor vapour, but look upon the intention, and merit of the person who pricks him, and bear a deaf ear long before he comes to extremity; and especially, if he who offends him, be not of high condition, or much esteemed; for in this case, we ought to suffer more, then from a gallant man, from whom an ordinary displeasure must pass for a great cause of quarrel, to get reputation. And herein you erred to day (said he) by meddling with a young fellow, upon little or no ground, and by exposing yourself also (as you daily do) to hazard, without subject: For, men fight commonly for offences, that is to say, for inward satisfaction, and to win honour; the latter of these grounds depends upon the report, which is made of a combat; and the principal reason which makes men draw their swords, is to repair themselves, in the hope they have, that the reputation will be as public as the offence. So that, to fight (I faith) as you have done, with a young man who hath never done any thing yet, or with a person who is not of high condition; besides, that the action remains dead, asleep; and that the good, or evil, which comes from it makes no noise, a man runs great hazard of his life with a common person, and gets no honour, if he have the better: Whereas, on the other side, the merit of a gallant man, makes a brave action famous, and renowned. From whence we may draw this argument, that one must be bold, and as it were rash, with stout, and quarrelsome men; and courteous, and indolent, to them who are not of high reputation, either for their courage, or birth. For valour, which is an impetuous heat, that, for our satisfaction, throws us upon dangers, is hurtful to a man, unless he deliberate before he executes, and unless it be tempered with moderation. A Champion is not a Champion, because he hath courage, but brutal, if he join it not with the dexterity of judgement, and with the circumstance of times, and places; for he cannot exercise his courage, and bring it to an issue, by any other means, then by conduct, and reason; and hereby it is, that we must moderate our boiling motions, which might otherwise make us fall upon a man of honour, in place of respect, and that for slight and frivolous matters, upon which, before we show any disgust, we must maturely consider with ourselves, whether they be worth our resentment or no, and when the offence deserves it, to conduct our proceedings with address, that we may not be worsted; and to be sure to perish, rather than do a base action.  
It is principally in the point of combat, that a truly free, and stout Soul, hath need of all the counsel, and judgement, to preserve her honour, and her life, and to bridle her passion, and judiciously to consult all the precautions necessary, as well for the right, and equality of weapons, and advantage of places, as for the subtle addresses of Vapourers, and Quarrellers. And as for your part, (said this wise Lord) what fury, or what dulness blinded you, in the choice of your Pistols, that you had not the patience to charge at your pleasure, that which was left you, and that, after having cooled the courage of your adversary, (who could not reach you with his sword) you received the affront, of giving false fire? Henceforward, be more considerate, and hazard not your life, without precaution; for impetuosity never gets any entire victory in Duels, either with Sword, or Pistol; whereas he who fights temperately, and coldly, will always be even with his enemy, and seldom receive disadvantage. To stand upon your fencing postures, and passes, as they do in the Schools with foils, is useless, and very different from fight in earnest; and though the heat, and disorder of a desperate fellow, do sometimes puzzle the stoutest and skilfullest Swordman, yet the firmness of a good judgement, either tires him out, or keeps his hands only off, so as afterwards, by promptitude, and activity, he gets the better. Be therefore, I say, better advised, than you have been hitherto, both about the incense of quarrels, and the distinction of persons, and husband your life better in the field, than you have hitherto done.  
Then the marquis interrupted the Counsellor, and said, Sir, was there nothing of love in your Brother's quarrel, and was it not for some Mistress that he fought? No, my Lord, said the Counsellor, Oh! I was afraid of that, said the Marquesle; for in that case the cause had been good, and had deserved no reprehension; since the absolute power which love hath acquired over Reason, renders all faults excusable; and that Mistress of Passion, being so much subject to it as she is, finds all her justification, in the blindness of her servitude. The one dims the other, by taking too much root in our inclinations, and gains a superiority of power, to make it undertake any thing with impunity, and to make inestimable, the meanest actions which concern it; yea, and myself, being strucken with this blindness, thought myself worthy to be celebrated in History, for having so briskly squabled, and quarrelled, with a certain Lord, who was with a Lady of my acquaintance; and that, only because Love (that blind, and saucy Baby) led me to this frolic.  
I was ravished, my Lord, (said the Philosopher to the marquis) with excess of joy, at the news of the last Duel you fought upon this subject, with so much honour, and gallantry, as being certainly informed before, of the cause of your going into the field, and I only wanted the knowledge, of your Enemies meeting you, to enable me, to make an infallible judgement, of the advantage you had upon him; for all the world knows by reputation, the bravery of your heart; but it is difficult to judge by experience, of your skill, in regard that there is no living after the trial thereof; for without having a supernatural subsistence, I do not believe, that they who have felt the point of your sword, can possibly last long, unless the greatness of your courage vouchsafe to use some clemency towards them, after having forced them to have recourse to your pity, and beg their lives. The excess which this joy produced in me, came not from the news I had of your victory, because I had already fore-seen it; but from the share I take in your exploits, the happiness, and force whereof (which are the highest degree of valour) diffuse themselves upon all your friends, and make them also, after a sort, redoubtable.  
Indeed, (said the marquis) I perceived well enough, that my duty obliged me to interrupt you, and answer your civilities; but you discoursed so handsomely, that I resolved to forbear, till you had done; not that the subject of your fine words tickled my ears, and made me delight in the form of your complacencies, more than in the matter; but because I would not deprive these Gentlemen, of the admiration of your eloquence.  
To which Angelin answered with submission and respect; My Lord, when I say any thing in favour of your reputation, I pay but one part of the homage I owe your merit; nor is at any production of my complacency; for you are so accomplished a person, that all the Panegyrics which might be composed of you, would be beneath the esteem which the whole Court hath of you; and I think, that its esteem is just, and lawful, in your behalf only; in regard that sometimes, it falsely bestows it upon unworthy persons, and denies it to such as deserve it, though though not so worthily as your Lordship. I confess, (said the marquis) I should never consent to the loss of modesty, had any body but you, undertaken to rob me of it; but your eloquence makes me in a sort, a complice of the theft, and almost guilty of the sin.  
Then the Count, (catching up their compliments) said to the marquis, The learned Angelin hath so many partakers in his belief, that your merit must needs appear, & your modesty lie hidden. The strength of his wit (replied the marquis) at least appears, not borrowing from others, what abounds in himself; and I am of opinion, that by undertaking to speak of me, he meant to make a picture of himself.  
My Lord, said the Baron, your compliments will last till the end of the Cours, and methinks, this is no fit place for them; stay till we be passing some Gate, or at the top of a pair of stairs, where you may be able to animate them with gestures and congees; for here you can hardly stir. Let us change our subject; digressions are delightful, and are the supreme divertisements of conversation. 
7. Of the Palm and of the Laurel.  How glorious is that illustrious Conqueror, who is lately come to Town, for having made so advantageous a conquest for France, and planted our Palms, and our Laurels, in a Country, where the enemy made his brags, that we every year sowed Cyprus? That is spoken like Apollo, and very far from the style which the ancient Greeks called Cacozele, said our Philosopher, retorting the same guilt upon the rest, which they were wont to throw upon him, for using School-terms, whereby he drew a kind of undervalue upon himself, because he could hardly forbear them. He hath reason, said the Colonel; the Baron speaks Romansick language, in Comic terms. But before we go any further in Poetry, it will be good, to speak of the Symbols, or significations of the Palm, and the Laurel, and know, why the Romans anciently crowned the Triumphers heads with Laurel, and honoured their hands rather with Palm, then with Oak, or Ivy, Vervain, or Olive.  
To which the Baron (whose spirit is a magazeen of the finest curiosities, and most lively notions) answered, I will say somewhat thereof, and it is, That in my opinion, (if my memory do not fail me) besides that the Laurel, and the Palm have marvelous properties, they are consecrated to Apollo; that Mount Parnassus is full of them; that the one of them is an enemy to fire, and repels the Thunderboult; and that the other is the most ancient Symbol of Victory, and resists all assaults; that the Sacrificers at Rome, to obtain propitious Augurs, first crowned themselves with Laurel, and then cast the Wreaths of boughs into the Wood-piles, and drew the good Augurs, of the event of the affairs of the Commonwealth, from the noise of the Laurel in the fire. Besides all these effects, and these traditions, I say, my argument is, that when the Emperors returned in Triumph for their Victories, after having conquered some parts of the world by this example, all the rest of it trembled, and there was nothing left upon earth, which was not subjected to them, and which stood not in awe of them. And therefore, they crowned their heads with Laurel, to signify their independency in the world, and that they feared nothing but the fire of heaven, which hath such violent, and prodigious effects, and from which the Laurel only, hath the privilege to defend us.  
The word Victory, and Palm (said the Philosopher) was anciently all one; and 
8. Of glory, the sole reward of Champions and Conquerors.  Claudian calls the Laurel, the Decision of things present, and the Prediction of things to come; moreover, Ovid, Suetonius, and Pliny assure us, that the Ancients held these trees as sacred, and never made any profane use of them, because they had grounded their superstitions, upon an accident which happened to Augusta Drusilla the Empress; who going one day from Rome to Veictan, sat down under a Laurel, or Bay-tree, over which there flew an Eagle, which let fall in her lap a white Chicken, with a Laurel branch in his bill, and a Palm in his talon. She caused this Chicken to be nursed, and the branch to be planted in a field of hers, from which there sprung many trees; and so the Emperors afterwards, through a superstitious Religion, when they came to triumph, used to cause some of those branches to be gathered, to honour their heads, and hands, and then to be replanted in the same field. Nor is this all; for there is a prodigy reported, of the said field; and that is, that whensoever any one of them, who had Triumphed, died, the Plant which had been replanted, also died, after it had served for a Trophy, to the deceased Triumpher; and that as soon as Nero was dead, (who was the last of the Race of the Caesars) all the Trees of the aforesaid Field likewise died. And thus much for the reasons, why the Romans used Laurels, and Palms in their Triumphs.  
Really, (said the Baron) this is full of learning, and curiosity; and therefore it ought not to be ill taken, that I served myself of those terms, when I endeavoured to speak worthily of the victories which that great Lord hath won upon our Enemies, since he is returned most gloriously from foreign Countries, and that his Name, at present, fills the whole Court with renown. He is looked on, as the Angel-Guardian of the Kingdom; the King, and Queen cherish, and esteem him in his Ministry; all great Employments rely upon him, and henceforth, he shall have no other title, then that of the Great Statesman.  
You say not (answered the Count) that in his Triumphs, he is adored like a Half-God; and yet, that he is looked on with the eyes of envy, and that there are some, who would overthrow the Altars which have been decreed him.  
Truly, (said the Count) he is come into the Land of Envy, but he is potent 
9 Of Envy.  enough to banish it, whensoever he pleases to retire himself from Court; for that vice removes, as often as virtue, and Fortune fix their habitation; because, having no other but these great objects, it always follows such as are owners thereof. Inso much, as that if our Hero, like another Laertes, or Scipio, fled into Solitude, it would not fail to find him there, in regard of the huge qualities which are in him; and yet all would still redound to his honour. If I show, that he is envied, I show that he is Triumphant, and in that supremacy of felicity, which his valour hath acquired him: It is enough to consider his Employments, and how gloriously he hath acquitted himself of them; and moreover, that the height of his splendour, hath bridled the passion of Monarches, and Conquerors, (which is glory in quiet, and moderation) and reduced it to the Laws of swavity, and Reason: And this is as easy to be observed in his ordinary proceedings, and in all his actions, as in his countenance; and this true character of the motions of the Soul, hath never showed us any alteration in him; and it hath so little of the art of dissimulation, and duplicity in it, that a man may be able to settle a solid judgement of his interior, by his looks. This makes the envious burst with rage, to see that he takes no great notice, of the value due to him, and that he sets light by those things which trouble others. The services he hath done the Crown, as well with his Counsel, as with his Sword, have caused him to be recompensed as he is, and purchased him that high point of glory he enjoys.  
I wondered not at all, when, being these days past, at the Cours, amongst the favourable applauses which were given him, I observed some melancholy, in the eyes of a certain great Lord, who seemed to be troubled, to hear his praises; for I easily imagined, that the cloudiness of his countenance had no other cause, than the pompous testimony of gratitude, which the other received from the Queen, and from the incense which every one offered, to his glorious exploits; since it is true, that it is proper to the envious to lament at the happiness, and rejoice at the unhappiness of others, and not to torment themselves for their own evils only, but also for the felicity of their neighbours. This is a sin which hath been ever since the beginning of the world, and will last till the end; and therefore, it were in vain to wish, that we had lived in another Age, or to live in those which are to come, to be exempt from its contagion, and to be free from its malice. The greatest Captain of Pharamonds time, and who had most gifts of Nature and Wit, had never yet so many, as to equal the number of his enviers; and the most unhappy Courtier of the last that shall be, of our Kings, will never suffer so many crosses, as will parallel the rejoicings, which have been made, for the misfortunes which have befallen him.  
Albeit you sustain (said the Marquis) that they who are envied for their virtue, are envy-proof, and that that which stains the reputation of others, refines theirs; yet it is not to be denied, but that the envious are a sort of people, which dim the splendour of honour, and destroy, in some sort, the greatness of a high fame; for they disguise the fairest actions, with the habits of a foolish, and blind Fortune, and by as the uprightness of a Soul, how frank and generous soever; and therefore their byways, and practices are not to be neglected, in regard they strike in absence, at a distance, and at unawares; whereas other enemies are not so much to be feared, because they are known; and because time may have salved the wrongs they have received; and in fine, because we stand always upon our guard, and with precaution, to prevent them. But, this cursed race of Nature is never weary of persecuting us, and does us more hurt with the tongue, without touching us, than an irreconcilable enemy would do, if he had us under him, with his sword at our throats.  
This is very true indeed, (said Angelin) and therefore was the war of the Greeks, against the Trojans, less cruel, and shorter, for that it began upon an injury, then that of the Romans, against the Carthaginians, because both these Republics had their several design, to conquer the whole world, and disputed for the decision of the Empire of the Drivers. The great enmity between Caesar and Pompey, proceeded likewise from nothing but envy; the former envying the later, for his good conduct, in the government of the Commonwealth, and the later the former, for the felicity which accompanied him in war: So that we see, that the decay of that flourishing Republic began from the Civil Wars raised by envy. And therefore to revenge ourselves against these pernicious hornets, who besiege our bodies a far off, who suborn the clearest Consciences, and betray the gallantest lives; we must use an advantageous, and estimable remedy, against obtrectatory, and ill grounded suspicions, which destroy the reward of virtue, and seem to blot it out of the souls of men. I will be bold to say, that revenge upon the envious, is as laudable, as it is sweet, and facile; for it consists, but in continuing to do well, and in striving to excel, in so good a practice; in regard that the virtue of their Neighbour gnaws, and consumes them, as rust doth Iron.  
My dear Lord makes use of this stratagem, and is not moved at all because he is envied, notwithstanding what you have said; for, besides that he is worthy of it, he is so well established in virtue, and favour, that he doth not believe that the vices of others can hurt him, or the greatest storm shake him. And therefore it is as much in vain, for the envious to buzz out their detractions, and dart their private injuries against so firm a Soul, as it was for the Pigmies, and the Ruffian Thiodamas of Lydia, to presume to wrestle with Hercules. For before he undertakes any great designs, or causes any of his orders to be executed, he prepares his spirit for the censure of envy, and sweetly persuades himself, that the issue will make his blames turn into praises; and that to desist from the pursuit of brave actions, is the only means to support detraction. His perseverance in the good opinion he gives of himself, keeps his person in esteem; as on the other side, desistence, and wavering might abate the good thoughts, which men have of him. The Court is a tempestuous Sea, which violently tosses as well great Ships, as small Barks; and her floating waves shake the most weighty, and solid hearts, without sinking them. Unless a man have profound wisdom, without weakness, and spot, and make a perfect harmony thereof with constancy, he cannot preserve himself there, from shipwreck, and come safe to the Port.  
As for the Sea, billows, and waves, 
10. Of Sea-sickness.  (said the marquis) I will show you a very pleasant, and good Letter, from a Gentleman, a friend of mine, who is in the Fleet, with a Brother of his, who is Captain of a Galley, wherein you shall see what he says of sea-sickness, wherewith he is furiously tormented. This is the Letter, and thus it says.  
My Lord,  
GOD bless the Cow-stall, and the Devil take the Element wherein a man makes his grave by falling! Alas! you may easily judge of the sad condition I am in, by seeing my scribbling, and this Letter so rumpled; but I doubt, whether it will be received by you, as coming from a person who honours you so much as I do, because I force myself to write to you, and because I write to you, when I am stomach-sick; or whether it will draw so much sense of compassion from you, in regard I am lying strait along, without strength or pulse, and with insupportable qualms, and faintings. In fine, I am as miserable as the good King in the Scripture was, in his greatest calamities; save only, that he was fain to lie upon a Dunghill, and I lie upon a Satin-quilt; but if he were pestered with vermin, I am so as much as he; if he wanted food, my stomach (against the order of Nature (which abhors a vacuum) is posting thither; if he were forsaken by his friends, my Brother, and my friends (as if they were about a grave) instead of pitying my misfortune, do nothing but laugh and scoff at it. In a word, it seems all one to me, to be at the bottom of the Sea, or here in the Galley; and in regard a man's heart is the first which lives, and the last which die, it is to be believed, that our bodies are deprived of life, when we feel our hearts a dying. As soon as I shall be able to reach a Port, I will leave the Movable, for the immovable, and the hazard of the Water, to expose myself to the rigour of all the other Elements; and will remedy the inconveniences I now suffer, after the manner of poor Madmen. Six foot of Land will cure me of these evils, and then I will send you the Mercury of all we do in the liquid Field, and give you as good an account of our affairs, as of my own restitutions. Just now came a billow and tossed our Galley to the middle Region of the air; threw me headlong against the Helmet; overturned my Ink-horn, and blew my paper up to the very top; and now having gathered all together again, and crawled to my Quilt, I make a hard shift to tell you once more, God bless the Cow-stall, and that I am, etc.  
This Letter, (said the Baron) is very particular, and very excellent in its kind, and merits to be valued as you value it, who have the fountain of high Intelligences. But to return to our noble subject of Entertainments, It is a strange tickling, to the heart of our Conqueror, to hear from the Queen's mouth, in full Cours, and amongst the greatest at Court, (as he had already heard from the Kings, in the Cabinet) that the obligation which France hath to him, cannot be worthily required, but by honour, and glory; and that this acknowledgement she makes of being insolvable, is the most pompous, and richest payment he can possibly receive from her. Antiquity (though most potent) never knew so well as France, how to reward the virtue of her Heros; for she hath never presumed to offer them any mercenary recognizance; and not being able to recompense them to the full, she hath been content to honour them with Triumphs, Statues, and illustrious Titles, and to remain always obliged to them.  
It is true, (said the Count) that the least achievement a man can make, of any kind of reputation (however it be a vain, and mere imaginary thing) is sufficient to satisfy ambition, and more worth than all the true temporal goods we are able to purchase, after which we run with such an extraordinary greediness, and for which both Religion and Laws are despised, and the hunger whereof, like fire, is never staunched.  
All this is pretty, said the Colonel; but now a days, men are not paid with wind; for the world being grown old, and covetous, looks altogether upon interest; and instead of exalting themselves, and satiating their ambition with honour, they betake themselves to what is more material, and substantial, and endeavour to prescribe rules to their Sovereigns, to recompense them profusely therewith. The Count answered, It is their part however, to appoint what employments, and honours they please, for their Subjects, as also to dispose of their acknowledgements, and liberalities; and on the other side, it is the part of such as are under them, to acquit themselves dexteriously of their duty, thereby to arrive to a good issue, and require an equal reward from them, with fame. But it concerns Princes to look to their choice, and Subjects to be humble, and active; and certainly, both the one, and the other, ought efficaciously to consider, that virtue must be rewarded; and that all the best settled States in the world, are founded upon these two Pillars, as upon immovable foundations; namely, the recompense of good services, and the punishment of bad actions. The French, who fall short of no Nation upon earth, in wit, subtlety, and politeness, are content with reputation, and satisfied with a tickling of honour, for all their labours, sweats, toils, watches, and loss of blood itself; quite contrary to the Eastern People, and especially the Turks, who never undertake any great action, but with design, to 
11. Of the Turks maxim.  augment their charge, and their Pay; and the quality of persons, is of no use to them at all, for the purchasing of great Employments. For confirmation hereof, (said the Colonel) and of what you may have learned in History, I have seen in my travels, that in the Grand Signors Dominions, there is no Hereditary Nobility, nor difference of birth, acquired by an idle succession from Father to Son; nor is it their custom, to prefer unworthy persons to any eminency, above such as are virtuous, and have given testimony thereof: No Inheritances, and Possessions left to Cowards, and Sluggards, who, without serving either Prince or People, consume the goods of such as are generous, and stout, perverting themselves, and their Posterity, and studying all kinds of vices, and volupties. But there you may see virtue, valour, good judgement, sufficiency, and gallant exploits (wherein every one strives to excel) raise men in a trice, from slaves, to be Governors of Provinces; from poor, to be rich, and powerful; from base, and unknown, to be Noble, and chief of the State. They are honoured for their Charges, that is to say, for their Merits, because they gain them by their Merits; and for their virtues, and sufficiency, because these make them subsist with splendour.  
They have no disputes, about rank, and precedency, left them by inheritance from their Ancestors; but every one knows what belongs to him by his merit, without usurping upon another's, and the authority wherein they are placed by the Prince, regulates all without alteration. The least discovery, or the least glimpse of a grudge, costs them not only their charges, but their heads. There is no such thing, as frowning, and grumbling, if they obtain not what they desire; nor is favour, or recommendation any thing worth, unless it be accompanied with true desert, whereof evident proofs have been formerly given. Great men's Children, if they be not seconded with some eminent qualities, are less regarded, than Clowns, and the very meanest of the people, if they be virtuous. For indeed, suppose a man had business, would he not be well holp up, to commit (for example) a Suit in Law, of great importance, to an ignorant, and unskilful Lawyer, though he were the Son of the Precedent, or Chancellor, rather than to a man of mean, and obscure birth, who were famous, cunning, and able? And were it not pretty also, in the extremity of sickness, to commit our lives, to the Son of a Physician, of four descents from Father to Son, who is young, inexpert, and ill grounded, rather than to a new comer, who is learned, experienced, and well versed in his profession? Nothing blinds us more, than the exterior splendour of good birth; and amongst the Turks, (as rough, and coorce as they are, (from whom all false appearance, and vanity is banished, and where there is no fraud, nor cheatery) the signs of good wit, and the proofs of generosity prevail, before nobleness of blood, and ancientness of race; and labours, good services, gallant testimonies, and great exploits, are incomparably more considered by them then riches, treasures, and large estates. For Nobility, good parts, and honour, do not spring from pedigrees, as herbs do from seeds; nor do the virtues of our Ancestors pass in Idea from Father to Son, for perpetuity; but most certain it is, that wheresoever there is reward, there will virtue also be.  
I perceive (said the marquis) by your discourse, that you secretly blame an error, which is lately crept into France, and which is pernicious to her; and that is, to give Employments, and Honours, rather by favour, and quality, then according to merit, and virtue; and that you show us that want of experience, and capacity are often the ruin of the State. The scope of my discourse, replied Hydasp, is not to make that conclusion; nor did I allege the policy of the Infidels, for any other reason, then to demonstrate that virtue is every where valued, and recompensed; and that those Barbarians (being more mercenary than we) reward it otherwise then we do, and make not their extraction (like us) from a different source; and therefore their virtues seem to be, in a manner, but Scaenical, specious, and ostentative, and ours are essential, true, and grass upon Nature; for if they prove able to derive any honour from theirs, they receive it, for the most part, from that of the Christians, whom they get by the Children of Tribute, and whom they style Azamoglans, in regard they are the strength of their Militia, and are employed in the highest offices, in consideration of their good qualifications of Nature, blood, and birth, rather than of their breeding, which is little looked after, and un-instructed, for that they are given to all kinds of insolences, and vices, however they grow afterwards to be brave Soldiers. And now you see, I have said something of what I brought back from my journey to Constantinople, to show you, that if such a General of an Army, as he is of whom we have spoken, had made such glorious Conquests in the East, as he hath done for us, he would have passed through all the degrees of favour, as of a Janissary, a Sainac, a Bashaw, and Bellerbeg, and have been made Grand Dizir, yea, and besides, the Grand Signors daily Pay, he would have obtained all the assignations he had asked upon the Timar. But amongst us, where an Illustrious Birth, and a Supreme Offspring is considered, as August as it is, this Lord hath had, in favour of his blood, the Offices, and Employments, that is to say, the means to work the miracles he hath wrought; and in regard all acknowledgements are beneath his Spirit, and generosity, he is satisfied with a little smoke, and rewarded by the tongues of fame, much more to his contentment, than he would be by the hands of the Financiers, and Secretaries of State, with all the good of Peru, and with all the Brevials, of the highest Dignities of the Kingdom.  
Amongst so many illustrious qualities (said the Colonel) as you have observed 
12. Of Clomency.  in our Hero; I will not omit the supreme virtue, wherewith he favours his friends, yea, and even his very enemies too, and which I know by experience, that he possesses in the highest measure, and that his Irascible part hath never been able to surmount it; wherein I take much more notice of their good luck, who have the benefit of it, then of their own deserts, and of the influences which come from him, then of the subject which makes him lay aside severity, and show himself favourable, and merciful. I mean his Clemency, which is the judge of vengeance, and the moderatresse of power, when there is question of lessening the punishments, which a person of authority may inflict upon such as are under his obedience.  
This virtue, (said the Counsellor) is a gift of piety, a sweetness of spirit, and a delenishment of punishments ordered by the Laws; which, after it hath banished the interior distemper, it reduces our souls to quiet, and makes us spare another's blood, as we do our own; for Clemency is of an heroic essence; and the defection of that active, and unbridled Passion which oppugns it, and seems to check it, is the most wonderful effect, that they who exercise this virtue, are able to produce, and the victory gotten over it, is much more glorious than that which is won by force of arms.  
Here the marquis interrupted him, saying, Sir, you put me in mind of an act of this virtue, which he exercised some days since at my request, in the behalf of an Officer of his Army, who had offended him. Therefore it was that I spoke of it (answered Hydaspe) because I was present when you begged that persons pardon; and when the address of your Eloquence, easily obtained what you desired, of a soul already disposed thereto by virtue; and for this cause it is, that I told you, that Clemency favours as well enemies as friends, and that we must hold ourselves happy, when fortune makes us meet with more necessary motions to pardon, in them whom we petition, than merit in the offenders. Not but that your discourse might have wrought the same effect, even upon Barbarians; because you took him upon a good advantage; but that with another, you would not have succeeded so soon, nor so easily.  
What business was that, my Lord, (said the Baron) which merited your favour; and what was that insolent person, who presumed to displease his General? you shall be pleased to dispense with me for naming him, (said the marquis) and I will only tell you, that finding myself in his Chamber, with few people about him, we began to discourse of the repentance of this Officer, (who is a friend of mine) and in order to the cause of his disgrace; whereupon I observed some moderation of spirit, and some serenity of countenance in the said Lord; and as he was going into his Cabinet, to hide his complacency from us, and to refuse to answer us, some of us offered to follow him, which he courteously suffered; and then I took my occasion to speak thus to him: My Lord, where the will governs, and conduct depends upon a capriccio of hatred, Reason is, for the most part, turned out of door. If the solidity of your judgement, which makes you accomplish such huge things, did not rather consider the good, or bad end of actions, than the facility you have to undertake, you would not speed as you do, and you would be deprived of the general applause. I would have broken off here, but seeing him look mildly upon me, and hearken peacefully to me, I went on thus.  
Nature, and Merit, my Lord, have furnished you with authority to act, and have given you much independency. If your will were not ruled by Reason, as it is, you being so potent as you are, and suffering yourself to be carried away by the persuasions of flatterers, you would certainly precipitate yourself, upon some choleric action, the event whereof would obscure the splendour of the bravest achievements of your life, as the death of Calistene blotted out the esteem which men had of the Great Macedonian King. ay grant, my Lord, that the person, whose pardon I crave, deserves it not, but rather the effects of your resentment, and to be deprived of the chiefest of his felicities, which is, the hope of appeasing you, and escaping death: but because he is of a condition unworthy to contest with you, and for you to revenge yourself on him in an honourable way; therefore must the privilege, and power which you have to exterminate him, serve you for a bridle, to moderate the heat of your vengeance, which casts him into repentance, and inflicts a thousand deaths upon his soul. Indeed, my Lord, generous spirits exercise as much clemency towards them whom they have conquered, as they do glory for their victory; as you have sufficiently experimented, and practised in your Triumphs. He who hath offended you, is more submissive to you then a vanquished person; and therefore you ought to have pity on him, (in regard he acknowledges his fault) and suspect all the counsels which proceed from your passion, what show soever of pleasure they promise you, and with what pretext of justice soever they colour themselves.  
It is a humane accident, to have an advantage over ones enemies; but to pardon when we have overcome, is a celestial, and divine virtues; Whence it grows, that we prefer clemency before rigour, and that we more value the attribute of Mercy in Almighty God, then that of Justice. Pardon therefore my Lord, pardon! and if you will not grant it, for his sake who hath offended you, (who is wholly unworthy of it;) nor for mine, who deserve not this favour; yet do it for your own sake, to the end that the loss of his life may not make men think that you are a Servant to your Passions, and that they overrule your Reason, and offuscate the lustre of your glory. What honour will it be for you, to free yourself from a weak Enemy? Enemy! I style him amiss; for I protest to you, he has as many good wishes for you, as you can think of ways to destroy him; and he hath already sufficiently punishment from his fault, and from the terror you have given him. Break therefore the neck of your indignation, and by forbearing to put him to death, show that your hatred is not immortal.  
I shall pass for a Hero, and my glory will not be below that of the Half-Gods of Antiquity, if I prevail upon your desire; and upon your Spirit, which hath not hitherto been overcome, and which renders your design invincible, in the resolution you have taken: But the title of magnanimous would not be due to you, if you would not suffer yourself to be vanquished by my just petition, in regard that by resisting it, you would be guilty of the death of a man, who begs your pardon, and refuses to defend himself. The world knows, my Lord, that you hold it to be an heroic thing, not to be transported by your passions; and though they may chance to assault your Will, yet that judgement which governs it, will make you relish my reasons; however I presume not to hope, to obtain the pardon I crave of you from thence, but from your virtue only, which shall (if it please you) give life to this unhappy man, and accumulate me with felicities, and obligations, by graciously vouchsafing to hear me.  
I was going on, but he suddenly interrupted me, saying, Well my Lord, for your sake I pardon him: bid him be wiser hereafter; and to let you see that I do nothing to halves, (howbeit another, after such a fault, would have endured him no more) let him come freely hither, and welcome, and I will look upon him as I did before.  
According to this act of virtue (said the Count) confirmed by another of supererogation, we may consider in this generous Lord, an incomparable greatness of mind; and judge how persons of honour are received by him, since even his very enemies themselves are welcome to him; and if we should speak out of the mouths of all those persons of quality, who resort to his Palace (where they are treated, with more than ordinary courtesies, and civilities) they would all testify, that when they come from him, they are much more charmed, and delighted with his sweetness, then with the highest compliments they have heard made him. Monsieur Angelin, in the swarm of duties which the whole Court pays him, hath not been invisible to the eyes of his mind, though he hath to those of his body; for coming yesterday towards me, with his accustomed complacency, and being mindful of our friendship, he asked me for him, and showed that he desired to see him. This, Sir, (said the Count to the Philosopher) ought to give you infinite satisfaction; for it is indeed no small favour.  
If, when he told you, he desired to see me (said Angelin) he did not flatter me; and if he expressed not that desire for complacencies' sake, I am much obliged to his memory, and my own good fortune; in regard that this testimony of kindness towards me, is a most high honour, and happiness to me: for I cannot imagine, but that this desire must needs proceed from that goodness of his, whereof we have spoken; and you shall give me leave (if you please) to maintain this truth, against the good opinion he may have of me, and against my own happiness: But I must have recourse to that good esteem he is pleased to have of me, to beseech him to believe, that I have not been wanting in my zeal, or respect towards him, but that, amongst the many cares I have, to render myself acceptable to him, there always crowds in some fear against my will, because those cares are inseparable from the fear I have to be trouble some to him: so that my respect grows to be a fault, and I make a vice of a too great virtue. But I have followed him in heart, all the Summer in the field, and I have waited on him often since his return; and in a word, I would not come short in his assiduity, of the most importunate of his Courtiers, nor in zeal of the most diligent of his Poets, were it not out of that fear I have mentioned; and these are the effects, of the passion I have for his service, which in regard I cannot render him in person, I erect him an Altar in my heart.  
For my part, I confess, (said the Counsellor) I have not yet seen him, and I shall hardly be able to justify my want of duty towards him; for I am too blame, for having so long delayed my compliment; and it his goodness do not temper (as I hope it will) the shame I have thereof, by the judgement he will vouchsafe to make, that it is rather an effect of my business, than a defect of my gratitude; I shall not presume to show my face before him, and I will shun those parts of the Court where he is. I know not (said the Baron) whether your business detain you so much, or no; but sure I am, that it hinders you not from playing the Gallant, nor from coming to Court, yea, and very seldom keeps you from going to the Plays.  
To speak the truth (said the Counnsellor) 
13. The relation of a Comedy, of the Days Reign of Sem 〈…〉 mis.  besides that History animates, and encourages, and the acts of hostility upon the Amphitheatres have always moved the Spectators to glorious actions, I have so great an inclination to see these public Spectacles, that had I lived in the time of the Old Romans, I had not fallen short of the most ardent Lovers of the Circle; yea, and pleasure, and zeal might (peradventure) have made me descend to the Arena (to use the word of Antiquity) and combat the Gladiators, Lions, and Tigers. And this is to confess to you, that my passion suffers me not to let many Plays slip; and I swear to you, that the excellency of that New Piece, set forth by the Players of the Hostel de Bourgogne, deserves a cessation from all kinds of business, to see it acted.  
Good Sir, (said the Baron) cure our curiosity, and tell us something of that Poem, in regard we yet know nothing thereof, but by the Arguments set up against the walls. To judge whether it be good or no (said the Counsellor) it is enough for you to know the Author of it, and to say, that he hath so well married Reason, and address with niseness of conceits, Antitheses of terms, and abundance of Maxims, that the long texture of rich ornaments, the solidity of judgement, the oeconomy of conduct, and the subject of the History, are in dispute, for the glory of the Work. I grant you, that the Author was a little crafty, in taking for his Subject, the One Days Reign of Smniramis, and in choosing a History, (which frees him from the care of regulating his labour, in the Drammatical Poem) which is, of the natural Day, of four and twenty hours, since the matter itself religiously keeps him within the rules, without art, or aid. Not yet, that the sublimity, and elevation of spirit which he hath, (and which make his Poetry called Divine) or the force, and extent of his judgement, had any need of this cunning to perfect the Work; but because he could not find so pompous, and splendid a matter for the Stage as this, and for that he freely permitted his Spirit, to incline to that which Fortune favoured most.  
Now, to say that the beauty of the hand adds also to the Verses; and that the subtlest judgement, and the exactest ear may be deceived, by a thing which is spoken with emphasis; the same reason may serve for Plays, which the Stage sets out, and makes estimable, by the stately dresses, and various changes of the Scene, which are not effectively good in the Cabinet, or Closet, where solitude, silence, and leisure, suffers us more punctually to examine them. But that whereof I spoke to you, scorns to be reprehended (without calumny) by the most injurious censurers, either upon the Stage, or in the Closet; for it convinces the Critics of all the ill opinion they can have of it; it limits all their contestations, and making them desist from their former errors, forces them to submit with heart and hand, to what truth requires from their thoughts. In fine, gentlemans, this Piece is the honour of the French Stage, and as there never hath been, so never will there be the like of it. That is very much indeed (said the marquis) but yet not all, because the company desires a hint of the story, and prays you to relate it.  
I will tell you, gentlemans, (said the Counsellor) this History is taken out of Bocaccuis; and Semiramis, Daughter to Neptune, was married to Ninus, the Son of Belus, first King of the Assyrians. This illustrious Queen was not only endued with a beautiful body, but also with a magnanimous mind; which made her take the habit, and arms of her husband Ninus upon her, and command the Armies, and hazard herself in Battles, whilst he lived idly, and sluggishly at home; for boldness in dangers, (which is very often but vanity, and fury) was in her a natural magnanimity, which cast her upon the most evident and imminent dangers, with such ardour, and valour, as cooled the most masculine Spirits of her State. And this magnanimity it was which startled both the Court, and the Camp, when she hurried herself, with too much heat, and hazard, upon a Battle against the AEthiopians, wherein the head of their King was the prize of her victory, and served for a Trophy to honour her Triumph: and this was that which made her the first who scaled the walls of a certain strong Town, of great importance to her authority; at the assault whereof, she forbade the Rams to be applied to the Gates, and the rest of the Engines to be set on work, to have the glory of carrying it by storm, and to enter first herself, in the most perilous assault; And this it was, which made Ninus, of a petty King of the Assyrians, the Monarch of all Asia; and this, in fine, it was, which for reward of all the memorable services she had done his Crown, made her ask leave of him, to govern the Kingdom but one whole Day, as the only, and absolute Queen, and he to be her Subject: Which he granted her, upon condition that her power should end with the Day, and he be King again. And this is the Theme which our Poet hath taken for his Poem, where we may see, how this Princess new moulds her Family, and distributes Offices, and Employments, to her Creatures, who were the choice persons of the Kingdom: How she gives Commissions for war, and signs Dispatches of State, how she grants pardons, and presides in Counsels; how she receives Ambassadors, and disposes her Orders, in favour of whom she pleases; how she marches like the Goddess Bellona, at the head of an Army, against the City of Babylon, which was revolted from her; how she calms the sedition; exemplarily punishes the Factious, and banishes the complices therein, and the assistants thereto. In this Piece, in fine, our famous Poet demonstrates, in the space of four and twenty hours, many functions, which a Sovereign, and firmly established Royalty may execute, during the Regency, of a most puissant, and active King: And all this mingled with so many several accidents, that at one Scene ravishes the hearers mind with admiration, another sweetly recreates, and diverts it. But the intrique which sways the whole Poem, by the love which Ninus, and Semiramis bore to a certain Slave, with whom they were both blindly taken, and mistaken, (for he was an Hermaphrodite) is the most pleasant, and agreeable thing that can be showed upon the Stage, and was the cause of most of the revolutions of that State. For, upon the Sedition of Babylon (whereof semiramis received news one morning whilst she was dressing herself, at one of her Country-Houses, from whence she went to reduce the said City to obedience, with her head but half tired, and her hair half done up, and half about her ears, (after having made an oath not to dress herself quite, till she had quelled the Rebels, and allayed the tumult, as indeed she did:) Upon this sedition, I say, the grounds of Policy are so well deduced, and canvased; Machiavels arguments so well debated, approved, and refuted in the Counsel; the best Maxims of Aristotle's Policy, and Plato's Commonwealth so well appropriated by the Poet, that it seems to be an Epitome of the whole Science of Policy.  
You speak so well of it (said the Count) and set it so finely forth, that it is more pleasure to hear you relate it, the it would be, perhaps, to see it acted at the Hostel de Bourgogne. Really (said the Philosopher) he jeers us, and I think he comes abroad on purpose to speak this canting language, thereby to give the company the pleasure of adjusting, and ranging all the parts of this Comedy (if they can all come into the Subject) and making a Symmetry, of the various accidents thereof, which is as hard to do, as it is to make a justness, and equality of the temperament, and a harmony of all the humours of the Body; and it seems to my understanding, to be a picture, drawn (in great part) from his own invention, and capricio, which hath never been copied from the Original. For to speak but of one point only, how is it possible, to find any part, even of Policy, in this Poem, after having showed us such a world of various matters as he hath endeavoured to do, in the Dramatic? This Science, is of too great a force, and extent, to be abridged, and for all whatsoever all the great Masters thereof have left written, to be deduced, and comprised therein. The Counsellor was about to reply; but the Philosopher hindered him, going vehemently on thus:  
Policy, which is a means to govern, wherein every day produces various changes in affairs; wherein the reasons of State are so numerous, and so ambiguous, as to hold the most subtle Ministers in suspense, and wherein there are so many nice, and abstract precepts, that unless judgement, or experience give the art to apply them, the event thereof cannot but be pernicious, or fruitless. Policy, Sir, (I say) is not to be briefly treated: for the Maxims, byways, and practices thereof, are enough to fill many great volumes. For, it is a Civil Science, which composes the union of men, and we should not know how we lived, if we were not taught, that it is not only necessary for the conduct of States, but useful also in such private conversations as ours; and that it is exercised upon sensible, and particular objects, albeit it be of a great extent, and of an eminent and spiritual origin. Society is a Character, which God hath printed upon man, and which Nature inspires him with, as being carried towards it, by a certain instinct, or natural Law, which gives him an internal motion to it, and this motion is afterwards seconded by the imitation of external things, which are the conveniencies, and commerce of this life; the true causes of forming Societies, in Monarchies, Aristocracies, and Democracies. There are some speculative persons, who find seven forms of Government; but I know but three of them; for the rest are mixed, and composed of these.  
The object of Policy took its principle from particular Societies, and so by degrees, in progress of time, from small ones to great ones. The first man, and the first woman, made the first Society in the world; and afterwards, their Families, and Posterities engrandisht it so much, that of one particular Society, were made many; and so it necessarily followed, that what was proper to one generation only, (being augmented by different Families) must grow to be variously divided; that Houses, Borroughs, Forts, Towns, and whole Provinces must be built, for lodging, and habitation, and Convoys appointed for the security of Commerce, and that all must be deduced in fine, into Kingdoms, and Commonwealths, and other Forms of Government, that so by the direction of one, or more, Order, and Policy, might be kept in Communions, which were made by the world for its safety, and conservation; and consequently, that whatsoever might prove hurtful, either to the public, or private Interest might be removed, and avoided: This Order, I say, hath always been supernatural, and not of humane invention; and howbeit it looks, as if the Body acted principally therein, and that care, vigilancy, and labour, wrought most in it, yet doth it draw its origin, and derivation, from a Divine Source.  
The Baron (who was pleased with this Discourse) said, There is no doubt, but Policy comes immediately from God, and from a Motion of Nature; since even irrational Creatures, without art and study, are more capable of it then we, and seem to put this Science in practice, to teach us how to guide ourselves, in the management of States, and in the direction of Nations. For, Bees are a perfect example of Policy, and that Policy of theirs is so well ranged, and so firmly established, in their Swarms, (which are their Communities) that we must absolutely conceive, that God gave them this instinct, for the instruction of our Government, in regard there are, in the conduct of these creatures, so certain Maxims, and so well regulated an Order. I leave it to your consideration, whether the Refiners of this Science, and the Doctors of the Cabinet, would do handsomely, to forge, and counterfeit precepts, and whether they ought not to follow the natural reasons, of those Creatures, which are their Authors, and which we find to be as potent, as just. It is judiciously decided, that Religion is the Principle, and Foundation of Policy, and that these States are always in disorder, and danger, in which it is not firmly settled. So that the Bees (which never go out of their Hives, without first crossing their legs, and kissing them, by an instinct of Religion) show us what we ought to do in the morning, before we undertake any business, and that we must of necessity worship God, to be able to subsist.  
Pardon me my Lord, (said the Philosopher) if I tell you, that this seems not very probable, and that the signification of the Greek word 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉, (which is Footless) confirms it not.  
I see Sir, (said the Baron) you are still upon the School, and Etymologies; but experience shows us, that this word is taken from appearance, and not from truth; and if they look as if they had no feet, it is because they shrink them up, and hide them by flying; for without them, how should they be able to sting, creep, and take such infatigable pains as they do? They are never weary of working, and of working for us (says the Prince of Poets) rather then for themselves, by making us honey, and whatsoever else we draw from it; to teach us, that men ought to employ themselves, for their friends, labour for their Country, and bestir themselves for the good, and peace of the Commonwealth; and that they ought to be content with what they have, without siezing, or coveting what belongs to others, as they are with their Hives, without trouble, or discord, and without taking, or siezing upon those of their Neighbours.  
All Politicians have found by their examples, that Peace and Union conserveses a State; that Love and Communication of goods maintains it; that Ambition and Novelty destroys it; that moderation, and continency banishes hatred, and quarrels; that swavity, and complacency of great persons causes not envy; that Vagabonds, and idle persons give ill examples; that seditious persons foment vice, and destruction; that employment, and exercise makes men prompt to defend themselves; that war makes them endure labour; that Arts are very advantageous; that prodigality, and riot impoverishes the Subject; that dearth of provisions, for want of conduct, makes them rebel; and that, in fine, all States have need of persons of great experience, and authority, to govern them: And therefore, in regard the Bees have a King, who sways them, and to whom they pay obedience, and submission, and who regulates all things, as we have said; it proves, that of all politic States, Monarchy is the best, and that which God gave them, and which he likes; and which, in a word, is that which all people should do well to follow.  
For my part (said the marquis with admiration) as I do not believe, that any thing can be better said, or more handsome things of Policy, comprised in fewer words then these Gentlemen have spoken; so do I not also conceive, that any thing can be more beautiful, more ample, and more recreative, upon the Stage, than the Tragedy, which the Counsellor hath related to us; nor that the acutest, and most supercilius Critics can have aught to object, either against the Subject, or the Composition thereof. And yet I must let you know, (said the Counsellor) that there are some, and that there was one, the other day, in my Box, (who would needs be taken for a great Author, and a great Poet) who made my ears glow with pleading, and commenting, sometimes upon the Subject, and the Conduct; sometimes upon the Order, and Dress of the Stage; now upon the cadency of the Verses, and the disposition of the Actors; then, upon the Discourse, and the Sequel; very often; upon the merit, and reputation of the Author; afterwards, upon the clothes, and beauty of the Women; from thence, to the stateliness, or meanness, of some of the Verses; and in fine, which way soever he directed his importunities, and censures, I still observed, that he was pricked with envy, and that he fancied not the Author: Insomuch, as that after I had often desired him to hold his peace, I was fain at last to enjoin him to silence, that so I might hear the Actors, and taste the pleasure of the Stage.  
Colonel Hydospe, who was also with you (said the Baron) is particularly acquainted with that Poet, for they have been often at my house together, and we will desire him to tell us who he is, that so we may be able to make a perfect descernment, 
15. An Invective against an able Poet.  or distinction of good Wits, and know whether censure, and detraction be signs thereof or no.  
Hydaspe (catching up the word) said: It is true indeed, that I know that person, of whom you would have me give you my opinion; but it is extremely against my humour, to judge of men; and I shall hardly be able to satisfy you in this occasion. For howbeit you may tell me, that I myself pass through the common judgement of men, and that I may fall into the snares of calumny, (which traduces, and blemishes the best actions) I am content to suffer this touch, and can hardly get leave of myself, to retaliate it; And though I humbly submit myself to the whole world, yet will I not freely speak what I think of it. But Monsieur Angelin, who is a competent judge of these things, and who hath a good faculty to discern Wits, will give you better satisfaction thereupon, than I can, as having more light, and being more particularly acquainted with the person.  
To which the Philosopher replied thus. Man being (according to some of Aristotle's Disciples) A little World; and (according to some other of a different Sect) the Picture of the whole Universe; it would be needful to have most a lively, yea, and even a supernatural intellect, and to be extraordinarily skilful in portraiture, to discover the defects of so fair a Piece, and to be able to speak worthily of the bold, and gentle strokes, whereby it is made perfect; which is above my knowledge: and yet howsoever, in regard I receive your desires as commandments, I cannot forbear to obey you, and humbly endeavour, to the utmost of my simple, and common sense, to acquit myself the best I can, if not so well as I ought.  
I tell you therefore, that I find nothing extraordinary in the person; but on the other side, I take him for a very great Dunce, in whom all the rules of Logomancy, and Chyromancy are false. Do not laugh at these words; for I express them literally, because, (to satisfy my curiosity) I have examined him, and looked very strictly into his particular conversation; and according to my small understanding, I find him weak in his grounds, and arguments, and of a low and creeping style. All he hath, are some affected words which he hath studied, and which he ordinarily uses; and this gives him a kind of gloss, and makes him seem to be a gallant man. This is my opinion, touching his Discourses, and his Entertainments. Now, as for his pen, and his writings, (some whereof I have seen) I have observed nothing in them, but a mass of mean conceits, collected out of various Authors, which he appropriates to himself as his own; and in a word, his Works, (the babes of his wit) are like the Son of No, who discovered the shameful parts of his Father; and are only different in this, that he laughed himself, and they make others laugh.  
Philonenes was condemned to the Mimes, for making good Verses; and Plato was sold for a Slave in Egina, for making good Prose: but our blade needs not fear banishment; for his writings will never make him envied, either by Prince, or People; and yet I must confess to them of his faction, that he hath some rarities; I mean, that good conceits are rare in his mouth, and good actions in his hand. If they will needs have it, that he hath a Courtier's wit, I confirm it; for indeed, it never reaches beyond the present Object, and is so far from the accumulation of variety of matters, that it is hardly able to manage, and maintain a common discourse. In fine, he is very much like them, who have been at the University, and cannot speak Latin; and I believe, he hath been these ten years at Paris, without seeing the Court, or the University. I am sure, you will pardon me, if I tell you, that the ablest man in the world could not find in him, what I have sought in vain; I mean subtlety of Spirit, which is the source of good operations, and whereof you have (peradventure) observed some tincture by his ability to find fault.  
His Wit is like the River of Eridanus, and the Philosopher's Stone, which are both hard to be found, and which have scarce any being, but in men's fancy. His learning will never raise him above the Vulgar; and had he lived in the time of Crates, he would infallibly have left him a legacy; for this Miser's humour was, to distribute his goods amongst the ignorant; yea, and that so far, as to deprive his own Children of any part thereof, if they were witty, and learned. Now to speak otherwise then I do of this person, would be to deceive you; and to prove the truth thereof, himself will give you a sufficient testimony, whensoever you shall think it fit to enjoy his sottish conversation; for you may judge of the Lion by his Claw, and you will think him happy, to have been born heretofore, since now a days there are no such Noddies gotten. Thus you see the influence you have upon me, and that I am yours usque ad arras, since for your sakes, I have broken the oath I had made, never to speak to any body's prejudice. A Poet would with good reason be afraid of those Furies, which they of that profession call Eumenideses, and which inflict cruel punishments upon perjuries; and so a person more religious than I am, would give the title of sin, to that which I call duty: but perfect friendship hath no bounds, and I might more justly be termed a Lover then a Friend, for slighting (as I do) the Oath I had made.  
I swear to you (said the Baron) that it is as hard to make a sound distinction of some Wits, which we sometimes hear discourse, and which seem to be indifferently good, as it is to defend one's self against their persecutions and impertinencies; and especially, when they circumvent you, and constantly importune you with their far fetched arguments, and their affected niceties of the times: for you would say, if you heard them, that all the talk must be for them; that it were felony to interrupt them; that no body but they knows how to argue; and that nothing can be said, which can escape their censure: But this is the common way, for the ignorant to show their ability, and their sottish vanity; as we see it to be an ordinary thing in disputes, and controversies, for fundamental reasons to prop error.  
I was much taken (said the Counsellor) with this out side Poet, by the studied, and captious entertainments, wherewith he murdered me before the Play began: but now I am not only unbeguiled by the relation of this talon, but much more enlightened also by the truth which results from the solid judgement, of a person who hath lively notions, then by the false esteem, and general applause of the vulgar. I take one for all; and I confess to you, that the good office this Gentleman hath done us, makes me find, that censure is the true mark of ignorance, and that to be a Critic, and a Varlet, is the same thing.  
How many of these gulls, and formal Coxcombs are there, who follow the Court, and are harboured there, said the marquis? For I know many kinds of them; some whereof, act by a principle of vanity, and presumption, and do all they do out of design, and vainglory. They pretend to be States men, and Gallants, & make a mystery of all things, and by a certain counterfeit, and studied glibnesse of tongue, labour to be held eloquent, and pass for great men. Others dispose of themselves by interest, and insinuate with the Grandees, to be protected by them, that so they may exact upon Players, and Booksellers, and get a belly full, free cost.  
All these people (said the Baron) make the high point of eloquence consist in the politeness, and niceness of speaking A la mode, and in certain new, and unheard of words which they affect, to express themselves (as they think) wittily, and seem eloquent by extravagancies; and instead of keeping themselves within the usual terms, and within the bounds and decency of our Language, they study strange expressions, and comment upon the Latin, and other Tongues; and the worst of it is, that men do not only imitate them, but esteem them for it; as a new fashioned Suit gets a Tailor reputation; or as new Shows, or new Jugglers, make the people flock together.  
Truly, (said the Count) if to speak, or write well, we must follow the Maxims 
16. Of Eloquence, and the delicate parts thereof.  of Novelty, which these pretended fine speakers practice, by Verbalizing the Nouns, and Nounnizing the Verbs; I find it to be too hard a Law, and disapprove of it as tyrannical, and insupportable. For all Sciences are grounded upon natural Sense; every Nation sets them out plainly and purely, in its ordinary Language; and none but the French, seek new, and useless beautifications, and embellishments, which will cause them to be despised in another Age, and serve for no ornament at all in this. And what can they hope to gain by this levity of theirs, but the vain applause, and vogue of the people, and the contempt of prudent persons? The worst I see in this abuse is, that not only novelties alone pass for politeness, and quaintness, but besides, that whatsoever comes out of the Country is neglected and slighted; that all, which comes not from Court, is base, and barbarous; and that out of the reach thereof, it is impossible to be capable of any thing; as if, forsooth, those Gallants, who take upon them to be the Legislators of well speaking, had a just jurisdiction, to impose Laws upon words, and to carve them into fashions.  
If the Country Gentlemen, and they who are obliged to make public Speeches, were forced to come five hundred miles, to learn the new fashioned speech, and to procure a new Book, which is not often worth a rush in itself, and is not esteemed neither, but for its new form of speaking: If I say these poor Gentlemen should be bound for the purchase of eloquence, to make as many journeys, as there are broached new words and expressions, the Highways to Paris would be more frequented, than the Pont 
* Where all the Mountaubancs, Jugglers, and Cheaters are.  Neuf, and by this concourse, the Court would be as populous as the Kingdom. Besides, that it were a great unhappiness for them, if, because they are not Courtiers, they should not be suffered to utter their thoughts, and if they should be accused of not knowing how to speak French, because they amuse not themselves, with these foolish affections, which our Sparks call the politeness, and quaintness of the times, choice words, handsomeness of discourse, and speech A la mode.  
The Counsellor (to confirm what the Count had said in favour of the Country Gentlemen) 
17. For the Country.  spoke thus. I am apt to conceive (if I be not mistaken) that the art of well speaking, consists not in the perfect knowledge of our Language alone: for if so, they who are at Paris, or near any of them who follow the Court, would have the advantage; and thence it would follow, that the birth of a Lackay, would be better than the wit of a Gentleman. But it is much more honourable for the Country Gentlemen to learn (as they do) the property of the Language of themselves, then to receive it from their Nurses; and they had rather have any fault of the Country seen in their style, than the least defect of judgement in their discourses: for thereby it may be perceived, that they hold of themselves, and not from their birth, whatsoever elegancy they have, and that reason ought to be more valued than the quaintness of expressions. And for the strengthening of my argument, I conclude in their behalf, that judgement, and Science, are to be preferred before the politeness of the Court, and that those discourses which are made according to the rules of Art, and are supported by reason, are better than all the Modes in France.  
That in your opinion, Sir, (replied the marquis) but you will not have many on your side therein, in regard there be many arguments to oppose it. We know very well, both Court and Country; and certain it is, that the later is furnished with witty, valiant, and virtuous persons; but they are still to seek of the true tincture of eloquence, and have much a do, to get accomplished Orators; for Nature gives the first qualities thereof, Art produces, and perfects the rest, and this Art (which is not exactly known, but where we are) is partly founded upon the Language of the times. All those Authors who are esteemed and celebrated at Court, and who pass for the prime Wits of this Age, were but poor Poets, and very mean Orators, at their first coming thither; but now, by the influence, and communication of this sweet air which we breath, they are held to be great persons, and extraordinary men.  
Whatsoever you say, in behalf of the Court, (said the Counsellor) you will still grant me, that the perfection of eloquence consists not in those fopperies, which are ordinarily used, and which men strive to innovate daily here; for it depends upon certain qualities of conceits, and words, and upon the collection thereof with dexterity, and judgement.  
That it is requisite, to have such qualities, as all who are styled Orators have not, and that Eloquence is an art, which relies as much upon conduct, as upon Nature, is not to be doubted; for learning and study, are (in part) the rules, and precepts of it; quite different from Poetry, wherein Nature acts more than Art, by the help, strength, and motion she gives the Poet, to make use of his talon, and wherein (saith the Prince of Eloquence, he is inspired with a Divine Spirit. But for my part, I find study, and labour absolutely necessary, to make a complete Orator, and that they must both be applied to the true ways, and not to the novelty of fashions, and fancies: And therefore he must take care, to have the terms of his discourse solid, expressive, and usual with persons of honour; and not strange, extravagant, and vulgar; and his periods round, and as short as conveniently they can be, without obscurity. His style must be florid; and enrisht with Figures, and not only with such as serve for ornament, but with such also, as are good to animate, corroborate, and persuade. It is likewise very important, that the whole body of a Discourse, be replenished with acute, and sound conceits, and that the inventions be amplified, according to the rules of art, and not according to the capricio of the Orator; and in fine, that a speech be composed (to use the proper terms) of all the Parts of Speech, and that these Parts be proportioned to their quality, and quantity.  
Since we are upon the business of new words, (said Hydaspe) what conditions ought words to have, to be fit for all good discourses, and how must they be handsomely chosen, to the end that we may not be left in confusion, about choosing such as are perspicuous, and splendid, and shunning those which are so dark, and ambiguous, that they cannot be comprehended? You know better than I (answered the Counsellor) and if I have presumed to dogmatise (with leave for this word) it was only to disapprove of the hard law, which the inventors of new words would fain impose upon us, and suppress that abuse, which begins to slip in, and take root amongst us.  
To make a happy speech, the Orator must choose his words on purpose, and they must be significant, singular, proper, and conform both to custom, and to the matter he handles; that is to say, if the matter be serious, and grave, the words must be magnificent, and pompous; if vulgar, simple, and plain; if pleasant, and delicious, sweet, and flourishing: For by significant terms, we express ourselves neatly, and clearly; and choice and proper words, add grace, and charity to a Discourse. He who intends to speak well, must never utter any mean and vulgar phrases, however they may sometimes be permitted, and tolerated; and yet still, he must speak according to custom; for such words as are not in use, make a speech ridiculous, and pedantic; as the want of choice terms, and such as are suitable to the Subject we undertake, instead of making the matter intelligible, renders it Enigmatical, and barbarous.  
The old Authors (said the marquis) never spoke so worthily as you do, of this Art; and though you have discoursed of the perfection of Eloquence, and of the conditions necessary for words, yet shall not that serve your turn; for you shall come, if you please, to style in general, and to the other parts of an Orator, since you acquit yourself thereof so pertinently, and vigorously.  
I perceive Gentlemen (said the Counsellor) that I am insensibly engaged; but though I should reap nothing, but shame, weariness, and vexation, by not giving you satisfaction, (without prefuming to teach my Masters, who have already both natural and artificial Eloquence, in a far larger measure than myself) I will proceed at random.  
Conceits, are the Soul of Reason, and they reign imperiously amongst many, and various matters; they shine brightly through the mass of their own beauties; they captivate the most severe, and obstinate spirits, and having charmed them with their force, and subtlety, they dispose of them at their pleasure. Now those Conceits, which have foe much power, and efficacy to act, are of two sorts: the one are proper, and necessary, for the intelligence of matters; and the other serve to adorn, and illuminate a discourse; and as the former are framed, by the definition, description, or denumeration of Parts, Proprieties, and Accidents, and by the sequel of such reasons as are fit to prove the subject; so are the later produced, by many parts, which serve for a mavailous ornament thereto, and which I should be infinitely glad, to be able to deduce, and demonstrate to you.  
It is an ordinary trick of Orators, who study to sooth, and gull the world with captious artifices, to make often use of fables, in pleasant matters; and in grave ones, of Sentences, which are as the precious Stones, to make their designs perspicuous: for they judiciously apply the good authorities they have taken, from the most laudable persons of all times, and sometimes craftily usurp them, and make them their own, without alleging the Author, the Book, or the Terms; and they prudently place, in the weakest parts of their speech, certain Hieroglificks, and Emblems, (which are the Images authorised by the Ancients, to awaken, and stir up, by the dress and subtlety of the Secret, (which makes the Mystery, and the embellishment) the eyes, and ears of the hearers to the matter, and their minds to curiosity. It is also their way, to cite certain Proverbs, which very much grace a discourse; but this they do but seldom, in regard they are common; as they also forbear to propose examples, unless they be picked out amongst such as are least known, and most illustrious. As for comparisons, they take such as are single, such as are composed of those, which compare one thing to another, in one point only; and of those also, which are multiplied, and look upon various objects: For in regard that they are often fain to make use of them, they eat the poor and lame ones, and cull out the rich and sound ones, which are indeed of as great force as Examples, to move, and animate powerfully. There is no doubt, but naked thoughts are much weaker, than such as are armed with the assistance which I have now deduced; and it were to make them contemptible, to expose them unsupported, and without those props, which serve them both for ornament, strength, and clarity.  
The Count perceiving him break off his discourse there, said, This is as touching the conditions of words, and the qualities of conceits; but the ways to distribute, and dispense them, are difficult, and unknown to many persons: For it is not enough to have materials to build, but we must also have an Architect, and a Design, and carry things on according to the Regular, and Geometrical Ground-Plate of Fabrics: And so we must likewise know, how to range, and order that which you have now said, and to reduce the matters, into that which you call Style.  
To this the Counsellor replied, To entertain you with what you desire, it had been good to let you know, that in the practice thereof, Imperceptible Transitions are some of the finest secrets; that is, to pass in a discourse, from one matter to another; and I should have slid insensibly upon it, to show you the way of it, and to tell you, that men's thoughts are no less various, and different, than their persons; that they make divers impressions upon their minds; that they never discover themselves without alteration, and are never expressed with the same purity, wherewith they are received. The same thing holds also in Style: for every Orator, speaks after his own fashion; and they differ as much as the Subjects, and Matters whereof they treat; and the manner, or method they hold in collecting their words, (which is the proper definition of Style) is as particular, and peculiar to every Orator, as the ways of several Painters are in their works.  
It was very judiciously, and advantageously observed by Demosthenes, and Quinctilianus, (who were ancient Schoolmen, and great Masters, of Rhetoric) that there are three kinds of Style: namely, the plain one, which is without ornament, and artifice, and which clearly expresses things, by common discourses: the ordinary, or middle one, which is more extended than the first, and enriched with points, and figures, but which hath very little vigour, and life in it: And the third, which is excellent, hath the qualities of both the other, and is animated besides, with force, pomp, violence, and all the Maxims of art. Now the excellency of this high Style, depends upon the heat wherewith it ought to be enlivened, by the figures which are proper to the notions, and by certain acute, sublime, and clear points, which captivate the mind. And really, sweetness, and smoothness of Style, is almost always necessary, to procure an indulgent hearing, and to win empire over Souls; as it also is, to have the periods just, and of a measure conform to the Subject; besides, that the tie, or connexion of the words, must not be any way harsh to the ear, or to the tongue, but agreeable, and harmonious. Moreover, they who are to speak to stubborn, and obstinate Spirits, and endeavour to vanquish, and reduce them by force of argument, use an eloquent, and imperious Style, and assemble certain grave, and magnificent terms, with an order far above the common way of speaking; for they dress, every, and fortify their Style, with points, sentences, and violence of figures; and to exercise this violence, the Prince of Eloquence says, that we must have pressing reasons, and puissant figures, and that the Orator ought to be possessed with the same passion, to which he persuades his hearer, to quicken him, prevail upon him, and obtain his desire of him.  
I wonder (said the marquis) that one of the most famous Authors of the times 
18. An Apology for Monsieur de Balzac.  should be censured, howbeit he observed all the precepts which you have recited, and that his Style have purchased a general applause.  
It is true (said the Counsellor) that many have written against his manner of speaking, and that his Style hath been attempted to be suppressed; and yet you see, that he leaves not to flourish; that his works are still in great vogue, (as having been several times printed) and that the truth of his merit remains victorious over censure.  
He would do ill to complain (said the Baron) of the persecution of his enemies, because it is partly by them, that he reigns amongst the Wits, and holds most of his glory from them: for envy never acts strongly, but against unparalleled virtue; and if they have sought reputation, by censuring his Writings, which attract the hearts, and admiration of all men, he hath done an heroical action, by despising their attempt, in regard he could acquire no subject of Triumph, by combating their weakness. For such conjurations are more favourable than hurtful, in regard of the lustre they confer upon virtue, and for that mean spirits are never made objects of emulation. And how many Authors to purchase esteem; would be glad to be thus unfortunate, and to have Philarks to encounter as he hath had? But all are not Cicero's, or Ovid's, to merit enemies, and aemulators. It is strange, that a Friar, or the Rector of a College, who hath but the Theory of the art of well speaking, and hath not so much as sucked the air of true elegancy, should presume to enter the list with him who hath established it, who, (like another Crisiphonte) is not less sedulous in the study of Philosophy, then in the practice of the Liberal Sciences; and who, being the Christopher Columbo of our France, hath opened us the treasures of Eloquence, and clearly won the Palm in that field; and therefore Philarok did undoubtedly better, to make a safe, though shameful retreat, then to contest any longer.  
In matter of war, the same and reputation of Conquerors makes them more glorious, than the shares they have in erterprises; and so in order to Books, some presumptuous Writers, instead of conserving the little repute they have gotten, do ordinarily lose themselves, by undertaking to correct the works of others: And this passes in the knowledge of the weaker judgements, for the difference there is, between the force, and fertility of the wit, of the Author of whom we speak, and the sterility of that of his Antagonist; between the height and stateliness of that of the one, and the lowness, and meanness of that of the other; between the property of speech of the former, and the pedantry of the later; for in short, take the later out of the School, and you strike him quite dumb; and really, all the honour he hath gotten, consists in the indignation of the whole world, which he hath purchased to himself: nor is his fault to be pardoned at all, as not being able so much as to imitate our Author, after ten years' study; and yet as worthy as this Pedant hath been, of a just rebuke, the Gentleman hath never defended himself against his presumption, with any other weapons, than those of the virtue of silence: And as Narses, that great, and victorious Captain, subdued the Goths, conquered the Bactres, and subjugated the Germans, more by patience then by force; just so hath he vanquished his adversary; who perceiving that there was nothing to be gotten, by attempting his constancy, at length grew weary of the field, and defeated himself; whereby the silence of the persecuted is become perfectly victorious, and hath given him as great an advantage over the persecutor, as he hath by the excellency of his Works.  
A Spirit, when it is pricked, and exasperated by passion, produces still more, and dictates better things, then when it is not: and therefore, had this Gentleman been subject to revenge, having shown us such wonders in quiet, and tranquillity, what could we have expected, but Divine Answers from him? But as it was not sufficient for the Legislators of the Greeks, only to understand Philosophy, but also to put it in practice; so was it also his pleasure, to profess the Precepts of the Stoics, and particularly that of taming his passions, and utterly extingnishing them, before he would prescribe us any Laws, in the art of well speaking. The obligations which France hath to him, render her incapable of acknowledgement, and the thanks we owe his pen, are much greater, than the satisfaction which we should be able to receive, from the testimonies of our duties. Let him go boldly on, to purchase the benedictions of the Kingdom, (since he cannot be paid with other coin) and by the productions of new Works, furnish the rest of the world with matter, both for envy, and admiration; for without being any thing less than a Barbarian, no man can henceforward endeavour to blemish a wit, which makes our Language flourish so much as he hath done; and I shall always hold myself a good Frenchman, as long as I shall be of this opinion.  
If this Apology (said the Philosopher) had been made, and publsht, whilst Philark was alive, it would certainly have made his pen fall out of his hand, and his persecution would not have lasted so long. You may also say (said the marquis) that in that case, the Counsellor would have been likewise censured, as well as he whom he defends, and must certainly have made one in that great quarrel.  
I would challenge myself, (said the Baron) in regard that the Laws of fight oblige us to serve not only our friends, but also all such as employ us, without exception; yea, and that even without being employed, we ought to fight with any such as engage us in the field. But I am also confident, that I should have had the advantage on my side, in regard of the justice of the Cause, which I should have maintained; and that, having many reasons to protect a docil Spirit, which fought with patience, the victory would surely have been mine, and all the world have declared for us.  
As to the point of the reasons (said the Colonel) by undertaking this Apology, 
19 Of the distinction of Wits.  wherewith you have entertained us, the Counsellor hath left the reasons, and figures of the Art of Oratory, which he had begun to show us. I am returning thither, (said the Counsellor) and Cicero had just cause to desire (as I told you) that the Orator be possessed with the same passion, to which he endeavours to persuade his hearers, if he mean to act with efficacy; and to establish in good Rhetoric, that strong reasons, and pressing figures are necessary for him to animate: for they are in effect, the most powerful reasons of an Orator, to keep him from being beblinded, by any other nice part of his discourse, and from being inebriated, with the vapour, of the good opinion he hath, of what he intends to persuade, and of the justice of his design: And if the force of his figures, and the violence of his reasons, (which are the strongest ways to convince) do not transport him, he will never obtain what he aims at, but will certainly find in men's minds, many difficulties, and much resistance for him to overcome. For howbeit, Rational Souls seem to be invincible to Reason, because they are fortified therewith, and because that was the first object of their creation; yet do we find, that Reason is their most susseptible, or obnoxious part, and that such thoughts as are founded thereon, and such discourses as are composed by ratiocination, captivate them with ease and facility. But it is to be wished, that those reasons may have many conditions, and that they may be well followed: for it is indeed a shame, that there should be laws against such as break the images of Princes, and such as counterfeit money, and yet that we should suffer falsity in rational discourses; yea, and that even those persons, who pass for the most just, and reasonable, should surprise, and gull the people, with Sophisms, Paradoxes, and false apparences of reason. Now, for the avoiding of these surprises, and for the strict examination of such reasons as are not ordinary, we must observe, whether they be certain, or at least probable, and proportionate to the motions we mean to raise, in the affections; and to excite the motions with success, the Orator must urge such reasons as are easy to be understood, well deduced, not hard to be explicated, animated with figures, and not over numerous, (for then one spoils the effect of another) and above all, he must take heed, lest, though he express them with artifice, there appear nevertheless some natural plainness, (for the later must be visible, and the other invisible) in regard that if it be never so little discovered, it forthwith produces a contrary effect. If the Orator will observe all which I have said, in his Style, and if the reasons which he means to propose, be sustained with such props as are necessary; there is no doubt, but he will charm with his eloquence, and acquire with his sweetness, and (when he lists) with affect or strain, those motions he intends to exact from the hearer.  
All this is highly delightful (said the Philosopher) to know, if a man, who will needs seem to be a great Speaker, be effectively eloquent or no; and to prove that the high point of Eloquence consists not in the inventing, and coining of words; but in the practice of men of honour, in conditions requisite, both for reasons, and conceits, in the accommodation of the Style, and in the decisive perfection of the Orator. But now we must examine the way we are held, to make a distinction of Wits in general, and what apparent signs we may observe, to judge effectively, whether they be good, or bad: for the manner of life of the Stoics, made them easy to be known, and their reputation was either good, or bad, in despite of all their moderation of Spirit; and however their retreats were close, their discourses private, and that they forbore to publish their Philosophy; yet left they not to post through the judements of men, because they were fain to speak, and could not live without expressing themselves, and without being understood.  
Speak, that I may know thee, said a certain wise man; and the Divine Oracle hath left us for a Precept, that we shall know men by their works. A dead Body is always incognizable, not only because it is ordinarily changed, but because it neither speaks, nor acts; and for that the qualities of its Soul, which we should know, are departed with her, and have left nothing but a trunk, and a lump without motion. An idle man is miserable, and wicked, because he renders his Spirit dull, and his Body heavy, and sluggish, and because also he leads a lazy life, and purchases the hatred of God and Man, and for that, in fine, he makes not himself known what he is: And howbeit an Emperor of Rome endeavoured to excuse his laziness, by saying, that every one must render an account of what he shall have done, and not of what he shall not have done, a person who moves not, is incapable of doing evil; yet did he slain the lustre of the Roman Empire by his sloth, and a gap of infamy to his history, which could not be stopped by his actions, because thereby he never afforded any matter for it. So that it is necessary, either to see the man, or to see his works, to judge what he is; and we must make use of this art, to observe the interior of all the countenances he shows.  
Action indeed (said the Count) facilitates knowledge; but it is also true, that we might find other means, if the Science of Complexions were infallible, and evident, in frequentation; and there is no doubt, but it would be easy, to make a perfect judgement of Spirits, since they are not, but by the organs, and that Bodies have no functions, but are merely subject to the humours which govern them.  
You make me take notice (said the Philosopher) of a certain form of trying, and knowing men, which I find easy, and as it were indubitable; and it is, that when we see a person of a cold, and moist complexion, we may judge, that he hath a good memory; and that if he have never so little learning, or reading, he must needs have his mind full of the juice, and marrow of good Books; and consequently, that he hath good foundations, and may pass for an able man; and of this we have an example in Herodotus, upon the subject of the Amazons (whose sex participates most of the cold, and moist) that being allied to men of foreign Countries, they sooner learned the language of their husbands, than their very husbands themselves, and changed their speech as often as their Country, whensoever their various Expeditions of War required it. So that we may say, that a man of that Complexion, may be a good positive Divine, a good Cosmographer, a good Arithmetician, a good Linguist, a good Lawyer, a good Grammarian, and a good Historian; all which are the Sciences, and Arts, which are acquired by the Memory.  
If Phlegm, and Melancholy predominate in a man, and if he have drought, and coldness in equal proportion, we may draw an infallible consequence, that he hath a strong Imagination; and that by his inclination, he may be capable of Eloquence, Poetry, Music, and of all the Arts and Sciences, which consist in figures, and correspondencies, in harmonies, and proportions, provided that he have practised, and applied himself to them.  
On the other side, when a man of a Choleric, and dry Complexion, and that the blood, by an agreeable conjunction, hath an equal dominion between dry and moist; it is not to be doubted, but that Nature hath drained her forces, been prodigal of her favours, and formed this excellent Temperament, of her purest Substance: And we may conclude, that such a man hath a good judgement, and brisk, and pleasant humour; that he may be a good School Divine, a good Natural, or Moral Philosopher, a good Lawyer, a good Companion, a good Drol, a good Courtier of Ladies, and according to that, good at all other operations of the mind, and functions of the Body.  
But Sir, (said the marquis) if Spirits, may be better known by their actions, then by the Complexion, (because you have said, that they are the inevitable marks of them, and that you mean to draw the conclusions thereof, from what they act;) what say you of a man, who practices Physic, and the Mathematics; and of another, who practices Policy, Wars, and Civil Conversations; and of a third, who is a good Limner, and a good Engyneer? As I have said (answered the Philosopher) that, by the knowledge of the Complexion, we may discern Spirits; & so, according to the drift of their inclinations (since things are dependent, and reflective upon one another) we may know that a Limner, a Poet, a Mathematician, an ginger, a Politician, a Captain, or an Orator, have a difference of Imagination, very contrary to the Understanding, & memory; that they can never be good Grammarians, good School-Divines, good Logicians, good Physicians, or good Lawyers; and that they who are subtle, and crafty, and have a forwardness, and quickness of wit, are fit to be Courtiers, Negotiators, and Merchants; but that they are not capable of learning, and that there are no Spirits more contrary, and repugnant to Sciences then these.  
It will not be so difficult, to judge of the understanding by its effects, and of the ignorance of the vulgar, who persuade themselves, that a man is wise, and prudent, if he be eloquent, historical, and Romantic; if he be a good Mathematician, and a Poet; which are things directly belonging to the Imagination, and Memory, and not to the Judgement, which is the seat of Prudence, and the just guide of the Soul, and Reason. And they have different opinions, concerning these matters of Judgement; whereas they ought to refer themselves to the learned, and know that the works of the Understanding, give this Power of the Soul, the faculty to distinguish, to infer, to judge, to argue, and to elect; and that such doubts as are in it, arise from accidents; but that we answer them by distinctions, because thence we draw the Consequences; which if they do not satisfy the mind, we still contest, till it be appeased by reasons, and till the Judgement be satisfied.  
If the Athenians had had this doctrine, they would not have wondered, to see so wise a man as Socrates, not know how to speak, and discourse; nor should we at present find so much obscurity, and roughness of Style, in the works of Aristotle, Plato, and Hypocrates. From hence we must conclude, that whosoever will have the knowledge of a good Judgement, a happy Memory, and a strong Imagination, must draw it from the effects thereof; and that in the practice of the Arts, and Sciences proposed, the issue demonstrates, whether they who exercise them, be capable of them or no, and whether they applied themselves to them by natural inclination, or by hard labour.  
All this is not sufficient, said the Colonel; for I remember another favourable Maxim, which I have experimented in my travels, to distinguish Inclinations, and know men's Spirits perfectly, by their Complexions; which is, by the origin of their birth; by the Science, of the various humours of Nations, and by the consideration of the Climates. Galen was the first who well practised this way, in the inquire he makes, of the temperature, of the Region where a man is born, or where he dwells, when he means to judge of the Physiognomy, and know the Spirit: And he says very well, when he says, that the Northern People have no unfaithful Memory, and that they want Judgement; that there never was but one Philosopher, in all Scythia; & that in Athens, they were all Philosophers; and they who are near the Sun, are cunning, prudent, and subtle. I ask the reason of this, as Aristotle doth in his Problems, said the Philosopher? That you may know in his Book, answered the Colonel. As for me, I believe, that they of cold Countries, have Spirits like Drunkards, and cannot discern the nature of things, in regard that the great coldness of the Region reverberates the natural heat inwards, and makes the moisture of their brains, and other parts, exceed the drought, and heat, which are the qualities of the Understanding: In such sort, as that they have but the Imagination, and the Memory; and their Spirit is like an image of wax, which may be moulded, and unmoulded at pleasure, as not being provided with address, subtlety, vigour, ratiocination, or any other judicious faculty.  
That Power of the Soul therefore (said the Baron) which ought to have the supremacy, is never found in them: and if they be bestial, inconstant, and fickle, the reason thereof is, in my opinion, that the Moon, which immediately presides over watery, and humid Bodies, predominates over the people of these Regions, and casts upon them the influence, of the qualities she possesses: Which we find true, in women who, for their humidity, participate also of this Star, and we see by experience, that they have much of its levity, and inconstance in them. Moreover we may observe it in Lobsters, and other Shell-fish, which at the Full of the Moon, are full of meat, and at the wain have nothing but water in them.  
From this argument, (said Hydaspe) and from the knowledge of the Africans, or Scythians, (howbeit we converse but little with them) we may draw a judgement, of the people of this Kingdom, who are nearer, or farther from the Sun, and affirm, that they can, or cannot be capable, of such and such things: but in order hereto, their presence helps much, and makes us know them, by their Stature, by their Hair, and by the colour, of their faces; and by these things, we may judge of their Spirits; nor is it very difficult to guess, that a man, who is big, white, or flaxen, is moist, and that this moisture hath dilatated his members, whitened his skin, guilded his hair, given him a happy memory to retain things, and a strong Imagination to construe Specieses, and set on work many inventions.  
On the other side, not to believe, that a man of a little, and low pitch, grows to be so by the force of heat, would be to deny the rarification of the pores, caused by heat; and that the Sun doth not black the hair, and tan the face; which would be, not to admit any such heat in his beams, as in his nature, and go against Philosophy, Physic, and Reason. It is therefore true, that a little, and black man is ordinarily hot, and consequently of great judgement; that he hath a good wit to argue, dispute, and resolve, and that he can act with force, and vigour, upon the most sharp, and subtle matters.  
Thus you see Gentlemen (said the Philosopher) that the distinction of Spirits may be made by discourse, by Works, by Complexions, by Birth, by Habitation, by Stature, by Hair, and by the colour of the face. But I find another more efficacious, and more important way, which is Physiognomy. That is comprised (said the marquis) in the colour of the face; and the qualities of the Body whereof we have spoken, compose the greatest part thereof.  
We have indeed said something, (replied Angelin) but it was but weakly, and skanningly; And these reasons will not win the game, if you add not, that Physiognomy, which is the miror, and rule of Nature, shows us the inclinations, and conditions of men, by all those things together, and not by the retail, which we perceive upon the out side of their bodies, and upon their faces. I will not encumber myself in the diversity of subjects, which are to be considered by this Rule, and make a disquisition after that of the Stars, the Planets, and of Climates; for we are upon the discernment of men, without any other pattern, then that of Bodies; and I pretend to know them distinctly, by Physiognomy in general; which is easy to do, by the scope thereof; that is, to judge of the inclinations, propensions, and drifts of their Spirits, and by the subject (which is man himself) guiding ourselves by such motions, and inclinations, as are purely Natural. From whence we must infer, that albeit the Soul be spiritual, Immaterial, and Indivisible, she yet follows the affections, and dispositions of the Body, and depends, in some sort, upon them, in her operations; not yet, as the Cause, but as the Instrument, and Organ. If God hath reason to require an account of Graces unprofitably received, when superfluities cause diseases in the body, when it is transported with Choler, and infatuated with debauchery, and when so many other irregular motions alter, and change the good operations which it ought to exercise: If, I say, the Soul makes ill use of her Organs, and must yield an account of her actions to God, we may well know, that she follows the dispositions of the body, which perverts, and ensnares her. That by the Body, we are enabled to know the strength, or weakness, of the mind; and that as often, and as much, as the Body, which is her Instrument, changes, and varies its inclinations; so often, and so much must the Soul necessarily change, and vary her operations.  
By this you may see, that if the mark of the Physiognomy appears upon the outside of the Body, and upon the face, we may draw from thence, the knowledge of the interior motions; however Philosophy, by good habits, do sometimes change, and reduce them to reason. Zophirus, who was the greatest Phisiognomist of Antiquity, after having considered the air of Socrates, and Alcibiades, knew, that their Natural Signs inclined them, the one to drunkenness, and dulness, and the other to looseness, and lechery; but he perceived also at the same time, certain counter-signs to these defects, and that virtue had gotten the uper hand, of the inclinations of these great men, and vanquished their ill natures. Now the same Author says, that the Physiognomy, and the principal marks thereof, are in the Eye-broughs, in the Forehead, upon the Breast, upon the Shoulders, upon the Navel, and generally in all parts of the Body.  
Let this ancient Author say what he will, (said the Count) my opinion still is, (and none can doubt it) that the Eyes are the fairest, and clearest part, of this Science; in regard they are the image of the Soul, and the windows of the heart; or Diaphanous, and transparent bodies, through which we may clearly see the most secret thoughts; and in fine, they are the Indices of manners, and the true testimonies of the mind. Aristotle was taught by Plato, that one may see evidently in a man's eyes, whether he be patient, or passionate; hateful, or envious; merry, or sad; chaste, or lecherous; stupid, or subtle; giddy, or judicious; and in fine, that all the passions of the Soul may be manifestly seen, in these Looking-glasses. For, when we see the Eyes red, and fiery, it suffices to signify a great excess of choler; and consequently that he who hath it, is touchy, and pettish, and furious, upon the least occasion; And the spartling, and vigorous brightness, which shines in a puissant, and ardent eye, (which hath as it were something of the nature of fire in it;) (that is, that it hath store of spartling glances, or spirits) indicateth much concupiscence, impetuosity, boldness, temerity, and insolence. But what will you say, of those dull and heavy eyes, which seem to be always half asleep, and not to have confidence enough to look upon others, for fear of seeing themselves in them? As timidity, fear, and faint-heartedness have their Essential Signs, in these parts of the Body, (and principally, because they are of a most noble substance, and very sensible, and delicate) so may we also gather from thence, that such persons as hang down their eyes, are fearful, bashful, unsettled, and melancholy.  
The Sanguine Complexion is the most easy of all, to be known; and the grace which we observe, in a cheerful, and smiling eye, is not only an appearance, but a certain, and indubitable effect. We may often perceive some certain Souls to laugh inwardly, as conceiving themselves to be very well hidden: but though they be able to hold their mouths, and the other parts of their faces, yet do their eyes declare the tranquillity of their minds, the candour of their Souls, and that briskness of humour, which is covered by modesty; for the knowledge of the Eyes hath not the power to impose any passions, but to discover (by the senses, and spirits which reign over them) those, which we ought to curb, with the bridle of Reason, and which are manifested to us by natural Signs.  
The Count having ended, the Philosopher said; Some Authors have given us for a ground of Physiognomy, that when a man has any kind of resemblance of a beast, he hath some kind of Sympathy, with that beast, both in nature, and inclinations. But they who Phisiognomize men to beasts, make not the right choice of the Signs, and their election is defective, in order to the Soul, though it be, in some sort, conform to the Body. And the Prince of Philosophers is not of this opinion, but teaches us, that the Nature of Men and Beasts are repugnant to one another; and that where there is a repugnance, there is no Sympathy; and that men have too noble operations to be compared to beasts.  
Another Science of Physiognomy is discovered by the head, where all the 
21. Of Metoposcopy.  principal operations of the Soul reside; and in the mould of the skull, are disposed all the various Cellutes of the Faculties, which the School, in barbarous terms, calls Sensitive, Syllogistick, Memorial, and Motive. The head, I say, is one of the greatest Indices, to know the Spirit it contains; as the hand likewise is in regard it is the instrument of the Understanding) a good practice, to guide us by the lines thereof, to the knowledge of the inclinations.  
Chiromancy is a fine Science, and very proper to judge of Spirits, but it is too common. But of all the precepts of Physiognomy whereof we have spoken, it is fit for every body to make use of that which he finds most facile, and easy, and whereof he hath had most experience, and proof.  
The indubitable Secret, to make the Horoscopes, (said the Counsellor) whereof the Physiognomists, and Astrologers serve themselves most, and whereby, for the most part, they least baffle, and fool men is indeed the Physiognomy of the forehead, which is more than the other parts whereof we have spoken, and then the very Complexion itself, the gate, and light, to know the Star, which presided at the conception, and birth of any body; and it is this Star, which forms the Complexion, makes the Inclinations, stirs the Passions, and which infuses all the good, or evil, which befalls, and threatens us. The Body of Man is composed of four Humours, which are ever striving for the superiority amongst themselves, and some one of them always carries it, and predominates over the rest; for otherwise, we should be immortal; because if they had equality, they would make an exact, and perfect Temperament ad pondus, which was never found in any but our Saviour Christ. Now, these four Humours, or four Complxions, are infused by the Seven Planets which govern them, and which form 
22. Of the infallibility of the Horoscopes.  them, of the mixture, of the pure substance, of the Elements, and of the occult virtues of the Firmament: for Saturn infuses Melancholy; Jupiter, Sol, and Venus, Blood; Mars, Choler; and Luna Phlegm; and Mercury concurs with some one of the other, but is never alone. Wherefore, we need know no more, than the force, nature, and influence of the Seven Planets, to judge of their power, and of the propensions, and dispositions which they infuse into us; and to understand perfectly the effect which is caused, by Saturn kind, and Saturn unkind; Jupiter happy, and Jupiter unhappy; Mars propitious, and Mars contrary; Sol gracious, and Sol ungracious; Venus fair, and Venus dangerous; Mercury advantageous, or Mercury prejudicial; and in fine, what Luna pleasant, and Luna unpleasant can do: for certainly, I say, after we have attained the Science of the Planets, and come to know perfectively, that although their power, (like the Heavens, which are their habitation) have the general qualities, which unite themselves with those of the Elements, and agree with the humours of the Bodies they produce; yet doth this power still reserve to itself the empire of their domination, or rule, and suffers not those Bodies to be governed, but by a dependency upon, and submission to their influence. When, I say, we are perfectly acquainted with the Influent aspect of the Planets, and can penetrate to the depth of their powers, we need not have any more recourse to the Complexion, in regard it is formed, and governed by them; nor hunt after the Star, which infuses the Complexion, because we discover it already, as I have showed.  
How then (said the Baron) shall we be able to know, under what Planet a man is born, and by what he is governed? That we may learn (said the Counsellor) by Metoposcopy, which is the contemplation, and knowledge of the forehead; wherein four parts are to be considered; viz. the form, the colour, the eyebrows, and the lines; and from the last of these, we may draw the perfect science of the predominating Planets, in this manner. All foreheads are marked with lines; and according to the order of Nature, there be seven principal ones of them, which are attributed to the seven superior Planets, and dependent upon their influence. The single, plain, and clear lines, presage felicity; the cross, broken, and uneven ones, infelicity. Saturn, who hath his seat in the seventh Heaven, and which is the highest of all the Planets, hath the seventh line, at the top of the forehead, near the hair, which is called the Saturnin line: Jupiter, who hath the sixth Heaven, hath the sixth line, called the Jupiterian: Mars, the fifth, which is called the Martial: Sol, the fourth, which is called the Solar: Venus, the third, which is called the Venereal: Mercury, the second, which is called the Mercurial: and Luna, the first, which is called the Lunary.  
Now there are but five of these Lines entire, and the other two are but halves: As the Lunary Line is upon the left eye; so the Mercurial, is a long one, between the eyebrows: Sol and Venus, have each of them two lines to answer them: for Sol hath the fourth line, and a half one, and half of that which is upon the right eye; and Venus hath the third line, and half of the nose besides, where there appears a little fullness. All other Lines, not designed by the seven Planets, which go cross wise, upwards, or downwards, either bending, or thwarting, and which are in any kind different from, or contrary to the Natural ones, prognosticate poverty, dishonour, sickness, persecution, and infamous death.  
Thus having observed, that every line belongs properly to the Planet, which hath marked it, and which rules it; when there appear two, or more Lines alike, in depth, colour, largeness, and straightness; the Superior Planets, which are denoted by these Lines, have concurred more or less, than they show themselves to the Nativity of the forehead which bears them; and that Line only, which is seen to be the longest, the deepest, and the clearest, is that which demonstrates the Planet, which had the principal influence, and preeminency, at the conception, and at the birth, of him who hath it; and the longest of the rest signifies the other Planet, which helped to concur to that Nativity, but more weakly, than the principal Planet, which governs the longest Line of all. So that every Line, according to the Planet it signifies, and the effect of its influence (when it is not crossed) prognosticates happiness, and when it is so, unhappiness. Wherefore, we need but observe the longest Line of the forehead, and know to what Planet it belongs, and consequently the force and influence which this Planet hath; to judge afterwards, by this way of Physiognomy, of the power superior things have over a Soul, and of her inclinations, and actions. Moreover, we may learn a man's predominant Planet, by knowing the day, and hour of his birth, and by counting, and turning the number of the seven Planets, upon a Cercle: As for example, if we know a man to have been born upon a Thursday Morning, about six of the Clock, in Summer; we must count from the hour the Sun rises at, (which is at four a Clock) beginning with Jupiter, (which is the Planet for that day;) then with Mars, at five a Clock, Sol at six, Venus at seven, and so with the rest, still turning all the seven Planets within the term of the four and twenty hours of the day; and so by observing the hour, we shall find, that that man was born, under that Planet, which presided at his birth; as you see in this, whom we find to have been born under the Planet Sol, which concurred about six a Clock: But herein, we must be ever sure to begin, the Cercle, at the certain hour at which the Sun rises, in that season. And thus I have showed you two very subtle, and nice ways, to know men, without having any recourse to the Complexion, and to so many sorts of particular Phisiognomies as we have deduced, (and which are not indeed very certain) provided (as I have said) that we have the Science of the Planets, and the knowledge of the faculties they inspire into Souls, and infuse into Bodies, wherewith I should be highly glad to entertain you, at a more convenient time, and occasion.  
hay Gentlemen! Look there's Cousin, said the marquis: Page, call him hither; and turning in the Coach, This is the pleasantest Fool, (said he to the Company) and hath the most admirable fancies, of any in the Kingdom: for in the very sallies of his furies, and Rodomontadoes, you may sometimes perceive judicious discourses; and he so handsomely marries jest and earnest, the Gasconado and the satire together, that one would say, that even in his very digressions themselves, he hath the eloquence of an Orator. His manner of life (said the Baron) is very strange: For the whole world is his Country, and all Paris his Inn, where he hath as many Quarters, and Officers, as there are gentlemen's houses, and good Tables. At meal-times, he makes no more ado, but steps into the first Noble Man's house he goes by, and according to the hour, says, Cousin, I come to dine, or sup with thee: Bring me some water, and cover the Table: And so he sits down, and sings a world of merry songs, and catches, and tells such stories as would make one burst to hear them. If it be night, he asks for a Chamber, goes to bed, and the Gentleman of the house waits on him to it, as if he were some very considerable person indeed. In fine, he is every body's Cousin: he is welcome in all good company; and he takes no care for any thing of this life, in regard the whole world labours for him, and gives him kind entertainment. O! I'll warrant you, (said the Count, who was upon the side of the Coach where they said Cousin) he thinks not much of the time to come; for he is so deep sunk into his freaks, and sancies, that he hath lost the use of his senses; and you see, he neither hears nor feels those Lackays, who speak to him, and shake him.  
Alas! Gentlemen, (said the Baron with wonder) all excesses are hurtful; and the 
23. Whence comes the folly of learned men.  enjoyment of a good, which is not possessed with temper, is prejudicial: Yea, even Science itself, (which is the Sovereign good of the Rational Man, and the best food of the mind) weakens and corrupts it, when it is over full of it, as a Stomach, which regorges with too much meat, is corrupted by worms. This poor distracted fellow, whom you see, is much to be pitied; for he hath been one of the most learned men of his time, and the greatest Speculative Philosopher of many Ages. He hath sustained divers opinions, against the followers of the ancient Philosophers; as for example, that the Earth moves, and the Heavens stand still: That the Sun is hot in his Nature, and not in his beams: That the four Elements operate with equal force, and virtue, in a just composure; and that if any one of them predominated, the composure could not stand any longer; and such like questions of this kind. Now you see Gentlemen, the unhappy effect, which the admirable notions of this poor man have produced, and how mediocrity, and moderation in all things, is evermore advantageous than excess.  
These accidents of folly (said the Philosopher) happen to learned, and studious men, by a too great contention of mind, which is made in the production of the lights, and notions they have: for whereas these notions strive to sally out altogether, they make an effort, or strain, and stupefy a man; or else, coming out in too great abundance, they confound the Objects, and offuscate the understanding: yea, and perhaps, the mischief happens, because the Spirits in this great contention, and maze, ascend all to the brain, and burn it; and so, by puzzling the Imagination, they scatter the Judgement. And it is very likely, that this happened to him, by some one of these ways; for if the violence of a passion causes a commotion, and an exundation of all the Humours in a Body, and casts it into Apoplexies; and if even an indifferent motion, which is only counterfeited by the Will, causes certain perclusions, or numnesses in some members, and universal Palsies, (as was seen upon the Stage at Paris, in the person of a Player, who acted the part of Herod, in the Mariana, and who in the heat of the motion of his speech, was suddenly strucken with a numbness) If, I say, the strain of a natural motion, and even of a studied one, causes strange accidents in the Body, we must not wonder, that the commotions of the dissipations, and excesses in the mind, (which is frail, and delicate) make it weak, and sick.  
It is said, that Cousin grew mad in an Academy, by holding a famous dispute, and by maintaining a certain point of Philosophy, wherein he had the advantage of all them who opposed his opinion: and it was a prodigious thing, that after having disputed three hours together, and after having held the highest discourses that could be, he was seen in the fields, raving, and taving, playing a thousand odd pranks, and freaks, and casting himself, by little and little, into horrible extravagances.  
What point was that Sir, (said the Philosopher) which caused that great and vehement dispute? I was told of it (said the Counsellor) and I found, that it was but a trivial Proposition in Philosophy, to wit, whether the world be from Eternity, or from Time! And Cousin, who was an Academical Philosopher, maintained the opinion of Plato. But what could he say against Aristotle's reasons? said Angelin; For I will prove to you, that the world hath always been; and in fine, the Peripatetics have ever carried it against the Acadamicks: And you will see, that this Fool will have cast you into disputes of Philosophy; and that with his plato, and his Aristotle, (who never agree) you will be fain to define their contradictory opinions, by the discourse of the creation of things, which is now in question.  
I perceive (said the Count) that Monsieur Angelin hath an itch to dispute; that he would be highly pleased, to have me follow his inclinations, and frame Subjects of Philosophy: which to please him, and not displease the Company, I will do; but if I find him apt to Ergotize, I will instantly break off, and then we shall have fine sport to hear him dispute alone. I maintain therefore the opinion of Plato, which is, that the world is not Eternal; and this is the best, and soundest doctrine, and authorized by the Scripture, where the Eternal Wisdom, by the mouth of Solomon, Cap. 8. of his Proverbs, says, God possessed me, in the beginning of his ways, and before he made any thing: And Jesus Christ, who is the same Wisdom incarnate, confirms the opinion of the Creation of the world, when Cap. 17. of St. John, he says, Father, clarify me with that brightness, which I had in thee, before the world was made, and which I possessed when men were not yet formed in thy prescience, and before the constitution of things. If the world were Eternal, men would be so too; and having been always in Formal Being, and not in Prescience, they would be coequal, and coeternal with God. But for proof of the contrary, we know at what time began the inventors of Arts; History teaches us the true origin of man, and we daily see his end.  
If God created not the world from all Eternity, it is not that he envied, or 
24. Whether the World be Eternal or no.  grudged man that happiness; but that he found it good to make it, at his own time and pleasure: for he acts freely, and not by force, or necessity: he wanted nothing to complete his greatness, since he cannot be better satisfied then with himself; and because we admit no necessary Communication in the Divinity, but that which is made by the production of the Divine Persons, which from all Eternity have acted internally: For had he done otherwise, he had shown, that he wanted help, to increase, and support for his glory; and without the Creation, and Settlement of the world in Time, he had not been acknowledged above it, and Omnitent as he is. Doubtless he had, from all eternity, the will, to create the world; though he created it not eternal, but just at that time, when he did it: for otherwise, the premeditated design would be taken for the deed, and we should be fain to reverse this principle established in good Philosophy, that the Will cannot dispose of a former action, because the Will, being the cause of the action, must need be before it, and for that the former Will, is the cause of the present action; and if this Will be restrained to the circumstance of time wherein this action is produced, as is evident in the Creation of the world, which God made at such a time, having had the will to create it before, it may be asked (said the Baron) why it is said, In the beginning God created the Heaven and Earth, and consequently all things? It is (said the Counsellor) because it was the first work of the Creation, and not the first work of God, who never had any beginning; and this word beginning, resolves that Heaven, and the World, are not from Eternity, because they had their beginning, Many great Doctors, as S. Augustin, Philon the Jew, and Caietan, (after having said, that God is Sovereignly Good, and infinitely Eternal; and that it is the property of a Good to communicate itself, if not in whole, at least in part) affirm, that he who lives Eternally, created all things of nothing, and that they are not Eternal: And after them, almost all the Sects of Philosophers have believed, that it is not Eternal; and that there is nothing eternal but God, however they have had various opinions concerning the Creation.  
Democritus says, that it sprung, by the congression, and from a mass of Atoms, (which are certain little, almost invisible, and indivisible bodies;) Plato, from an Inherent matter. Diodorus, from an inform, and imperceptile matter. Zoroastus, from a Chaos, or Confusion of things. Pithagorus, from Numbers, and Degrees. Epicurus, from a grain of Imaginary Spaces. Socrates, Calistines, Dion, Aristophanes, and the Caldean Priests, from a First Cause, wherein they agree with us. And with the greatest part of the ancient Stoics, and Scinicks. So that, you see Gentlemen, by Rational Arguments, by Canonical Authority, and by a good number of the Pagan Philosophers, that the World is not Eternal. And you see Sir, (replied the Philosopher) that I have had the patience to hear you out; and therefore, it is but justice, for you to hear me also, since I have not been forward to contest, and dispute with you, as you doubted I would. I pray tell me what shall become of our Aristotle, who is the Prince of Philosophers, and who hath ever been generally followed? Can you deny what he says, of the Eternity of the world, and are you able to refute the force of his arguments? It is the principal ground of the Articles of Faith, that there is a God, and that he is Eternal, Infinite, Omnipotent, Independent, and Immutable. Now it follows, that remaining still with equality the same, he acts always equally, and does the same thing; and that being Immutable, as he hath said; he hath ever been the same which he is: and therefore, either he hath always produced the world; or if he have been without producing it, he hath never produced it.  
God, and Nature, are always doing that which is best, nor is there either mediocrity, or extremity, in their productions: And it is much better, that the world should be Eternal, then Temporary; wherefore, ought we to doubt, but that it hath ever been, in regard that durance is incomparably better, than the end and cessation of being, and that Eternity is the only prize, of so vast, and noble a matter. The Circular Motion hath neither beginning, nor end, and consequently is Eternal; as Heaven, which is God's habitation, is Eternal, as well as He is who inhabits it, and glorifies it: For otherwise, we must admit, with some certain Philosophers, of the Imaginary Spaces, and give God another residence, and another employment, before he operated in the creation, and conservation of things. Take notice, if you please, that I answer all your objections, and that I borrow of Aristotle, and Procles, that if the world were made in Time, why was it made at that time, rather than at another? And if God could, and would not make it, it looks as if he had grudged man that happiness; as on the other side, to say that he would, and could not, would suppose a want of power in God, which were abominable, and blasphemous to think.  
The terms of my reasons follow yours, but differ in this, that mine are indivisible, and without reply: for the Sovereign Good aught to communicate itself infinitely, but not in part, as you have said: and therefore God must have made the world from all Eternity, to produce an Infinity, which was equal to him; or otherwise its production would be defective, and consequently would not seem to have come from him. But suppose that the opinion of Plato be true, (who will not believe, as well as you, that the world is Eternal) yet will you grant me however, that it is also true, that Nature, which acts by constraint, acts quite differently from God, who is Free, and whom it suffices to do all he does, upon good formal Reason, which is his Infinite Goodness, by which he acts, and makes all things: Supposing your opinion, (I say) and granting the freewill of Almighty God, we must ask him the reason, why he stayed so long, from communicating his Divine Goodness to man, and why the moment of the Creation, (which hath neither beginning nor end of extension in him, in order either to the subject, why, or to the space, wherein we conceive it to have been made?) Why Sir, I say, should this moment be later than other, if they be all equal, and contemporary, and of one, and the same instant, in his Divinity?  
That Argument which you started, though it seemed to be for you, was in effect, for me; for it is resolved in Divinity, that in God there is no Time, and that all those Times, which you admit, are present to him: And therefore we must conclude, that since God produced the Universe, he produced it from all Eternity; for otherwise, if there were Time in the Divine operations, he could not be himself Eternal, and Infinite. This is confirmed by Cicero, when, after having said, that God is a pure Spirit, a Free Understanding, a Proper Essence, and an Infinite Being, he both calls him, and proves him to be an Eternal Moment; as Philon the Jew also doth, when he notes two Eternal Powers in God; namely, the Creative Power, which gives him the name of God; and the Gubernative (to use the School-term) which gives him the title of Lord. For, if a moment have no time, and if these two Powers be eternal in God, we must conclude, that he rules, and governs all from all Eternity, and that so eminent; and so immortal a Principle, hath no less productions, then coequal, and coeternal, and that all is Eternal with it. I subscribe not however so positively, and peremptorily, to this opinion; and if I have spoken to you like a Philosopher, and not like a Christian, it was but for argument, and recreation sake, and not for a testimony of my belief. For I blindly submit to all things of Faith, without offering to oppose them with any Sciences, or erroneous opinions; and for fear lest I be accused of having too much correspondence with Aristotle, I heartily renounce his Sect, and render myself wholly up to your Plato.  
Let them both alone, gentlemans, said the marquis; your discourses are very 
25. Of Academies, and the differences thereof.  good, well deduced, and far from the School; but these matters are too high for the Cours, and more fit to be reserved for the Sorban: For I perfectly perceive, that you reap up the Colloquies which you hold at the Academies, and that instead of diverting, and recreating our minds, you make us fix them upon certain Problematical Questions, and Abstractions, which appertain to the Closet, and the Gown: And therefore, I pray you, lay aside all Philosophical Contestations, and hunt no more after contradictory reasons, upon sure Principles: Let us leave doubts, and jealousies, to determinate Spirits, and Syllogistical acts, to stated Conferences, which solve the obscurest Propositions: Let us shun all contentions of mind, which destroy the Soul, and beget no friendship at all; and let us forbear, in fine, to digress, upon such things as are serious, and needless, which may provoke us, and are sure to afford us no pleasure at all.  
If the gifts of the mind (said the Count) were as equally distributed amongst men in Nature, as the goods of Fortune anciently were in Sparta, where there were neither poor, nor rich, it would be good sport, to see the witty scuffles, and the endless and invincible disputes of the Academies: For the decisions of Truth and Falsehood, would require no judgements; and Logic (whose property it is to teach clearly, and regularly) would be a needless Science, and means to refute falsehood, and distinguish, and define arguments: And as for Rhetoric, that illustrious and resplendent art, which we use with pomp, and magnificence, to captivate the Reason of our hearers; which moves, attracts, and charms the affections; which hath inevitable force, and arms, to obtain what it will; which, when Reason hath once given us the perfect knowledge of virtue, persuades us, and obliges us to love it, follow it, and practise it: This fine art, (I say) Gentlemen, as well as Logic, would certainly be the Essence of things necessary; but neither Arguments, nor Eloquence would be in use, to make us quarrel as we do: Always provided (as I have said) that we were equal in understanding, and science, and that some Spirits had no more light in them than others.  
A lively force (said the Baron) gives a man a power, over such as will exercise it: a temperate force affords him an eminent superiority, over such as depend upon him; and a gentle force both conquers, and captivates all resistance, much better than the former. Now the first, is the force of the Body, which shows itself in all its actions, and which gulls not the senses with a false appearance, but makes them feel its strains, and vigour: The second is the force of Authority, which hath a Sovereign power to rule, and command: And the third, is the force of Love, which seizes, disarms, and conquers the Soul, how obstinate and rebellious soever she be. I have observed, that there is never any dispute, about the force of the Body, and that when a man hath had the worst at any exercise, (as boxing, wrestling, or fencing) he ingeniously confesses, and acknowledges it: And it is also as certain, that every man stoops freely, and without grudging, to the force of Authority, and to the power of a Sovereign: Nor is there indeed any man, who is perfectly a man, and who bears the character of Reason, but hath sometime sacrificed it to the force of Love, and acknowledges himself to have been willing to be the prize, of so sweet, and so pleasant a Conquest.  
In the combats of the mind, it is not so; since in this point, men never acknowledge themselves to be worsted: For look but upon the acts, and arguments of Philosophy, and the rest of the Sciences, and you will find two Disputants so fierce and eager against one another, that they will never have done with their Negatives and false Proofs; yea, and you shall hear them grumbling, and mumbling one against another, even after their Disputes are ended, and their Questions resolved; insomuch as that if they were not hindered, and silenced by force, they would come to handy-gripes, and decide the matter by strength of body, instead of deciding it by strength of mind. Now I am not ignorant, that the cause of this is, that the force of the Body is apparent; that the force of Authority is undeniable; and that the force of Love is invinsible: But the Mind, which is occult, immaterial, and invisible, conceals its weakness, and seeks new productions, to contest the victory; yea, & it often happens, that one of the two Disputants passes for a self-willed, and temerary Coxcomb; and that by thinking to show his wit, he shows his ignorance.  
Indeed (said the Colonel, with a scornful countenance) I do not approve of the School-fashions; and those Disputes, which are perpetually contested, and never resolved, make me almost out of love with the Sciences, which look, as if they could not be taught without these Methods, and for the learning whereof, we must necessarily pass under the lash of Barbarous Masters. But I think there are none of them (said the Baron) reduced to so strict a point, as to oblige us so peremptorily to dispute, for the learning of them; for we see, that Philosophy is now a days taught so far different from the rules of the School, and is so much civilised for Conversation, that the very women themselves both understand it, and handle it, in a mild, and gentle way of argumentation, and discourse; in regard there are now no more tricks, nor clinches, nor deceits, nor impostures in it, to surprise, and gull the Judgement; the Academies Portick, and Licea, being now reformed, and disposed into a most easy, and smooth way, to deduce, and decide Questions, by the secret of the art of Oratory, which persuades Sciences by reason, and sweetness; far from forcing, and thrusting them upon men's minds, by rough, and violent contestations. Yes, (said the Colonel) but in all Academies, they dispute, and quarrel, but they do not fight. It is true (said the Baron) that they are of various Methods, and not all of one, and the same fashion: for in some of them, they are always arguing, as in the Colleges; in other, they have one point given them, upon which they are to speak and write; and I have seen some of them, where they take every one's opinion, upon a question, or doubt, and correct the works of an Author. Yea, and I know some other, which have no set, and established order; but only by plain Conversations, they discourse of various matters at random, and without any selection at all; and some also, where they draw lots for the Subject, upon which they are to write, and give their opinions, which are afterwards censured, and by the whole Body together. But, in fine, (said the Colonel) let the manner be what it will, they never give over, without disputes, and contradictions, upon the matter.  
I swear to you (said the Baron) that I have been in a certain Academy, where this never happened, and indeed, I never saw a better, and a more handsome, more universal, and more profitable Institution then that, in regard of the easy, and pleasant way there was to break, and inform men's Spirits: For Books, Travels, and Conversation, are the three things, which make a man perfect, and procure him a general esteem, and reputation, with persons of honour, and prudence; And all these were practised together, whensoever we met in our Assemblies, where indeed we profited much by hearing both the lecture, and discourse of various matters, worthy of high admiration, and study. Now the order of this Academy was this.  
There were as many Matters handled, as there were persons in the Academy, and every one having made choice of a particular Science, Art or Subject, he managed it as regularly as he pleased, twice a week: And by this means, we had as many different Lessons, as Persons, whereof to make our advantage; and all the Virtues, and Sciences of the Ancients, being proposed, and laid before us for examples, it looked as if they had left us their Libraries, and the exercise of their Heroic actions. So that it was impossible, but that much or little, of all these particular things, must stick in the mind, and that this variety must sweeten the dryness of the Precepts, and utterly banish the sharpness of dispute. For it was not there the way to oppose what was said, but to hearken with attention, and delight, and to let the Orator carry the prize he aimed at; in regard that every one spoke, or wrote, upon the matter he had thought fit to elect, and ingeniously disposed himself to utter nothing but the very cream of what he had been able to gather from it. Now the ordinary Subjects, were, History, True and Fabulous; Sciences, Speculative and Practic; the Mathematics. Heraldry, the Maps, the Horoscopes, Travels, and merry Tales; so that by means of Conversation (which is one of the three ways to make a man perfect) the other two, were put in pfactice, without the pains, and charge of travel, and study: For we had all sorts of Books, in the heads of our Co-academicks, and all the contents thereof in their mouths: We travelled upon the Maps by Geography, and we learned the manners, and customs of Countries, and Nations, by the Variety of Histories: Yea, and we had another and better advantage, and we were our selves both the Masters, and Scholars of the progresses we made in our studies. For in regard that all our Notions are imperfect, unless we produce them, and that according to Seneca, a good which is not communicated, is not pleasing; therefore, by means of the Discourses, and Speeches which we used to make in public, we learned to write regularly, and by frequent exercise, we easily acquired a habit, of hiding the defects of Nature, and making our Artificial qualities seem proper, and natural to us. So that, in a word, there was nothing more advantageous, and profitable, than the exercises of the Academy, in regard that all which is requisite, to make a man learned, eloquent, courteous, compleasant, valiant, active, dexterous, and perfectly complete in all kinds, was there to be learned.  
How beautiful, and delightful is Nature in her diversities; and how considerable, and adorable is the power of God, in the variety of things, whereof he hath composed the Universe? For if variety makes beauty, and beauty makes pleasure, we may conclude from thence, that the variety of matters which we handled, was extraordinarily delectable to us, and that the Institution of our Academy, containing the three points, which give life, and motion, to the great Fabric of Civil Society; we might all easily arrive to our desired end, (which was to be complete, and perfect men) without passing through those thorny, and craggy difficulties, and labours, which were prescribed us by divers Sects of Philosophers: for so I call their contradictory opinions, their Problems, their Sophisms, and all their odd tricks, which cause so many disputes, and differences, in the Schools; for the avoiding whereof, all questions, and scruples whatsoever, which might seem in the least kind, contrary to what was pronounced, were absolutely prohibited in our Academy.  
The Counsellor having harkened to the Baron with attention, and admiration, said, Indeed, the method of this Academy deserves to be much esteemed, and the particular advantages, drawn from the universality of things taught in it, highly to be considered: for it is of the nature of Indivisible Goods, which belong as much in bulk, to every one in particular, as to all men together; nor do I believe, there is any false appearance, partiality, or imposture in it, that but that it affords an evident, and sensible profit to all. Yet will I tell you of another, which is no less commendable, albeit it be (like fair faces) quite different in all its beauties, and seem not to embarass so many Sciences: It is, that in the Circle of the Assembly, every one wonders at some subject, and every one takes also by turn, the wonders, which are proposed to him by the rest: For in the first place, he must wonder at the Proposition he receives, and give the reasons also why he wonders; and then he must not wonder, and give the reasons likewise, why he doth not wonder. For example, one will say to me, Sir, I wonder, that the Sun, which heats the whole world, hath no heat in himself? To this I must answer, that I wonder too, and make a handsome discourse, to warrant my wonder, and from thence, by a gentle transition, or an imperceptible passage, go to the contrary sense, and prove with as much eloquence as I can, that I do not wonder at it, and that there is no cause to wonder.  
That which you say, Sir, (replied the Baron) is like the Play of wonders, which is used amongst Women, at Wakes, and other petty Pastimes. It may be (said the Counsellor) that this form of discourse hath been profaned in those petty Divertisements, and gossiping of Women: but I believe not, that the Questions amongst them, are various, or learned, or that they know how to handle them handsomely, insomuch, as for that effect it is needful to have the profundity, and universality of the Sciences, to handle them regularly, and dexterously; and to be able to maintain, and defend any such argument as may be started by curiosity. Now the wonders which are ordinarily moved in this Academy, are drawn from Natural Questions, from Moral Maxims, and from all the most sublime, and Speculative curiosities that can fall under a nice, and subtle judgement; nor is it enough to speak something of them, but we must sound the bottom of each of them, and stay a good while upon these two parts of the Problem.  
I must confess (said the Baron) that this is a handsome order, but not so profitable, 
26. Of that which makes a complete Man.  either for the Speakers, or Hearers, as that of the Academy whereof I told you, which comprehended all the Sciences, and which had the true, and only way to make a man Complete.  
I remember (said the Count) that you said, that Reading, Travel, and Conversation make a man Complete; and that all these things were in your Academy: But to my apprehension, there are other Schools, no less, if not more proper, then that, which are the Court, the Camp, and the Houses of great Persons. The Camp (said the Baron) is included in Travel; and the Court, and the houses of great Persons, in Conversation; for, there is a frequent, and continual resort, which makes the Conversation both stronger, and closer. It is true, that every body is not fit for the Court, and for great men's Houses: but if a Country Gentleman, at his first coming thither, find himself troubled, and disgusted, whereas others take so much pleasure, and contentment; he must endeavour to grow familiar, and acceptable, by disposing himself to gallantry, and courtship; by furnishing himself with the Discourses, and Compliments of the Times; and by studying the Maxims, and proceedings of the Court; of which there are different opinions, of whether plain dealing, or cheatery, be most in practice there; For some speak against those Courtiers, who make it all their study, and care, to know how to cog, and fib, and prevaricate, and who think, that the supreme virtue of the Court, consists in knowing how to lie well: Others object against these, that they cozen themselves by cozening others, and that the highest perfection is, to have a good stock of freedom and plainness, and to trust even their very enemies, with their thoughts and intentions.  
That is to say (replied the Philosopher) that all the thoughts of a Courtier must be so good, that he may not be afraid to discover them to the whole world; and that he must not only not think any thing which is criminal, and against Morality, but be able to defend himself also, even against temptations: But this is too austere for the Court, and not very well relished, even in Cloisters. Some others (said the Baron) believe, that to purchase dexterity, a man must know perfectly how to wear two faces under one hood, that is, to forge, foist, flatter, and dissemble, and never to speak as he thinks; and this, for certain reasons, and maxims, which (you know as well as I) ought to seem void of all design, and artifice, and to be managed with such temper, that the least inconstancy, or levity may not appear in them.  
Few persons come to the Court, without 
27. Of the posture men ought to be in at Court.  engaging themselves in the service, either of the King, or of some Noble Man, to get a support, or make a fortune; and a certain friend of mine, who hath fixed himself there in a very good one, made use of a great deal of art, and industry, to win the heart of the Prince, to whom he belongs, (as well knowing that to be the only way, and the principal spoke of the wheel of Fortune) in order to which, he set all his craft on work, to study, and find out his humour, without taking notice of the greatness of his Pomp, and Condition, or of his Employments, Dignities, and Interests; but he looked only, and merely upon himself, without any reflection at all, upon any of those frail, and fading goods, and advantages of the world, which ordinarily overcharge, and overwhelm the strongest Souls: Nay, and he desired (if it had been as possible as he thought it necessary) to have him stripped of his Body, that so, by seeing his Soul naked, he might with the more facility be able to judge, whether she were great with temporal goods, or with her own, and consequently to discern her inclinations. In fine, by this course of his, he came so perfectly to know him, & to please him, by complying with him, in whatsoever he saw acceptable to him, that he most easily grew to obtain of him whatsoever he would, and to settle his fortune so advantageously as he hath done; and in order to this effect, the friendship, which he procured with all his Creatures, and Domestics, was of very considerable use, and assistance to him. For, as a Lover endeavours to win the Maid before the Mistress, thereby to facilitate his design, and enjoy his desire; just so do good reports stir up benevolence, and prepare a Master to affect, and favour a Servant; as on the other side, bad reports alienate, and avert the good intentions he may have towards him. In a word, he rendered himself so officious, and submissive, that by his dexterity, and care, he never met with any humour, opinion, or inclination so contrary, and so irreconcilable to his, but he wrought so efficaciously upon it, as to make it absolutely his own.  
It must needs be very troublesome (said the marquis) to a person of condition, who hath been wont to be served, and courted at home, to submit himself to the service of a Noble Man, or Prince, whom he must be as careful to please, as to please the King himself: and certainly if we considered this well, we should see, that it is to give a Mountain for a Molehill, since when we are under obedience, we must make a thousand congees, and cringes, for so much as a nod, or a good look; a slight acknowledgement, God wot, of so precious a gift as our liberty, which is the richest treasure of this life, and which the Divine Providence itself thought fit to leave to our own disposal, and direction.  
There is no doubt (said the Baron) but he who betakes himself to service, and subjection, finds at first, a great deal of hardness in the ways of the Court, in regard that he hath left his own house, and his business, for that of another; and for that he cannot move, but by a second motion, in respect of his duty to obedience, and of his having changed his liberty for captivity: But pains, and troubles grow easy by custom, whereas otherwise they are odious, and burdensome; and some men, rather than they will accustom themselves to them, are content to lose, what others acquire, by suffering them; for they are matters both of honour and profit; since by humility, and assiduity, we grow to overcome. But every body cannot follow the Court, and maintain himself in the King's service, at his own charge.  
No, (said the marquis) but yet you will grant me, that if we voluntarily follow a Prince, he bestows great courtships and favours upon us; whereas if we serve him for wages, he slights us, and commands us: And what a vexation it is for a Gentleman to be either stalking, or standing like a Crane, in an Anticamera, or Lobby, whilst some mean and petty Officer of the Army, some Poet, or some Lutenist, shall be jig by jowl in the Cabinet with my Lord?  
If we should make all these reflections, and scruples, (said the Baron) the Grandees would have no persons of quality about them; and very many Gentlemen would also want, those good fortunes, which they purchase by their means and assistance.  
Colonel Hydaspe, (who sat in the Boot of the Coach) rising up, and looking out; What do you look upon so earnestly, Sir? said the Baron. A Coach full of the handsomest Wenches in Paris, and all of my acquaintance, said the Colonel. I know well enough, (said the Count) that the Baggage was in the Rear, and that now that the Cours is almost ended, this blessed crew would come to beautify the retreat, as hoping to meet with an occasion to pick up a Cully. Marry (said the Marquis) there is enough of this stuff every where, and the greatest, and gallantest meetings are composed of such kind of Cattle; though they all act different Parts, and most of them are a lincognito. But as for such of them as are unmasked, and public enough to be known by persons of honour, they are less dangerous, and more harmless in the trade they drive (as hurting no body but themselves, and some fond blockheads) than those others, who under the false appearance of modesty, and civility, palliate their brutality, or their interest, with gallantry, and who are indeed, the poison of Nature, which every one should do well to shun, like the Plague.  
I know that Coach (said the Count) and I wonder whether the owner of it be there, with that honourable Society? Who is it? said the Baron. A young Gentleman of condition, and the marquis de Bon air's Country man, (said the Count) who was not long since a Friar, and being ashamed to show his head in own Country, came, and hid himself here in base, and infamous places, where he goes abroad but seldom, for fear of being seen, and keeps no other company but such a Crew as this, which will ruin him, and bring him, peradventure, to the end allotted for such courses.  
I know both his Person and his Family, (said the marquis) and indeed it is pity, that the poor Gentleman is grown so debauched; for he is of a good descent, and hath both Natural, and Artificial parts most worthy of his quality, and of a better fortune than he hath got himself: I was once employed for him, and I would I could have given his Father that satisfaction which he desired of me in his behalf. But the young man hath carried himself ill, & very much wronged his Parents. This always comes (said the Counsellor) of wild and rash actions, and of weighty resolutions ill digested, which cause shame and repentance, and sometimes desolation in Families. I will tell you (said the marquis) the story of this person (which is after a manner Romansick) that so you may see the different effects of his Passions.  
His Father is an Officer, of a Sovereign Court of our Province, and one of the most esteemed, and powerful of his Company. He bred up this Son with great expense, and all imaginable care; and really, by his good nature, and conditions, he at first answered all his Father's expectations, and grew a very complete young man; as being enriched, and adorned with many fine qualities, and Sciences. He dances, and plays on the Lute most admirably well; he is very learned, and most accomplished in all his Academical Exercises; and besides all this, he hath a very handsome body, and a gentile behaviour, which had already gotten him some good esteem at Court. But since he hath learned ill customs, neglected all his good parts, and done horrible things. For being taken with that natural affection to his Country, (which is common to us all) (our native air seeming sweeter, and pleasanter to us, then that of the gallantest Court in the world) he would needs go taste the delights thereof, and make his Parents and Friends spectators of his good qualities: But this journey proved fatal to him, as being the source of all his misfortunes, and desolations: For he fell so in love with a young woman, who was not of his condition, as to ruin himself by it. Now his Father, who knew him to be of so violent, and impetuous a Spirit, that he would undertake any thing to please his fancy, endeavoured to send him away, thereby to divert him from his Amours; but all in vain, for after having used all imaginable diligences, as well by rendernesse, as harshness, and by entreaties, as mennaces, without being able to persuade him; he desired me (as knowing me to be one of his friends, and conceiving me to have some influence upon him) to dissuade him, from the design he had taken, to marry that person, who was so much inferior to him, both in birth, and fortune, and of a contrary Religion besides, as being the Parson's daughter of the Parish, which most of all troubled the poor Father. Wherefore, I being in that Town, (whether I went to keep the Carnaval) and taking him one day abroad in my Coach, I attempted to divert him from his said purpose; and after having intimated to him his Father's most passionate opposition, I asked him whether it were true, (as I had heard) that he intended to seek contentment, and repose, in a Marriage, where he would be sure to find nothing but disquiet and vexation? I told him, that women were strong chains to entangle men; and that being Diseases, (as the Proverb says they are) if they make us not keep our beds, yet they make us keep our chamber, and weaken us, and deprive us of the delights of the Court: And it is (said I) a strange thing, that every body desires to marry, and to grow old; but when they have once obtained their desires, they repent, and lament it. I did not signify to him, that I was so great an enemy to Nature, as to intend to dissuade him altogether from marriage, and to embrace a single life; but to make him defer it yet some time, and shun that rock, and that gulf into which he was going to cast himself, to the extreme discontentment of his Parents, and the utter destruction of his affairs. In order to which, I spoke thus to him.  
If you resolve to take a wife, you 
28. Of Marriage, and single life.  hazard the infringement of your liberty; & you will have but a bad success of the enterprise, if you charge yourself with so heavy a burden. Consider it maturely, before you do it; a Wife is a fine piece of householdstuff in our neighbour's house; and he who intends to live happily in this world, must wish every body else to marry, and never marry himself. Experience indeed aught to have cured men of this folly, since it hath taught them, that they quietly enjoy the Estates of their Parents; but that those which are brought them by their wives, are so fatal to their Families, that they do not only not receive any benefit from them, but by a contagious conjuncture, they often cause them to lose their own. But as for you, who pretend to a mean, and unworthy Match, you have no cause to fear that, for many reasons, in regard you are to have nothing with her; and I tell you as a friend, that if Love, and Generosity makes you scorn interest, at least ought you to consider birth, and Religion, and not cast your Father into a mortal affliction, nor give him just ground to disinherit you, and make you miserable. Consider, that a single man may do much with little means, and that our own inconveniences are insupportable enough, without charging ourselves with those of a whole Family: That a Bachelor's life, and the delights of the Court (where your Father intended to settle you) are powerful charms to stay you there: That God, amongst the manifold and various afflictions, which he cast upon that illustrious Patient in the holy Scripture, left him his Wife, as the Alpha, and Omega, that is, the Source, and Compliment, of all his miseries; and in fine, that this Evil (though it be called a necessary one) is accompanied with many other; and that a married man can have but two good days in his life; to wit, the day of his marriage, and the day of his wife's death. Therefore let me entreat you, to cease your suit; for your Father will never give his consent, and your Equipage is ready for you to go to Court, as soon as you please.  
Upon this he seemed, in some sort, to be reduced, and made me a kind of promise to obey his Father; but he would by no means hear of going out of Town; and some days after, he was caught in his Mistress' chamber, by certain armed men sent on purpose by the Parson, (for he had the hearts of his Disciples at his devotion) who threatened him to kill him, unless he married her presently, which to avoid the danger, he was accordingly constrained to do; and to make the business the more notorious, and prevent the Father's complaint, they got it to be performed by a Roman Catholic Priest, with the Ceremonies of that Church. Thus you may behold a most desolate Father, and a most miserable Son: For the Father sued for his Son, and the abolition of the marriage; and for the mitigation of this Suit, I was employed as an intercessor, for the Son to the Father, as formerly I had been, for the Father, to the Son; and so, after time had a little appeased his indignation, and moderated his passion, I went to see him; and the better to reconcile him, to a thing already done, I spoke thus to him.  
Since hope is the only consolation of the distressed, and the object of an uncertain good, you have no reason to afflict yourself, if by flattering yourself with a favourable event, the uncertainty thereof have undeceived you, by deceiving your expectation, and demonstrated to you, that we must look with an indifferent eye, upon such things as depend upon Fortune, and sometimes slight the fair appearance thereof, in regard they are casual, and have as different successes, as she is inconstant, and various. All your Sons actions gave you contentment, and satisfaction, because of his dexterity, and obedience; but since he hath been obnoxious to Love, you have seen, that that God will not permit his vassals, to suffer any chains but his own; and that his persevering to lodge his affections, in a place which you had forbidden him, hath punished his disobedience, with the premeditated surprise, wherewith they caught him. Your intentions were just, and his chastizable; for though the consideration of Religion had not been a sufficient obstacle to temper his passion, you had a Right, and Authority, to prescribe rules to his designs; and he was obliged to a blind obedience, not only for the respect, and reverence due from a Son to a Father, but also for fear of being miserable. For he well knew, that to marry against your will, was the Highway to beggary, and that your natural affection, and paternal indulgence towards him, would run the hazard of being taken from him, by the resentment you would have of his rebellion, and by the little acknowledgement he had made you, of the good which you intended him. But in fine, since sudden and passionate resolutions are of no long durance, it is fit for you to break that, which you have taken of disinheriting him, and to let yourself be overcome by a Fatherly affection, which will not suffer you to see the ruin of your Child. You are not ignorant, that the honour of a Virgin cannot be repaired, but by Marriage, or Death; and your Son was necessitated, either to finish the one, or undergo the other; and since you are his Father, I am sure, you desire not his death; and consequently, having given him life, you are bound to conserve and sustain it.  
Affliction is the Touchstone, of a quiet and peaceful Soul, which, when she once comes to wrestle with misfortune, and adversity, easily gets the victory. I know well enough, that in regard you could have found a fitter, and a richer Match for him, and have enjoyed the unity of Religion in your house, it will be a great grief to you, to receive a smaller portion, and a subject of controversy, instead of peace, and quiet, which you so much love and cherish: But if thereby you win a Soul to God, that difficulty will give you a double merit, and the Lady's virtue, (whose body is a Treasure) will bring more happiness to your Family, than you would have elsewhere acquired. For, the Maids of Sparta had no portions, but their virtues; and if they had a good reputation, their poverty never hindered their marriage. Many things give us more fear, then hurt; and we are more troubled by opinion, then by effect. You will be even ravished with joy, when you shall find yourself receive more consolation from this Lady, than you would have done from another, and when you shall confess yourself bound to bless a thousand times the day, when you left your suit, and gave your consent to this marriage. I make this good Augur of this fair Lady, because I know, that the bounty of her soul, is not inferior to the beauty of her body, and that the sweetness of her nature, and the gentleness of her education, will not give you a greater dominion, over her humility, than a reverence to her virtue. Take therefore quickly, possession of this treasure, and forgetting the disobedience of your Son, instead of chastizing him, requite him, for the interest you have in so worthy a purchase; for it is to as little purpose for you to hinder him, from receiving the fruits, and pleasures of the pains he hath taken, and the trouble he hath suffered, as it is to show your aversion and opposition, by absenting him, since at last you must resolve it. 'Tis true, the business was a little rash, and violent, But— I was willing to go on, but the impetuosity of his grief breaking out into tears, he interrupted me, saying,  
My Lord, the respect which I owe you, forced me to have the patience to hear you, though not without much internal reluctancy. I confess, I can refuse you nothing, and that I resign myself wholly to your request; but I know you likewise, to have too much discretion to command me any thing so repugnant, both to my affairs, and to my reason; and in order thereto, he made me so many protestations, and instanced so many, and so strong arguments, that I was fain to leave him re infecta; and he, by his continued prosecution, and diligence afterwards, obtained a breach and abbolition of the marriage.  
It may be conceived (said the Councillor) that this young Gentleman caused this plot to be laid for himself, and had intelligence with the Gentlewoman's parents, presuming that his father seeing the business without remedy, and the marriage performed by a Roman-catholic Priest, would afterwards condescend and submit to Fate, without using any further opposition. But he was very much mistaken, (said the Marquis) and though you Councillors use to obtain your ends by heat and confidence, yet this poor young Gentleman, either out of spite and revenge, against his Father, or out of the tender sense of love, or despair, to see himself deprived of so fair and sweet a consort) cast himself into a Cloister.  
Finish, if it please you my Lord (said the Count) and say, that he soon came out of it again; for the cause, and manner of his going in, could promise nothing but a fatal repentance, which obscures the noblest actions, and a shameful coming out, which stains the purest life. And this is the reason (as I told you) why he came to hide himself here for shame, in such places as I dare not name, where he leads as disorderly, and lose a life, as that which he had undertaken, was retired and holy.  
The fervent desires of Religion (said the Baron) which arise in young persons, ought not to be followed, upon the first motions; for unless they be persecuted by these inspirations, at least ten years together, it is hard to discern clearly, whether it be a vocation of Heaven, or a temptation of the Devil, and whether it be a true zeal, to die to the world, and live to God, or a snare of the enemy of mankind, to destroy our souls. It is fit therefore to take much time to consider a design, which must last as long as he lives; for it is easy for us to slip into hell, under the false appearance of heaven.  
There are but two motives (said the Philosopher) to persuade us to a Monastical Life; the one, in order, God, and the other, to ourselves; and when the love of God, and of our own Salvation is mixed with any shadow of particular interest, and levity of Spirit, the yoke of the Lord becomes rough, and insupportable; how sweet and charming soever it be, when we have no other end, but the pure love of him. Wherefore, we must consult with our Consciences, to make this distinction, and know, whether the passions we have for a Monastical Life, have a disinterest perseverance; that so we may not sigh always in a Cloister, for the world, after having sighed a little in the world, for a Cloister. Now, to make a firm, and solid judgement, of the suspicions, and scruples, which may arise from such Inspirations, we may believe, that the vocation is undoubtedly divine, and that fervency, and heat of devotion, comes perfectly, and purely from the holy Ghost, when a perseverant zeal of the love of God, accompanied with the contempt of the pleasures of this life, stirs us up, and pricks us on, to unite ourselves to him, and makes us (even whilst we are in the world) begin to practise the mortifications of a Religious Life. And when we are so truly enlightened with this knowledge, that there is no more blindness, nor shame left to counterbalance the truth; we ought not to bear a deaf ear, nor spurn against the holy Spirit, but take up the burden, and cover ourselves with sackcloth, and ashes, to follow the summons of this Divine Fire.  
It is true indeed (said the Counsellor) that we may be tempted to our perdition, under a fair, and false appearance of Salvation; and that the false motives of Religion, do ordinarily proceed from the discontentments of life, from weariness of the world, or from some capricio, or fancy of the brain; and therefore it is very necessary to sound to the bottoms of our hearts, to know, whether our vocation be perfectly pure, or any way polluted with sensual appetites; whether the desire of beautifying, and beatifying our Souls, guide us towards solitude, rather than the desire of change, or the hope of a better condition; and whether our intention be rather to please God, by forsaking the world, then either to please ourselves, or the first motion of our spirits; and in fine, whether ambition have any prevalency with us, either to forward, or hinder us; and that since secular honours are so high, that we have no hope to attain to them, whether we aspire to merit, and obtain those of Religion. Wherefore this Gentleman should have well pondered, whether it were the saturity of wanton Love, or the abolition of his marriage, which made him abandon, and detest that, which he had so passionately coveted before, and retire himself into a Monastery, either to anger his Father, or to have a freer access to women, under the Habit of Hypocrisy. Moreover, we must also take heed, least by the sense of the indigency of our condition, and by the fear, of not being able to hold out the immense expenses of the variety of Fashion, or otherwise, we be induced to make profession of poverty, in a place, where it is as honourable, as it seems dishonourable, and shameful elsewhere. For how many afflicted persons in the world, seek consolation in Cloisters? And how many Drones, and Sluggards, make choice of a quiet, and sedentary life, to eat their bread without working? How many, out of a blind, and false opinion, that it is impossible to make their Salvation in the world, thrust themselves into Monasteries? And how many out of too much instability, and levity of Spirit? How great is the number of them, who are seduced by the greedy, and interessable persuasions, of their Directors, and Ghostly Fathers, who judge them in some kind or other, either like to prove useful to their Order, or know them to have Estates to dispose of? And how many also of them, whose simple, and ill digested motion to piety, which lasts no longer than a blast of straw, and suddenly turns to repentance? There is, in fine, an infinity, of false, and treacherous motives, which inspire a soul to perdition, instead of salvation; and there is only that of the holy Ghost, which under an appearance of tempting us, doth really operate to save us. Therefore how careful, and punctual aught we to be in this case, to pick out the most abstruse, and secret thoughts of a Soul, to make an absolute, and definitive judgement of her, and know whether it be really, and only the pure love of God, which moves her, or self love, and a desire to flattter her, with the plausible bait of devotion? For, as the former makes us lead a happy, and celestial life, amongst the rigours of abstinency, and mortification, and hath the joy of heaven for its scope; so doth the later make us lead a dismal, and unhappy life here on earth, and hath no other end, than despair, and ignominy, that is, Apostasy, and Hell, since it is a common thing, both to the learned, and unlearned, to brand Apostasy with shame & ignominy, a forced, and irreligious life in a Monastery with despair; and from thence comes the Proverb, that all persons consecrated to God, are good, or bad Angels; that there is no mediocrity in Religion and that a man must necessarily be, either the one, or the other.  
According to this discourse (said the Baron) we may clearly distinguish vocations; and a person who is moved by devotion, by sounding his heart to the bottom, may know, whether he be rightly called, and whether the place he hath appointed for his retirement, be the right, or the wrong way, both to his Temporal, and Eternal Felicity?  
If a false vocation (said the marquis) be so fatal to Monasteries, as to make a man live a wicked, and scandalous life; the true one, which comes from the holy Ghost, must needs be Divine, because it causes an Angelical life, and purchases much veneration, and reverence, to such Souls, as having profited by good inspirations, are like the gifts of Heaven and Nature, to serve for lights, and patterns of Heroick, and moral virtue.  
Indeed (said the Philosopher) we ought 
31. Of the respect we owe to Sacred persons.  to carry some respect, and reverence, towards good Religious men; and I know not what to think, of those Libertines, who despise them, and scoff at holy things; and who, setting light by Heaven, and the gifts thereof, upbraid, and combat their felicity. Nor do I make a rash Proposition, when I affirm these persons, who are marked with the sacred character, to be the gift of God, because (besides that they lead a holy, and exemplary life, and instruct Souls towards Salvation) the lively light they impart, to such as with whom they converse, is an infallible sign of their being sent from above, to save Souls, and to illuminate such Spirits, as have the ordinary notions; for God (who is an universal, and Incomprehensible Intelligence) hath a care of us, and makes himself concerned, in the affairs of our consciences, procuring our salvation by his providence, according as we cooperate with our actions; and in regard that he hath given us Rational Souls, he likes not that they should be in love with our Bodies, and wholly transported to sensual delights; and that, in fine, that beam of Divinity which we hold from him, should be put out upon earth, as material fire is hidden under ashes. Therefore it was, that he sent his Prophets in the Old Law, to prepare men's spirits for his coming; and his Apostles in the New One, to announce his Passion, and his Miracles to our Forefathers, and to instruct them, by the example he gave us in his life: And for that, in the Infancy of the Church, it was expedient for him, to make himself known, by the greatness of his gifts, thereby to attract to himself, those People, which were then, either in disobedience, or Paganism; he sent his holy Spirit; and that not secretly, and only to kindle the hearts of his Apostles, with the fire of Charity, and to inspire them, with the Orthodox, and sacred Doctrine, which they were to preach in the world; but openly, and publicly, to show by his goodness, and by the magnificence of his gifts, a pattern of the glory he had promised, which is unconceivable, inefable, and incomprehensible to human understanding. But now since Christianism is so generally propagated, it is not needful, for God to use those attracts, and specious magnificencies, or any other particular remedies, to retain the faithful Believers in their duty, which only consists in the well keeping of his Commandments, and in honouring the Announcers of his Divine Word.  
Now, if he sends us secret Apostles, marked with the Sacred Character of his Grace, and inspires them with the mysterious Notions of a purely Celestial Science; I pray you consider, what kind of persons they be, who have so good a Mission, and how they ought to be esteemed? Wherefore, I will conclude, that as all good Religious are called by God, so are they also sent by him, to interpret his Oracles, and that he sends them, not with lightning, and thunder, as he anciently communicated himself to his People; but secretly, and as if he were familiar, amongst men; to the end, that not being of a higher essence than theirs, their words, and deeds might preach together, and show us, that we ourselves are the causers of our destruction, as Israel was; and that though God made us without our help, yet will he not save us without our help; and that we must serve ourselves of those two things, as of two spurs, to attain to Christian perfection. That is called, in plain terms, Preaching (said Hydaspe) and so going on with his caillery, the Count interrupted him, saying, Gentlemen, shall we not retire ourselves? For it grows late, and we must sup more early than we use to do, to go to the Bal, or Mask, which is to be danced to night, at the Hostel de Luxembourgh. With all my heart, said the Baron, when you please; and so all agreeing, away they went, to the Baron's house, whether when they were come, Gentlemen, (said he) you must do me the honour to sup with me, and then we will go all together to the Bal. What kind of Bal is it? said the marquis. 'Tis but a Bal of Entrances, without Machines', (said the Count;) and they say, that the Divertisements, Exercises, and Passions of Youth, is the Subject, and that the Baladins, or Maskers, took it out of their own ordinary manner of life: Not to publish their vices, and volupties, which it were fit for them to keep private, (and which they will not forbear to follow, and enjoy, whether they be known, or not known) but because the pleasures of the senses are not so satisfactory, and agreeable, when they are not communicated; as being, for the most part, like those of love, the chief satisfaction whereof, is, first to obtain one's desire, and then to divulge it: And so these people take pride in their employments, and declare, that though 
31. Of Balls and Masks.  every body seeks after divertisements, and pleasures, yet few know how to choose the true, and noble means to acquire them: For women are ignorant of it, either for want of capacity, or through excess of Passions; Children are not of maturity, to comprehend it; and old folks, are fond of toys and babbles. But they who are to dance this Ball, are both for Age, and Sex, in the most perfect flower, and vigour, to have both the Theorical, and Practical knowledge, of true pleasures: I mean that gang of inseparable Comrades, who are called La Trouppe Galliard, or the Jolly Company, and who study nothing but the accomplishment, of the delights, and volupties of this life; for they trample upon what is base; scorn as Chimerical, what is too witty, and give their minds wholly to such things, as are exempt from sottish vanity, and sordity. This mask (as I told you before) is a Picture, of their manner of life, and a true type, and confirmation of their honest, and honourable divertizements; and if you have the curiosity to see it, I doubt not but you will esteem it, as it deserves, and instead of censuring it, not only approve it, but praise it, and do your best to protect it, and prefer it, both for the fitness of the Subject, the dexterity of the Actors, and the gallantry of the Scene, before all you have ever seen.  
Though you commended it not so much (said the Counsellor) we should yet be desirous to see it, because the other night we crowded so much, to see one near us, which was not so good, either for the Scene, or for the Actors, and the Subject of it was a little peccant too, as alluding to the disparagement of women.  
What Subject was it then, said the marquis, who had not been then in their company to see it? It was (said the Counsellor) the Jubiley of Caelibat, or Single Life, wherein were represented all the gallantries, which possibly could be invented, in contempt, and scorn of Ladies: and therefore it was not only not applauded, but all the Spectators (for their sakes) were much disgusted, because the Ladies (who are the Oracles, which either give, or take away the approbation of men) were much troubled at the blemishing of their credit, and the diminution of their honour.  
I will tell you (said the marquis) of a Bal which I made in our Country this Lent, a little after I employed myself for that young Gentleman, whose sad story I have related to you; and I believe, you will find the Subject to be very good, and the Invention most pleasant. It was this,  
After the death of Alexander the Great, 
32. The relation of a magnificent Ball, or Mask.  (which was the noble cause of dividing the Empire of the world, amongst his Captains, and prescribing limits to ambition) Antigonus, the Father of Demetrius, and Salcucus, had each of them certain Kingdoms for their shares; for in regard they were the Chief Commanders, who had signalised themselves in Battles, and Victories, and had, in great part, by their exploits, forwarded their Master, in the achievement of that Universal Sovereignty; it was therefore fit, and just, that they should be requited, for their pains, and dangers, with a recompense suitable to the greatness of their minds, and the merit of their actions, and that their valour should be rewarded with Kingdoms, since nothing but Triumph, and Potency can be the just, and equivalent price of virtue. Wherefore, to Demetrius and his Father, was allotted the Kingdom of Phrygia; and that of Syria, to Seleucus; who had to wife the Lady Stratonica, Daughter to Demetrius; a Princess, as much worthy of admiration, for the singular beauty of her Body, as of adoration, for the incomparable gifts, and endowments of her mind. To assure you of the Historical part of the subject, it is hard, because there is no Author, who hath written truly, and perfectly of it: but I conceive it to be thus.  
Fame, the flying Trumpet of Stratonica's beauty, had already spread it, as a Prodigy, upon the whole face of the earth, and erected as many Altars, as there are Princely, and Sovereign hearts, to conceive love, and ambition for her. This coming to the Court of Syria, and breeding some disorder in the King's Family, it also possessed Seleucus, and his Son Antiochus, with an equal passion of love towards her; but Antiochus, (as a Son, and a Subject) must submit to the Law of Nature, and to the Royal Power, by concealing his flame, and tempering his Passion, by force, and duty. For Seleucus, having imposed silence, upon those internal, and hidden motions, which his Son was like to discover in his breast, declared to his Counsel the resolution he had, to take Demetrius his Daughter, to his second wife; and for this effect, he sent Appelles into Phrygia, to draw her Picture, thereby to know, by the Copy of so perfect a hand, whether the Original were answerable to the reputation, and whether his passions were seconded by verity. The Divine Appelles, (whose name will never die, and merited alone to be styled the Author of a Second Nature) lived at that time, upon the coast of Syria, and was a Subject to Seleucus. But, this Picture proved fatal, to all such as beheld it; for they were all deprived, of the use of some member of their bodies, because it was drawn in the Temple, at the time of Sacrifice. This was the Subject of my Mask, which I entitled, The Enchanted Picture of STRATONICA; and the Order, and Entries of it were these.  
The great Hall of the Palace, was the place where they danced, because it was the most capable of the company, and the most remarkable to help their memories, to retain the representation of this dumb History. A vast and stately Theatre was built from the floor, a dorned with a Scene magnificently dressed; where an excellent Concert of Instruments, and voices, entertained the Spectators, till the Assembly was full; and in the mean time, a stained cloth, with the Subject painted upon it, hid from their eyes the proud Decorations, and Ornaments of the Scene, and afforded a gentle, and sweet liberty to their ears, to enjoy the charms of the Music, and avoid the confounding of the functions of the Senses, that so they might suddenly, and all at once, surprise them with the magnificence, and splendour thereof, and pleasantly beguile them, by the distance of the Object.  
Fame, (as the principal Subject of the History of this Mask) with her clothes full of eyes, and tongues, and Gazettes, or News-books, in her hands, showed her self with incomparable celerity, at the first Entry; and dancing with an imperceptible agility, made the Beholders believe that she flew in her steps, and that he who represented her, (who was a Dauncing-Master) had both the wings, and lightness of that Goddess. At the end of his part, he scattered his Gazettes in the Hall, and Exit. In the second Scene, was exhibited the Frontispiece of a stately Temple, which being opened by a Sacristain, or Sexton, displayed a most excellent, and resplendent Piece of painting, representing the Altar, and Trevet, where the Idol rendered the Oracles; which was very recreative, by means of the variety of actions, which the Sacristain performed, in just measure, and cadency of the dance, to prepare, and accommodate all things for the sacrifice, and which was as clear, and intelligible indeed, as any Part of a Play.  
The adorable Stratonica, led by her Gallant, danced the third Scene, and afforded admiration to all the Spectators, by the Majesty of her countenance, by the Stateliness of her Habit, and by her most sweet, and regulated gravity, in the exactness of the dance. Having ended her Part, she kneeled down in a corner of the Temple, and her Gallant behind her, expecting the Sacrisice.  
The fourth represented the coming of Appelles from Syria, to the Court of Phrygia, to take a Picture of Stratonica, who having understood that she was in the Temple, at a Sacrifice which her Father Demetrius had commanded to be made, as a thanksgiving, for a victory which he had obtained, came in with his stained Cloth, his Slice, and his Pencils, and having danced a while, hid himself behind a corner of the Altar, over against the Princess, to steal her Picture, during the time of the Sacrifice, the most secretly he could, according to his order. The high Priest, followed by two Sacrificers, having each of them a Thurible in his hand, made the fifth entry, with a Majestic gravity, and a Stateliness of Habit, taken out of the ancient Medals, fit for the Parts they acted, and as they were dancing, offered Incense to the Idol, and made the finest figures, and cadencies, that could be showed by the number of three, still turning to the Altar, and offering Incense, at the end of their Air, whilst Appelles, behind the Altar, drew Stratonica's Picture, with a regulated motion, upon the fame Ayer they danced.  
Upon a sudden, a huge, and terrible noise, behind the Altar, made both the Musicians, and Dancers stop, in the middle of the Sacrifice, and the Oracle bellowed out a dreadful voice, that their adorations were not pleasing to the Gods, because they had been profaned by a Painter; but that his Work should expiate the crime, and that all men who should look upon it, should be deformed in some part of their bodies, excepting only women, who should be exempt from the punishment. Hereupon, the whole Assembly went out of the Temple much afflicted, and disturbed.  
Olympia, wife to one of the Sacrificers, made the sixth Entry, and then the Music struck up again; and she understanding the disgust, which the Gods had signified against the Sacrifice, by the concourse of people she saw going out of the Temple, and showing herself desirous to know the cause thereof, she found no body there, but Appelles cast into a profound, and Letargical sleep; whom she (in vain) endeavoured to awake, to consult about the business: For, in regard he had been taken with the beauty of the picture whilst he was drawing it, he was the first who received the punishment of the profanation he had committed, by a dead sleep, into which he was cast, according to thesentence of the Oracle. So that Olympia could not awake him; but observing, amongst other marvelous excellencies of the Picture, the Inscription which it bore, for King Seleucus, and nettled by covetousness (a vice constant to the Sex) in hope of great reward for so rare a Present, she resolved to steal the Picture, and carry it into Syria to the King. But it was no small pleasure, to see this woman represent all the motions, which the Passions of this Entry required, with a well composed cadency, and an agreeable disposition of Steps: As the terror given by the Oracle; the Ecstasies, into which she was cast, by the excellency of the Piece; and the flight she made out of the Temple, for fear of being caught in so worthy a theft. In a word, this Entry was so stupendious, and so expressive, that it raised so many buzzes of admiration, and applause, as put the Music to silence.  
Upon this, an excellent Trio was sung, by certain Musicians, in an Antic Habit, to give time for Olympia's journey into Syria with the Picture, and to observe the rules of the Representation; during which the Temple disappeared, and at the same time, by a subtle change of the Scene, was suddenly represented a stately Room, of a King's Palace, which covered the whole Theatre, (and whose magnificent structure might dispute Architecture, with the most pompous Palace of Italy, and the most admirable Porticks of Venice) where there came out an Eunuch, Doorkeeper to King Seleucus' Chamber, and introduced Olympia to him. The Music (having given the Spectators leisure to recollect their minds, from the excess of delight, wherewith they had been seized by this stately change of the Stage) began to play-again, and the Eunuch danced his part, after a brisk, and antic fashion, not much disresembling the Ideas of the Trio, performed by the Musicians.  
The King Seleucus came forth of his Chamber, with Olympia, to whom he showed many signs of recognizance, for the Present she had made him, and willing her to set it upon a Cupboard which stood near the Stage, and not being able to satiate himself with admiring it, or rather with adoring it, he suddenly became blind; which Olympia perceiving, she fled away, and left him groping up and down the Stage; and it was a very pleasant spectacle to the Beholders, to see him harnast in a Coat of Arms, glittering like the Sun, with Spangles of Gold, and Embroidery, go grovelling, and staggering to his Chamber; and all this, with the handsomest measure, and the most regulated Counterpaces that could be.  
The Prince Antiochus, understanding the dismal news of the King his Father's blindness, came out of his Chamber, with intention to go visit, and consolate him; but casting his eye upon this Divine, and fatal picture, and contemplating the beauty thereof, he suddenly found his Right Leg shortened by a foot, with strange and grievous pains; and so he was fain to go halting home.  
In the second Entry, two Princes of the Court came forth, to go to the King; but stopping to gaze upon the Picture, before they went in, the one of them swelled up like a Tun, and the other grew bunch-backed.  
Then, four of the Lifeguard danced excellently well, and were so much the more admired, because they danced a Pyrrique after the old fashion, with their Halberds in their hands, wherewith they showed many military feats, after the manner of pitched, and well regulated Battles: But they also suffered by this fatal Charm; for as they were peeping upon the Picture, they were all four struck lame in their arms, and their Halberds fell out of their hands, and made sport enough for the Company, to see them march off with every one a crooked arm, dragging their Halberds with their other hands; and all this, with a very fine cadency, and measure.  
But the greatest mischief the Picture did, was to a little knavish Page, who, being sent to call the Physicians, and not content to stand and pry upon it, at a distance, must needs forsooth creep towards it, and consider it near hand; but upon a sudden, the poor Stripling found his thighs shivered, and was forced to wriggle away upon his breech, which caused much laughter, to see him throw away the Picture in a rage, and dance upon his arse. Now, the King understanding that the whole Court had suffered by looking upon this Picture, commanded it to be torn in pieces; to which purpose the Eunuch coming forth in the third Entry, and finding the Picture upon the ground, could not forbear to look upon it, before he broke it; but it cost him dear, for his head grew forthwith as bald as his chin; and so scratching his noddle with one hand, and assaulting the Picture with the other, he came as scurvily off as the rest.  
A Physician, and a Mountebank being sent for, to cure the King, and his Son, made the fourth Entry, so upon the same air, but with different steps, and contrary figures, in regard of the Antipathy there is between them, in point of their Vocation; and this Entry was of more force than the rest, and had more paces of Science, and figures of peculiarity, in respect of their contrariety; but it was too short; for really, had the whole Bal been composed of the same steps, upon the same air, it would not have been tedious; so delightful, and ravishing they were.  
Now, all humane remedies being found useless, towards the cure of these great mischiefs this Charm had wrought, it was thought fit, to have recourse to Divine ones. Wherefore the King, with all his crippled Court, went to the Temple, to beg remedy of the Gods; and here the Scene changed in a trice, and showed another Temple, different from the former, where the high Priest, and the Sacrificer immolated an Heifer upon the Altar, for the recovery of the King, and his Court: and then all the Cripples entered together, dancing after odd, and ridiculous fashions, every one according to the defect of his debilitated part; after which, the Music stopping, they all made halt, expecting the Oracle, which answered, that nothing but the Original of the Picture, could cure the evils which the Copy had wrought. Hereupon the Temple disappeared, and Seleucus' Palace returned again, whence two Ambassadors were dispatched to Demetrius, to demand Stratonica, for wise to the King of Syria; which finished the sixth Entry; and after which the Musicians began to play, and by a sweet concert of Voices, and Instruments, made an agreeable Interlude, to give the Ambassadors leisure to make their journey, and bring the worthy fruit of their Embassy.  
Seleucus being informed, that the Ambassadors approached with the divine Subject of his health, and the adorable object of his love, went forth at the eighteenth Entry, with all his Court, in as pitiful a case as it was, to receive her; where they danced, after the prettiest, and most fantastical fashion that could be, with so many various, and extravagant postures, (according to the various defects of their Members, and all together with so much punctuality) that all these different persons composed a just harmony of their bodies, like a good Concert, of a diversity of Notes.  
The fair Stratonica, showed herself at the bottom of the Theatre, ushered in by the Ambassadors, and she soon suspended both the eyes, and hearts of the Spectators, as well with the beauty of her person, as with her grace, and comeliness in dancing; and as soon as she was presented to the King, he recovered his sight, and all the poor, maimed Courtiers grew sound, and brisk; in acknowledgement of which great felicity, the Stage was subtly, and suddenly changed, into joy and jubily, and the Music, having altered their tune, for the twentieth, and last Entry, Stratonica, and the whole Court danced the Grand Bal, (being thirteen in number) to wit, Stratonica, Seleucus, Antiochus, the two Ambassadors, the two Princes, the four Halbardeer, the Eunuch, and the Page, and afterwards, in representation of the Wedding, and copolusion of the Mask, they all went to play the good fellows together.  
Indeed (said the Count) the Subject of their Bal was gallant, and stately, and I believe the representation of it was admirable, though it seem to be almost impossible; not for the sumptuousness, and charge, but for the trouble and difficulty of it. For, how could you make a man seem blind, bunch-backed, puffed up, and broaken-thighed, which are things almost impossible? It was a pretty trick indeed, said the marquis: For whilst the King was rubbing his eyes, and making a show of feeling some dimness in them, he imperceivably slipped on a pair of false eyes, which he had hidden under his Vizard: And one of the Princes, by means of a Cushion which he had under his Cassack, drew up a silken string, and showed a bunch in his back: And the other made himself seem to be swollen, with a Bagpipe, which he had upon his breast, the pipes whereof were tied to his armpits, filled the bag by their frequent motion. As for the Page, he fell instantly upon his breech, having the Bowl dish tied behind him before, though it appeared not at all, till he began to dance upon it, and to tumble upon the Stage, the noise whereof signified the measures of the cadency, which added great grace to the action, and great delight both to the ears, and eyes of the Company. All the rest was very easy, and feasable; and all things were so well, and so advantageously ordered, that there was not any defect at all, in the least point of the whole Representation.  
These are but petty observations which you make, (said the Philosopher) and I have taken notice of one thing, very irregular, and quite against the order of the Scene, which requires the unity of Times, and Places, and which ought to be regulated at most, within the term of a Natural Day, of four and twenty hours: But in this Bal, I have noted, that of place, in the representation, of two different Kingdoms far asunder; and in that of Time, two different Journeys, which impugns the Unity of Time, and restrains not the mind, to the point which the Stage desires. You could not be a Philosopher (replied the marquis) if you did not comment upon all things, and pretend even to shame an eggshell. But to give rational satisfaction, to such persons of judgement, as shall come to the knowledge of the Subject; and to prevent the malice of such Critics, as shall presume to condemn, either the Invention, or Order of this Bal; I will only tell you, that we ought not to cavil, or find strange, to see fabulous conceptions exhibited upon a true Foundation; and if we made any addition, to the History of Piutarch, or to the famous Romance of Stratonica, to embellish and illustrate the Stage, and to give the Spectators more cause of admiration, you must consider, that common things do not surprise, and ravish the Senses, as novelty doth: For, if even Beauty itself were too familiar to us, it would not be amiable; and if our Notions, and Sciences were not so defective as they are, we should live without pleasure; in regard that all satisfactions of the mind, and delights of the eyes, come from deprivations, or ignorance, which is the whetstone of curiosity: And thence it is, that we draw those admirations, attended by the charms, and divertizements which new things afford us; whereas such, as wherewith we have been once satiated, seem always faint, and insipid, though never so excellent.  
Now, in regard that in this Design, the principal scope was the satisfaction of the Intelligent; we conceived, that the Representation of a History, of a Fable, or of any trivial subject, would not surprise the mind, nor charm the senses; and therefore that it was fit to invent some particular Subject, so to exact (at least by the novelty thereof) something, for the advantage, and pleasure of the curious, and that to keep the learned within the compass of their rules, it was also necessary, by diversifying the Scene, to insert somewhat, contrary to the Dramatic, and to illustrate the beauty of the Epic, and to elevate, in fine, the splendour of the Stage, by the thing, which is now a days most unusual to it. I speak to you Master Philosopher, (said the marquis) and if you be not content with this, I send you back to the Hall, where you would have found wherewith to satisfy you, in the pompous richness of the clothes, in the proud decorations of the Stage, and in the excellent harmony, both of the Instruments, and Voices.  
The marquis had no sooner done, but the Coach was stopped, and invested 
* Rue des Lombard's at Paris.  by a multitude of armed Citizens, and Sergeants, in Lumbard-Street, who all in a rage, attend upon the Commissary of the Quarter, which their Pages, and Lackays (who were in good number) perceiving, forthwith drew their swords to repulse them, and laid so well about them, that they wounded some, put others to flight, and slashed them for the most part to the purpose, whilst the Commissary, coming to the Coach with some Torches about him, cried out with a commanding voice, like a Magistrate, Are you they, who have stolen away a young Lady, out of this Street? Come on, let us see? Feel, my friends, feel in this Coach! To which the Gentlemen answered, We know not what you mean; we have no Lady here; but if we had, we would keep her well enough from you. Herewith, finding themselves mistaken, they departed, and the Coach went on; and when it was pretty far advanced, the Gentlemen heard some Pistols go off, at the next turning; and when they were past the corner of old 
Lavieille rue du Temple.  Temple Street, they saw in 
* Rue des Blancs-Manteaux.  White-Cloak-Street, seven or eight Filous, or Thiefs, having set upon another Coach, which had but few folks in it, had killed the Coachman; and the Horses being frighted, ran away with the Coach, and overthrew it in the middle of the Street, which stopped the passage. The Rogues seeing so many people coming, betook them to their heels, and got away, before these Gentlemen came up; whose Coachman, to make way, fell a whipping his own horses, and those of the other too so sharply, that they raised the Coach upright, in such sort, as the Boots of the two Coaches rubbed one against another, & so the Gentlemen passed slowly on; when suddenly, a Lady skipped out of the other Coach, in despite of them who endeavoured to hold her, & resolutely catching hold of the boot of the Baron's Coach, cried help, help, for God's sake! I am a poor Girl stolen from my Father's house, and would rather be hanged, then go with this villain, who hath forced me away! The civil, and officious Baron receiving her, took her in his arms, set her down by him, and bid the Coachman drive on as fast as he could. All the company crowded to see her, and examine her; but to no purpose, for she gave them no answer; but, partly through the fright, and partly through her straining to get out of the other Coach, she fell in a swoon.  
Being come to the Baron's house, they caused torches to be brought to the Coach, to see what Fortune had bestowed upon them, and there they found so much beauty, and so many charms, in the face of a young Lady, of about fifteen years old, that even in the very fit of her swooning itself, it surprised them with admiration, and passion. They laid her upon a bed, and when she was come to herself again, she burst forth into such lamentable shriks, and complaints, as that she was almost ready to use violence to herself, notwithstanding the Baron did what he could, to appease and consolate her. Oh unhappy wretch that I am! (said she) I fell at first but into the snares of one Ravisher; and now I am at the mercy of many persons whom I know not, and who peradventure— She was going on, but the Baron interrupted her, saying, Cheer up Lady, and be of good comfort, in the assurance I give you, that you shall here receive no wrong, nor displeasure, but rather all kind of respect, and obedience. She replied with resentment, and submission; I desire no such thing as that of you Sir; but all the favour I crave of you, is, that I may be carried safe to my Father's house; and this I beg of you, by all the honour you have, and by all you hold dear in the world! And with this, she burst out into so many tears and sobs, and actions of humility, that she would have softened the heart of a very Barbarian; and adding to her supplications (to captivate them whom she petitioned) that the aversion, and hatred which she carried towards him who had forced her away, made her cast herself upon the mercy of the first she met with; but that the Fates had been propitious to her, in throwing her upon persons of condition, amongst whom she found some light, of the only comfort of the distressed, which is hope. Lady, (said the Baron) I should be glad to carry you instantly home; but I can hardly do it, because I neither know where you dwell, nor who you are.  
Upon this, she took a little courage, and wiping her rosy, and most amiable cheeks, which were all bedewed with tears, she told him where she dwelled, and who she was; namely, the Daughter of a certain Financier, (whom she named) and related part of the accident how she was forced away. Then the marquis catching up her words, said, Your Parents, Lady, are seeking after you, and the Commissary of your Quarter came with a great multitude, and felt in our Coach for you, as we passed along the Street, to see if we had stolen you. I would to God (said she) (with a sob, which stopped her speech, and already flattered the noble Company, with the hope, that, this word was spoken to their advantage) I would to God, the Commissary, and my Parents had met that Coach wherein I was, instead of yours! For than I had been by this time, in my dear Mother's arms. But I should be sorry for that, replied the Baron; for than I should have been deprived, of the highest felicity that could befall me: And I should be freed (said she with a sigh) from the fear and danger wherein I am! I will warrant you from the later, (said the Baron) and you have just ground to lay aside the former, in regard you are in a safe refuge, where none shall command but yourself, and where you are as absolute by the respect I have vowed you, as by the empire you have acquired upon my soul.  
This sublime Compliment dulled the heat of the fire wherewith the other Gentlemen began to burn: for afterwards, they spoke of nothing but going instantly to supper, & then to the Bal, whereof they had talked upon the Cours, and to leave this fair desolate Lady to her rest, if it were possible for her to take any, (being at the mercy of despair) but it was so far from it, that she did nothing but impatiently ask now whether she were going home? then, whether the Coach were ready? and in fine, whether they would keep their word with her, or not? And the like.  
The Steward having sent word, that the Meat was at table, the Company rose to go to supper; but much ado they had to depart out of the Chamber, where they had left their hearts, and where Love had laid new ambushes for them, at their going out: For this charming Lady, having recovered some part of her strength through hope, and rising, out of civility, from the bed to wait upon them to the door, showed them so tall, strait, and slender a body, enriched, and illustrated with so comely and majestic a grace, and with so sweet and penetrating an air, that the gravity of her carriage, and the vivacity of her aspect rendered her Divine, and inaccessible. Her supper was brought into her chamber to her, but the would not touch so much as one bit of any thing; and indeed, the Gentlemen did neither eat, nor say much; they being agitated with the passion of love, and desire; and she with that of fear, and discomfort. After supper, they all retired, save only the Baron, who dispatched a witty, & discreet person, to inform himself of the Lady's condition, and of the truth of the accident; whereby he found, that she was worth six hundred thousand Livers, (which is near sixty thousand pound Sterling) as being the only Child, and Heiress to a rich Financier, and that there was great diligence, and inquiry made after her.  
But if Love had sensibly touched his heart before, this news did it much more, in despite of all the generus resistance he could make against it. Wherefore, he presently began to consider how he might make use of his good Fortune, and keep the Lady for himself: in order to which, he resolved to carry her forthwith out of his house, where she had been seen; and to this effect, he sent his Coach with six fresh horses, out at St. Anshonies' Gate, with some men on horseback well armed, to guard it. In the mean while, he went into the Chamber of his fair Guest, to ask her if she were ready to go home; however he intended to carry her farther. And she, as soon as ever she saw him, without expecting his compliment, earnestly asked him what he came to offer her, according to his promise. I am here to wait on you Lady (said he) and there is a Chair on purpose at the Gate, to carry you with more ease, and convenience, then in a Coach, in regard of your weakness. Whereupon she, without answering him, without calling for hood or mask, and without expecting his hand, went first down the stairs, and slipped into the Chair, and the Baron went into another, to conduct her to the Coach, which stayed for them, and which was to carry them before day, to the house of a friend of his in the Country.  
They met with misfortune in the streets; but the Baron being in deep contemplation upon his design, was furiously assaulted by two strong Passions, which so tormented him, that they made a kind of a Portative Hell of his soul, namely, Honour, and Profit, which made a fierce combat in his breast; and Love, taking the stronger side of the two, suffered him not to deliberate much upon it, but biased his Spirit that way. Honour said to him, Hold, whither goest thou? Thou goest to commit an unworthy Rape, which will slain the brightness of thy glory with irreparable shame; and to perpetrate a crime, whereof Heaven hath made thee the Preventer. Thou oughtest to send this Lady home to her Parents, and therein thou wouldst perform an Heroical Action.  
Love said, Affection cannot be forced, and my fire is never kindled, but by services, and compliments. Thou wilt more vigorously captivate thy Mistress, by carrying her home, then by keeping her prisoner; and her Father, in requital of thy generosity, will make thee a Present of the thing which thou hast given him: Home with her, home with her!  
No, (said Profit) thou art a fool, if thou lettest slip thy good fortune, and out of faint-heartedness, losest a certain treasure for an uncertain reward. Whereupon, Love wheeled about, and tickled him with a desire, to take present possession of the charms, and delights he had proposed him. In fine, after a long contestation of his thoughts, Honour got the victory; and so, calling that person to him, whom he had sent to inform him of the accident, (as confiding most in him) he bid him softly, Go to the Financiers house; whither when they came, the tears, desolation, and affliction, which was there before, turned forthwith into as great a confusion of amazement, joy, and gladness. For, when the Mother (who was in her bed, overwhelmed with grief) and the Father, (who was walking sadly up and down the chamber, exaggerating the excess of his misfortune) heard their Servants shout out upon a sudden, Mistress, Mistress! the Father was coming out, to see what was the matter, and met the Baron at the Chamber-door, ushering in his Daughter, and presenting her to him. The Mother could not contain herself, but jumped out of the bed, and caught her in her arms; and whilst all was full of embra ements, and excesses of joy, the Baron said to them; It hath been my happiness, to take your Daughter out of the hands of him who had stolen her, and now I bring her to you. Upon which the young Lady began to relate the good treatment she had received; but the Baron forthwith replied; Lady, all the recompense I desire, shall be the glory of having served you. As for the Father, and Mother, their actions supplied the want of words, to thank, and acknowledge the irremunerable favour he had done them; and so having sent for his Coach, which expected him out of town, and taking his leave, he said to the young Lady; Lady, I have yet served you but to halves; nor shall I think myself to have merited any thing of you, till I shall have fought with him who forced you, and till the justice of your cause shall have made me sacrifice him, to revenge your injury.  
In the second Walk, we will treat of the pretty adventures of the Barons love to this Lady, and introduce his Coach, with other persons in it, amongst whom we shall see a Conversation as various, as recreative. And the Ladies, and Wits of the Court must be pleased to pardon me, if I have couched any Entertainments here, which are not proper for the Cours, or any Matters which are not pleasing to their palates: For, if I have showed in this book, that I am not much inclined to verbosity, and that I love not superfluous and affected terms; I was induced to it by the advice of my friends, who are good bookmen, and the scourges of them, who talk much, and say nothing. However, to expiate this crime committed against Gallantry, I was fain (contrary to my design) to change the Scene of this first Walk, and retire the Coach of my Interlocutors, from the Cours; to the end, that not being distracted by the charming beauty of the Ladies, nor diverted by the variety and confusion of Objects, their Conversation might not be interrupted, and that they might probably be able to continue it in a Walk apart, upon such subjects as require quiet and attention. But in these following Walks, it shall not be so; and they shall allow the Court more freedom, more gallantry, and more pleasure, than this hath done.  
FINIS.